Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis 11
“What are the chances of bumping into one another again like this – in a city of millions? You wouldn’t believe it if you read about it.” Natasha’s smile morphs into a bubbly laugh as she leads the bemused backpacker down the busy city street. Their fingers interleave in a wordless tactile dance while the chaotic river of pedestrians parts before the long haired young couple.
The reunited teenagers enter one of
“It’s really an amazing coincidence…” The alluring girl marvels at their serendipitous meeting while a flock of grey pigeons scuttles around their feet. Natasha’s hipbone bumps against Ram’s thigh with every step and the hitchhiking visitor to
The electrified trolley car trundles along the middle of the broad boulevard, filled with crammed ranks of bored perspiring passengers. Most of the commuters and shoppers seated by the open windows are attentively riveted to Natasha’s pneumatic little body, artfully revealed by her brief stretchy top and tiny micro-mini as she prances along the footpath.
“A friend once told me that coincidences are signposts,” Ram’yana says, taking her hand as they cross the treeless boulevard. “They’re indications that you’re going in the right direction.” The city-bred youngsters stride through the traffic like shepherds strolling through a familiar flock. “Meeting you is extraordinary in so many ways…” he tells the graceful girl as they step onto the footpath on the far side of the fast moving mob. “In fact, you wouldn’t believe it if I…”
“I never believe anything, unless it comes from you. I’ve always fallen for all your lines – remember?” Natasha brushes away long dark waves that cascade over her malachite eyes as a welcome gust of fume-laden air sweeps along the artificial wind tunnel. “Go on,” she insists when it seems that the hippy lad has lost his thread; he stares at her with an expression of entranced wonderment. “Tell me!” The long-legged nymph laughs into Ram’s rapt gaze as she dances into his path, looking up to face him down and grasping him by his backpack’s padded straps. “Meeting again like this is wonderfully weird enough, of course, but...”
“There’s a book in the bottom of my backpack by a guy called Koestler,” the young shaman tells her, “and it’s all about the nature of coincidence. I’m halfway through it…” Natasha’s bare angular shoulders slump in slightly crestfallen disappointment as she maintains her full-featured smile; it dawns on the studious teenager that the girl was hoping his tale would refer to herself, and he hastily continues; “…and I was just about to call you when you found me in the phone booth.”
“So I saved you a call.” Natasha brightens for a fleet instant before her brow furrows, and the girl’s sudden frostiness sublimates into a brittle sheen. Ram’yana manages to maintain his momentum; “It’s just as well you turned up when you did.” He raises his voice, smiling and inclining his head when they breast a cooling blast of wind. “The phone was dead.”
Natasha’s frown becomes a full-blown pout. “You aren’t lying to me?” Ram’yana tugs her elbow and leads her into a doorway, pulling her all the way into the shadows. “Look me in the eye,” he insists as he fixes her with all his focused attentiveness. “It’s the truth – the phone was out of order.”
“Very funny.” She glances away and steps back onto the footpath without releasing his hand, and the young man slows her with another gentle tug. “Natasha,” he says when he catches her eye, “I was just about to call you – really.” She stares up at the older teen for a frozen moment and then her smile returns to light up his day. “I wasn’t home.” She laughs gaily and hugs him. “That’s just too much – it’s unreal!”
Ram’yana replies with what he hopes is a sagacious-sounding observation. “A coincidence is just another incidence,” he says, and even as the words pour from his lips he realises they merely seem confusingly enigmatic, instead of making him appear to be admirably wise to the desirable girl. “Maybe so,” the canny high school student answers as she arches a slender eyebrow, “but another incidence of what? Everything’s always different – you can’t step in the same river twice.”
Natasha’s cue leaves him momentarily clueless, but as they pause outside a crammed little bookshop a sentence escapes the young Centraxian’s mouth before he has a chance to consciously formulate it; “Another incidence of your beautiful lips swimming in synchrony with mine.” Natasha’s tongue slips between Ram’s lips and speaks silent poems within his mouth, interrupting his silent self-recrimination for having uttered so trite a sentence in answer to her insightful conundrum.
Her arms wrap round his neck and her lithe little body moves against his in the crowded mall, as the young lovers entertain the horde of intrigued, amused or disapproving passersby on
Where did that piece of flattery come from? Ram’yana wonders as his hands grip the smooth naked skin of the enticing girl’s curvaceously maturing hips. It came out of nowhere… “I believe you,” she says, and a semi-psychedelic refrain jingles through Ram’s head in four part harmony once more; I’m a believer, I couldn’t leave her if I tried… And then I saw her face…
While he peers into Natasha’s wide-open eyes, he abruptly recalls the emerald eyes he saw in his meditative vision on the verge of the national highway, and recognises the irises that had been staring into the depths of his bared soul. Tinged with hazel, he notices as the teens slowly twirl about on the footpath, and pedestrians give them a wide berth to avoid Ram’s large swaying backpack; different from when we last kissed. His newly acquired smattering of the officially unrecognised art of Iridology informs the shaman that her fine young body is uncommonly healthy, aside from a slightly acidic digestive system. “Let’s catch the next tram,” Natasha insists. “We can have a swim together at my place.”
The rollicking tram ride to her parent’s beachside home passes surprisingly swiftly. Natasha regales her long-lost boyfriend with juicy tidbits of gossip as they hang on leather straps, swaying together amidst the standing throng on the bitumen-covered wooden deck of the antiquated conveyance.
Ram’yana divulges trifles from the cornucopia of strange events he’s experienced in his unusual young life, since he left home and school and lost touch with her years earlier. He holds off from stretching Natasha’s credibility by describing his vision of her unmistakable visage staring into his core – her intense gaze and distinctive features glowing in his mind’s eye on the side of the highway, a thousand miles to the north.
When they alight at the tram stop in the middle of a beachside avenue, the stylish girl leads the vagabond hippy around a corner into a broad tree-shaded street. Widely spaced two storey houses are set back from the road alongside a handful of larger manses. Only a block from the saltwater strand, the stately homes are screened from view by lush well-watered gardens and adequately high stone walls.
Though they walk hand in hand and Natasha makes her guest feel warmly welcome with breezy grins and encouraging descriptions of the meal she intends to cook for him, the girl seems to grow more shy and withdrawn as they approach her family home. Her gaiety grows more brittle as they reach a gilt-trimmed mahogany gate set into a high ivy-covered stone wall, which surrounds the grounds of a lavishly ornate structure. The unlocked gate swings open as Natasha presses down on an oval latch, and she leads him into the verdant floral rainbow of a lush courtyard.
The carefully tended garden is dominated by a babbling fountain set amid finely wrought statues of half submerged scaly bronze fish. A trio of oxidising green metallic carp spouts ballistic streams from their craftily wrought piscine lips, aimed to plash at the feet of three plump cherubim who pour water from miniature urns. A stone satyr’s head peers from a granite wall, leering from within an encircling wreath of ivy. Pan stares through an ethereal plane of thuja branches at a life-size bronze statue of a sandaled huntress clad in a fluting windblown robe.
The goddess’ copper-strung bow is slung over one shoulder and a fistful of copper arrows is clutched in her upraised hand; Ram’yana automatically estimates the pattern of the splayed array of feathered shafts and arrives at a tally of seven. Is it Diana, or the archetype of Venus in Netzach? The young magician ponders the portents, and arcane correspondences flow through his mind as he follows Natasha along the broad pathway between the bronze huntress and the stone mask of Pan. Seven is the number of the Venusian sephira of the Tree of Life, but all the signs of Diana are evident…
When they pass between the goddess and her satiric admirer Ram’yana watches the elfin girl’s curvaceous hips sway within the narrow sheath of her tiny miniskirt as she sashays up the short flight of stone stairs. She rummages in her bag beneath an anachronistic colonnaded portico and produces a set of keys; Ram is surprised to see that detailed bas-relief scenes are beaten out on bronze panels set into the grilled double doors - embossed images of classical Grecian tales enacting their dramas, tragedies and comedies in the deeper shadows.
Natasha opens a series of three separate locks on the outer grille and inner bronze door, and the tall heavy portals swing outward to reveal a broad expanse of highly polished geometric parquetry. The glossy varnish of the timber floor spreads into a large entry hall containing a handful of carefully placed objects d’art, arranged beneath twin metal staircases that sweep in complementary arcs to a second level. A grand piano stands beneath one staircase, its case invitingly opened to reveal the horizontal harp encased within its curving cabinet; the instrument draws Ram’s gaze like an iron butterfly to a lodestone.
“Welcome!” His hostess twirls around beneath a huge electrified crystal chandelier, her arms rising to sweep spirals through the entry hall of the luxurious abode as her streaming auburn hair swirls around her curvy little body in a spreading cone. “Make yourself at home – but first come with me and I’ll show you where you can put that heavy bag.”
“Thanks, Nasher – it’s getting heavier.” When Ram’yana uses his old pet name for the girl she slows to a halt. His eyes shift toward her swaying cleavage when she swirls to a stop and drops her small bag on a hand carved mahogany corner table. Natasha oftentimes gnashes her teeth in her sleep – or did, when last he knew her – and she received her nickname in the communal army surplus tents of the youth camp where they first met.
“I don’t grind my teeth any more,” Natasha claims as she steadies herself on the table and transfixes him with her viridian stare. “If I start again you’ll have to wake me up and let me know.” She turns away and slings the strap of the handbag over her shoulder, staring at its gold-plated buckle as she bites her bottom lip; Ram’yana is momentarily lost for words in the wake of her boldly frank innuendo and mirrors the feline female’s displacement behaviour by scanning the well-lit atrium.
The interior of the house is lined in white stucco; translucent roof panels and large circular clerestory windows admit light into the depths of the spacious chamber. Bronze rails rise without obvious support in gravity-defying sweeping curves, paralleling the black arcs of wall-mounted metallic stairways. Slim ebony statues from the tropical jungles of Papua and
Natasha’s comely form precedes the entranced young hippy up one of the twin opposing staircases, and he lugs the heavy pack higher on his back as he surveys the terrain. Ram’yana is only dimly aware of the framed paintings on the wall beside his head as he becomes absorbed in the long curves of sleek feminine legs and the miniskirt that barely contains the delectable girl’s oscillating hips.
She leads the way into a long sky-lighted hall lined with small outback landscapes, painted in subdued pastel shades. “This is a bathroom,” the smiling girl says, indicating a paneled door with an amethyst-hued cut crystal handle, “and this is the study and library, sort of.” She nods at an identical doorway opposite. “That’s the guest room,” she declares, pointing down the hall past the first two entryways, “…and that’s my brother’s bedroom. You remember Yakov.” While Ram rifles through his memories for a face to fit the name his hostess’ expression becomes coyly demure. “And this one is mine.”
Natasha glows amid a shattered rainbow, standing in a shaft of afternoon sunlight that pours through a tall leadlight window at the end of the white hallway. Colours smear through her hair as she turns and throws open her bedroom door. She ushers the backpacker into a skylight-domed chamber; afternoon sunshine beats down through translucent panels in the high ceiling of her flamboyantly pink girly bedroom.
“You can put your load on Annie,” she tells him with a smile, pointing to a space by her pillow-covered single bed where a child’s small upholstered chair stands, painted and dressed to resemble a hollow-eyed Little Orphan Annie. The ginger-haired doll’s featureless white orbs stare up at the hippy and she regards him with a quizzical pout while he slides the backpack off his shoulders and drops it into her polka-dotted lap.
Natasha’s room is a white and pink fantasia outlined in red-stained wood grains; her chamber is richly perfumed with potpourri cushions and rose petals floating in thick colourfully tinted glass bowls. The walls are decorated with gilt and silver draperies bearing intricate quasi-floral geometric patterns. “There’s plenty of room in here,” she assures him. Ram’yana is acutely aware that Natasha is watching his every move, weighing every nuance and reaction to her native environment.
“Have a look at the balcony,” she says while his eyes wander up the length of her provocatively clad body and meet her wide-eyed smiling eyes. He turns from the vision of loveliness and faces the cool salty breeze. The tapestries’ details only become apparent from certain angles, and aspects of their designs disappear and reappear as Ram’yana crosses the room to an open pair of French doors leading onto a small balcony.
He inhales the oceanic iodine of the afternoon breeze and glances down into a large palm-verged garden which surrounds a sparkling sandstone rimmed swimming pool; the blue-green fragment of
Ram’s sight plays across the gleaming surfaces of a massive fireplace; the marble surround is carved with a detailed motif of climbing roses entwined around a fruiting grapevine, and a single gilt apple is featured amid an array of photographs and cards, embossed on a marble panel above the mantel. “It’s gas,” the girl tells him. “Not like the toxic stuff you have up there; this is natural gas – the kind that won’t kill you in your sleep.” Natasha drops her handbag into the clutter that covers her dresser.
“Unless it explodes,” Ram replies when she turns to face her dresser and begins brushing her long flowing hair. He watches the girl’s fine features shift in the dressing table’s oval light-lined mirror and sees her eyes rise to the ceiling in a momentary semblance of prayer – or perhaps exasperation at their unending intercity rivalry – before she becomes absorbed in the lengthy strands of her impressive mane.
“Nice place,” the hippy observes as he removes his black beret and drops it onto Annie’s cloth head. Natasha snaps out of her momentary immersion in tactile reverie and turns to face him. She keeps her curiously unreadable eyes on his as she drops the brush on the dressing table and bends down to unbuckle her sandals, standing to kick them off so that they land unerringly beside the bed. Then she strides barefoot through the thick white pile of a huge plush rug and stands before the doorway to the hall, bending over and shaking out her long dark hair in the glass-tinted rays.
Ram’yana realises the girl is putting on a performance for her singular appreciative audience as her slender buxom silhouette undulates within the rectangular doorframe; she rolls her head around with hands braced on her curvaceous rocking hips while her hair sweeps figure eights around her flexible form. Natasha steps back into the indoor daylight and regards him in silence as she slides open a wall-length mirror. She steps behind the looking glass and opens one of dozens of drawers and compartments revealed within a large walk-in wardrobe.
“Dying for a smoke,” she explains while she rummages beneath stockings and socks. With a heartfelt sigh Natasha produces a soft-covered pack of tailor-mades. “Do you want one?” Ram’yana shakes his head and examines the pockets of his satin-lined vest. “No thanks,” he says. “I prefer mine straight.”
She appears not to have heard the hippy’s unsubtle hint as she strikes a match and steps past him onto the small balcony. Her eyes flash through a cloud of blue smoke. “There’s always the guest room, if you prefer…” Natasha’s white-knuckled hands wring out knots of tension as they writhe together before her exposed belly button, and her green eyes droop to Ram’s booted feet while she sucks on the cigarette through tightly clenched pearlescent teeth. “…if the bed’s too small,” she murmurs through the smoke, “or anything…” Two strides transport the long haired lad into her slim freckled arms and Natasha presses her soft bulging breasts against his chest, standing on her sandaled toes to kiss him with serious intensity when he enfolds her in a warm embrace.
“Your bed looks perfect to me,” he says when she slides down to nuzzle against his throat and kiss his smooth jaw. Ram’s hands sidle up the girl’s diminutive half naked body and play across the smooth surfaces of her strong slim shoulders, her slender muscular back and tiny feminine midriff. Natasha undoes the top three buttons of his thin cotton shirt while she whispers to his nipple; “You’ll just have to wait and see if we both fit, then.”
Ram’s mind fairly reels at her double entendre while his agile fingers slip beneath the tight stretching fabric of her tube top. As his fingertips reach her aureole Natasha steps back and bends to retrieve her fallen cigarette. “First,” she says as she ashes the ciggie over the balcony, “show me that book.” Ram’yana returns her challenging gaze, gauging his rediscovered ex-girlfriend’s intent. “I thought you said you trusted me,” he complains with a half-feigned sigh.
“No,” she corrects him, puffing the smoke back to life in the bright sunlight; “I told you I believe you.” He shrugs and walks to his pack with faintly offended annoyance, opens the flap and reaches into its deep canvas interior. Ram’s fully extended arm probes the dusty base of the carefully constructed sack until he pulls out a rectangular package that’s wrapped in a caul of black silk. He slides the Tarot deck back into the bag before he finally finds what he seeks, and places a heavy hardcover tome in Natasha’s slim hand. “Oh,” she says as she stares at the cover. “This book. Dad has it in his library – I’ve never read it.” She leafs through the well-thumbed paperback. “What’s it about?”
“Nothing very conclusive,” the magician replies, kneeling to remove his dusty knee-length leather boots on the balcony; he scans the floor, but can’t see any marks on the plush woolen carpet or antique Afghani rugs. “It’s really a bunch of observations and half-formed ideas about the strange interconnections in reality.” He turns and hesitates when he finds his face is an inch from Natasha’s slim naked thighs, emerging from a pair of ultra-brief white lace panties that barely conceals her mound of Venus. Her fragrant pudenda arches forward as the grinning young girl raises the hem of her tiny miniskirt, and a few curly pubic hairs escape their confinement as her girlish hips roll toward him.
Natasha’s scent is bewitching and the young man inhales deeply, forgetting all about his boots as he reaches for the slim nude thighs as they arch outward around his face - and her mons Veneris rolls away from his opening mouth as Natasha sways back on the balls of her small feet. “Go on…” she incites her aroused guest. “…tell me more.”
Ram’yana grips her hips and collects his thoughts while her warm flesh rotates within his gentle grasp. “Among a lot of other things,” the dazzled teenager begins before he can fully clear his distracted mind or constricting throat, “he says that synchronicity may be a signal that something important is happening – something that you should be paying attention to, a signpost pointing to some significant event. And he seems to agree with many who say we create our own reality…”
“So you really were going to call me?” Natasha asks with a lilting tone as her fingers stroke Ram’s tangled hair. He stands to meet the intensity of her gaze with a level confidence and places his hands around her waistline; her midriff is so narrow his fingertips almost meet around her smooth warm slenderness. “I was. When I saw you I trying to find your number,” he elucidates while her fingers loiter on his shoulders.
Natasha’s gaze wanders down his body to the place where a cotton tent is rising at his groin. “Then this must be a signpost pointing to something significant.” Her sentence is a barely audible breathless whisper and he sees that she’s holding her breath. A thin layer of perspiration sheens the girl’s finely freckled brow and gracile neck; her hands flutter to his hips as she leans her forehead on his collarbone. “A significant something…” she murmurs before the air finally escapes her lungs in the heartfelt release of her sigh. “But first we both need to relax - and you need to clean up.”
Natasha shakes herself free of his embrace and sniffs beneath her armpits. “And this time you can’t soil me while you’re at it – not like you did at camp. Come with me, you dirty hippy.” While his mind short-circuits amid a blizzard of double entendres she leads him downstairs into a huge rumpus room, arranged around a full sized snooker table and a sunken oval conversation nook. The Centraxian shaman follows her through the spacious games room to a hall that opens into a brightly lit tiled sun room, wherein stand shower cubicles of frosted glass; wall-high glazed doors lead to the garden and pool. “Have a shower while I turn on the spa.”
Ram’yana watches the girl skip away and unlock the doors to the garden before he turns to examine the gilt dolphin taps in the twinned glass-framed cubicles, unscrolling his socks while he dances from foot to foot. He strips off the clothes he changed into in the now-distant morning at Loren’s place, hanging his shirt and drawstring pants on hooks set into a tiled wall. He turns the dolphins and stands naked in one of the cubicles while he waits for hot water to emerge from the huge nozzle that sprays a voluminous stream of frigid water down a baroque bronze drain.
When the water is steaming he reduces the heat a little and tests the flow before stepping beneath the shower; he’s used to dodgy hot water systems, but the gold dolphins dispense a perfectly controlled stream at an easily adjustable temperature. The pounding massage of the voluminous waterfall proves to be an utterly sensual experience after the wan trickle of the rationed showers at Loren’s student accommodation. Ram becomes completely immersed in a blinding deafening rush of prickling pummeling heat that encloses him in an isolated world of steamy streaming bliss.
Liquid luxury pounds through his long thick hair to scour his scalp and run down into his eyes, blinding him to an unexpected vision - until he sweeps his hair back from his face and finally becomes aware of Natasha; her pink nakedness is enticingly revealed through the translucent frost as she wiggles beneath the shower in the next cubicle.
Pale patches of skin press provocatively against the glass to reveal the curve of her nubile slim hip and a smeared triangular pinkness of shoulderblade. Pert bum cheeks firm against the frosted plate for a moment, followed by a fulsome pair of flattening breasts which squash up against the cold glass. A slim white thigh and the profile of Nasher’s beautiful smiling face make momentary appearances through the veiling glaze as Ram’s flesh is pounded by the pummeling flow.
The rush of warm water pours down his skin and further inflates the rigid erection rising to salute Natasha’s alluring performance; she contrives to expose flashes of her limber anatomy to her wide-eyed guest through the thin glass sheet separating their horny teenage bodies. Ram’s palms flatten on the glass only a fraction of an inch from the enticing girl’s skin, and he can all but feel the intense warm pressure of her faintly freckled flesh through the thin silicon wall. He watches the revelation of Natasha’s naked pinkness become fuzzy when she steps back and turns off the taps.
The young man is more than fully refreshed; he spins the dolphins clockwise and quickly steps into the brightness of the sunlit tiled chamber, but when he treads forth and reaches for a large white fluffy towel he notices his clothes are missing. He wraps the towel around his waist and drips a watery path to the doorway just as Natasha steps into the hall from another entrance, clad in a white cotton robe. “I put your clothes in the laundry.” She smiles and her eyes dart up and down Ram’s slim smooth body as he approaches.
She takes his hand and leads him into bright afternoon warmth beneath the palm fronds of the luxuriant garden. “Here’s the spa,” she says, leading him to a circular tub filled with bubbling warm water. “Start without me and I’ll be back in a jiffy.” The large wooden tub is constructed like a huge flaring barrel, bubbling noisily beneath a vine-festooned arbour. As Ram’yana hangs his towel on an ornate cast iron chair and climbs the short stepladder into the tub he realises it’s only the third time he’s been in a spa – And the first time with a gorgeous young girl, he reflects as he settles into the warm churning water and closes his eyes.
He’s thought about Natasha a hundred times or more since last they met, visualising her vibrant smile, her beautiful green eyes and shapely slim form - the firm young yielding surfaces that he’d once had the chance to get to know in blindingly memorable moments of fumbling guarded intimacy, during their clandestine meetings in the remote bushland of rural Oz.
As he’s lain in his lonely bed through many long nights since he last saw her in the flesh, the teenage Centraxian has oft recalled Natasha’s high-pitched laugh and the silky smooth texture of her freckly white skin sliding against his own. Now the young magician reclines in the bubbling warm water and realises he’s living an oft-repeated fantasy come true, smiling at his sudden run of good fortune.
The thought that all the events since his temporary demise may actually be fantasies of a dead or dying mind only lingers to haunt him for a moment; the depressing notion is dispelled by the image of Natasha’s inviting smile, and her face expands to fill his mind. When he’d last seen her smiling freckled face - in the few private spaces they could find in the annual socialist summer youth camp two years earlier - the girl’s hair had been shorter, her body was much skinnier and her adolescent breasts had barely begun to bud. But now…
“So what should I call you?” His eyes drift open as Natasha’s naked thigh brushes against him when she climbs into the swirling warm water. “Ram? Is that really your name now? That’s what Leo heard…” Her freshly painted glossy lips curl into a quizzical grin as her hand slides onto his knee. He can’t help but notice that the girl’s nipples and the rings of tender flesh surrounding them are barely concealed by a tiny rainbow bikini top that covers only the narrowest stretch of her proudly jutting prominences. He remembers her question. “That’s it,” he says. “Short for ‘Ram’yana’.”
The young man is acutely aware of his nakedness when her bikini-sheathed buttock slides against his thigh. As his eyes shift from her face to her breasts, Natasha’s nipples stand teasingly erect beneath the translucent fabric. A small silver trinket hangs on a fine chain from her slender neck; twin interlaced triangular shields of polished metal suspended between her well developed teenage titties. “That’s not so short,” she says. He remembers to lift his eyes to meet hers and sees that the girl’s vision is narrowly focused on his hard eager cock, half-revealed amid the frothing bubbles and flowing currents. “Does it stand for something that’s even longer?”
“As a matter of fact, it does…” Ram’s arm steals around her warm wet shoulder and she settles against him on the wooden bench. The entire length of her smoothly firm little body presses against his lightly muscled young masculinity. Natasha’s eyes stay on his loins while her tiny hand slips from his knee and hesitantly glides up his hairy thigh beneath the rippling surface. He releases his breath when her hand and gaze simultaneously rise to his face, and she points at the blue mirror hanging at his throat before lifting it to touch the soft hollow beneath the glittering azure seal.
“Remember this?” Her finger begins to slowly glide down Ram’s smooth chest, following his sternum to the juncture of his ribcage and continuing onward down his slim abdomen. “How could I forget,” he gulps, watching the girl’s smile broaden as her finger travels down his smooth nude torso. “But this time we’re alone and no-one’s watching us on the beach and… uh… this time I’ll pass your test… uhh…” The last time we kissed, those pearls were encased in a gantry of surgical steel braces, he recalls as his flesh shudders in ecstasy at her touch.
As Natasha’s finger reaches his navel her knuckles brush against the submerged head of his cock and they both gasp in unison. Ram’yana watches her eyes widen slightly as her fingers splay apart and continue downward to encounter the curly hair that surrounds the root of his shaft - and her index finger starts to slide upward along his fully rigid water-veiled length.
Natasha’s mouth opens and her tongue moistens her lips. “You pass the sex test all right,” she breathes, biting her lower lip between her perfectly straightened white teeth - and the girl gently cups her hand around his purpling glans. Ram’s palm drifts up to enclose the ripe and barely covered globe of her breast, his skin hovering against the freckled flesh which so strikingly matches his own in shade and texture – and Nasher’s breast suddenly swells outward to perfectly fit his hand as she gasps a lungful of salty air. Hand in glove… He marvels at her silken texture.
The teenage hippy’s hand hovers around her cloth-bound breast while their lips meet and Nasher’s stretching fingers attempt to encompass his girth. Their mouths meld and seal around the hot fast breath that flows back and forth, breathed and rebreathing within the flowing embrace of the reunited young lovers as they slowly recline in the bubbling wooden cauldron.
Youthful eagerness is momentarily subdued as they sublimate the overflowing need of their burning desires into each other’s fondly remembered sapling forms, mindfully sinking into a mindless loving embrace. The virile boiling substance of their freshly ripe forms slowly swells toward bursting in the simmering pool, and their mingling breath erupts from Natasha’s nostrils as she struggles for air.
Her fingers grip him like a manacle as she throws a slim leg athwart Ram’s slim thigh and strokes her boy’s hard manhood with enthusiastic vigour. She encases him within her vice-like grip and pulls his velvet outer flesh up and down around the rigid rod, while warm currents caress and further enflame the submerged halves of their feverishly aroused teenage bodies. Natasha’s tongue dances and squirms inside his mouth as her breath races through him; her heartbeat pounds beneath Ram’s squeezing palm and her hand slides down between her slender parting thighs to enter the top of her rainbow bikini pants.
He slips his fingertips into her tiny bikini top and strokes the incredibly soft surface of her aureole and the stiff plush flesh of her aroused nipple. The girl unexpectedly reels away and breaks their kiss, launching her near-naked body out of the hot tub and creating a small tidal wave without the slightest warning. She disappears into the house and leaves the young shaman gasping, beached high and dry on the wooden seat while warm sloshing waves caress his hardness. “Nasher?” Am I moving too fast?
Oh Natasha, he prays silently, come back… While he waits in a miasmic stew of steamy heat his eyes close and he enters a reverie of memory, recalling the day when Klara, the older Sabra girl – all of eighteen and infinitely more experienced than he – had pointed Natasha out to him with a sly matchmaker’s smile; “Now that one will be a raving beauty. Mark my words,” Klara had insisted, “just look at her… really look!”
The image of Natasha’s gangly budding thirteen year-old body and the memory of her bright laughter and inspiring intelligence return to him as he reclines inside the cauldron in her parents’ garden of delight. The form, sound, scent and tactile splendour of the alluring girl were graven deeply within the grain of his then-emerging adolescence, and he’s pleasantly amazed at how thoroughly she’s fulfilled Klara’s prophecy.
He hears the wet slap of Natasha’s returning footfalls and the fondly remembered image of her incipient immature prettiness dissolves before the tangible reality of the full-bosomed blossoming teenage beauty who stands dripping beside the spa with a swimming costume clutched in her outstretched hand.
“Sorry.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as they nervously flicker toward the wide-windowed upmarket suburban dwellings that surround her family’s private paradise; “Neighbours. The pool isn’t terribly private,” she explains. Ram’yana takes the togs from her, and their hands linger for a moment before Natasha holds up a bottle she grips by the neck; a broader smile breaks through her vaguely worried features. “I’m sure dad won’t miss a bottle of champagne. Such a big backpack and no room for a swimming costume! Or don’t you hippies ever use them?”
“I haven’t needed one for a couple of years.” While he climbs into the swimsuit Natasha retrieves a pair of crystal champagne flutes. “There are plenty of nude beaches and secluded swimming holes up north.” He sits down and watches her with appreciative anticipation as he waits for her to rejoin him.
“I noticed you have Tarot cards,” she says, handing him the bottle and bending to pick up her towel. The cheeks of her firm round bum are completely exposed by the brief bikini bottom that plummets between her pale oval globes, and the slit of the girl’s most secret seam shows plainly through the thin fabric that stretches around her labia. Dark curls of unshaved pubic hair escape their confinement and form a curly fringe around the bright rainbow. “I remember you used to read them – but they were different…”
Ram’yana laughs. “That deck was called the ‘Witch’s Tarot’, but the version I had was the James Bond 007 Tarot Deck. My mother gave them to me when I was eleven. This one’s the Rider…”
“That’s right,” she says. “That was the one the psychic slave used in ‘You Only Live Twice’. Strange, but I always liked that song.” She sings a few bars while Ram’yana untwists the wire on the bottle and sends the cork arching into the pool with a satisfyingly loud pop. “You only live twice, or so it seems – one life for yourself and one for your dreams…”
Foam spumes from the mouth of the flask and Natasha sways forward over the edge of the spa to suck the bubbling champagne into her mouth, working her lips around the bottle as she gazes into his eyes with provocative zeal. She takes the cold green glass vessel and carefully pours the effervescent fluid into the tall crystal flutes, tilting them at a steep angle and filling them until champagne overflows through the ironwork table to drip onto the stone flags.
“To truth!” Natasha raises her crystal and hands the other to her guest. “Truth!” he agrees as he stands in the tub for the toast, and they clink glasses before downing the refreshingly cool but cloyingly sweet demi-sec in a thirst-quenching race to the finish. She immediately refills the elongated goblets. “To love!”
“To love!” They pour champagne down each other’s throats and Natasha places the glasses on the wrought iron chair. The young Centraxian noble takes the girl’s hand in his and kisses her knuckles while tickling her inverted palm with his middle finger. His eyes rove her graceful svelte limbs and curvaceous feminine torso as she stands beside the wooden tub and leans away from him.
Natasha giggles and wiggles her bosom before his widening eyes; her flesh wobbles within the tiny revealing bikini top and clinging strands of darkly wet long hair slip down between her breasts. The buxom girl is any appreciative artist’s prayed-for muse and model - and any horny teenage boy’s ardent romantic dream – and she parades her minimally concealed charms before Ram’s rapt regard with increasing boldness as the bubble-fuelled alcohol rapidly spreads through her semi-nude body.
“Sorry about the swimmers.” She giggles. “Is that what you call them up there – or is it ‘togs’? They’re my brother’s.” Ram’yana sees that the incredibly tight budgie smugglers fail to contain the long tumescent cylinder that flops from the brief costume’s left leg as he catches sight of his reflection in the glass doors, and his laughter mingles with hers as he leans against the tub. “‘Cossies’, usually.” He turns away and attempts to slip his erection back into the briefs out of Natasha’s gleeful sight. “These certainly can’t be called boardshorts.” Her laughter outlasts his as he gives up on the attempt and sits down in the spa.
Natasha sidles toward him with a flowing motion, humming a tune he can barely make out as she takes one small step up the short ladder, and pauses before taking another. She wiggles her shoulders and hips, jiggling her enticing flesh until her wobbling breasts and erect nipples are straining through their enclosing fabric scant inches from Ram’s face. She can’t be drunk yet; the young shaman assures himself. He allows himself to hope that the enticing feminine creature is using her slight dalliance with alcohol as an excuse to release her inhibitions and indulge in other, more sensual pleasures than simple bathing or swimming.
Natasha’s lips, cheeks and throat redden as she vibrates in front of her enthralled guest. “Well…” she begins, “now that you’ve finally passed the sex test it’s almost time to dive in the deep end.” She swirls downward to kiss her admirer and her hand leaps out to firmly grasp his submerged rod, still escaping from its inadequate confinement. When her tongue tickles his lips Ram’s face is covered by the damp living veil of her long auburn hair and his hands blindly reach through the strands.
“So,” she breathes, her lips hovering an inch from his. “Come with me.” She tugs him by his rigid handle as she descends from the tub, and he quickly follows her down the stepladder onto the ceramic tiles, stifling a moan of mingled anguish and pleasure. Natasha squeezes his hardness while she parts her hair with her fingers and her eyes peek through the dark veil of her hair, “…do you want to come up to my room? My brother won’t be home ’til later tonight, but after that we can be alone for days if you like…” She mistakes Ram’s rapt delight for indecision and bites her lip, staring into his eyes and speaking with endearing tremulousness when she continues, “…if you need somewhere to stay, that is – after tonight, I mean.”
She brightens at Ram’s silent nod and the flow of her speech quickens. “My parents are away and Yakov’ll be gone tomorrow and I’m on school holidays…” Her tongue bridges the slight gap between their lips and she slips forward and replaces his breath with her own before he can reply; he gasps into her mouth while both her palms wrap around his length and begin stroking him with a fierce intensity.
Natasha pulls away and leans backward, suspending herself over the rippling water on her slim straight muscular legs and supporting her weight on his straining pole - until they both overbalance and Ram falls into the pool atop her small squirming body. As the chlorinated water fills his nostrils she releases him, kicking against his chest to launch away beneath the churning surface.
He gropes for her lithe body but Natasha is in her element, and she slips from his grasp to twist around and swim between his legs. She rakes his still-rigid cock with her nails as she grabs at his brief costume, overbalancing him again as she pulls the stretchy fabric down his legs. He spins after her under the roiling surface, watching her rainbow bikini slip into the squirming furry slit between her pneumatically pumping legs as she swims away. His eyes smart in the chemically sterile waters of the pool and he blinks as he kicks the impeding costume all the way off his legs.
Ram’yana forces his eyes wide open in the burning diluted chlorine and crawls after the streaming bubbles left in the wake of the splendid revelation, until Natasha whirls amid a cloud of fragmented air and allows herself to be captured by her pursuer. They surface beneath a small cascading waterfall that drenches them with a blinding stream, and Ram pins her smaller body against a smooth water-worn sandstone block at the edge of the pool. Natasha bites his shoulder and grapples with him as he holds the laughing girl against the wall by the arching bones of her hips.
She shakes her head and Ram’s skin is gently whipped by her wet flailing hair; a spray of droplets envelops their nakedness in a momentary rainbow. Her malachite eyes widen as her fingers wrap halfway round his engorged shaft and tenderly knead his hardness; Ram’s mouth opens and he gasps with the livid contrast of Natasha’s hot flesh and the coolness of the pool. “What about…” he begins, but decides it’s best not to remind the girl about her neighbours.
Ram’s lips descend to seal seamlessly with hers as he holds her against the sandstone. He bends down into her embrace as she stretches to press her breasts against his smooth chest and their tongues entwine for a blossoming moment before she slowly pulls away, licking her lips and gripping his manhood so tightly he gasps.
“I hope you don’t mind me using you as an object.” Natasha purrs, punctuating her words with firm, full-length two handed strokes. At first Ram’s sure the girl is joking, as he loses himself in the electric touch of the beautiful little milkmaid - but then the frank expression that peers up into his eyes, and something about the insistent mechanical pumping of her tight wet hands convince him that the girl is serious. She draws his erection between her thighs, rocking her hips forward and opening her legs to receive his offering as his hands slip around the material covering the firm cheeks of her bum.
Ram’s eyes close while he moans into her mouth and Natasha sucks at his lips and tongue while she mirrors his motion by grasping his clenching buttocks in her freed hands. She rocks her clitoris against his pubic bone as she slips his blazing cock all the way between her tightly closed thighs. Nasher flexes her firm young muscles, holding him tight against the hot, darkly furred confluence of their lust., and the teenage hippy strains against the younger girl’s half-exposed vulva while her thigh muscles pulse around him.
Natasha’s fingers caress his flanks before wandering around his slim torso to squeeze his nipples. Her liquid tongue flexes between his teeth and lips and Ram’yana opens his eyes to see her long-lashed lids rise at the same moment; her green irises descend from above to fix upon his, too close to focus while she suckles at his mouth.
The enflamed youth pulls the lithe girl upward and her breasts flatten against his chest as he glides the full length of his shaft back and forth, to slide past the heat of her nether lips and emerge into the cool water beyond. He surrounds her thighs with his and squeezes, wrapping his furry legs firmly around hers beneath the water while his tongue tunnels into her mouth. When releases her Natasha pulls her strong smooth legs upward and eagerly wraps all her slim limbs around him as their kiss grows more impassioned.
He enfolds his long arms around her fine slim body while she arranges her limbs around him and presses her slippery skin as closely to his as possible. Ram’s fingertips brush through the fringe of her pubic hair and he pulls the elastic material from between her labia, stretching it to one side beneath the cool water. He feels the girl freeze as his cock’s engorged length begins to glide between her exposed furry lips, which part around the dorsal surface of his swollen desire.
Natasha’s tongue slips from his mouth and she gasps out a desperate plea; “Not yet!” She shivers with fervently suppressed desire, writhing in the firm hold her rediscovered boyfriend maintains on her diminutive feminine body. Her head and neck arch backward to focus on his burning gaze while Ram holds their loins together, and despite her protestations Nasher wriggles her labia against him and moans with delight. He presses her up against the wet wall and slows his sawing motion, pinning her to the stone with lust-driven strength as his cock presses close. He stands poised between the girl’s parting outer lips as she spreads herself in the automatic surrender of horny feminine receptiveness, and her inner heat bathes him in her lusty flaming need.
“Not yet… please!” The hormone-drenched youth hovers at her entrance for a moment before he relents, easing away from the smaller, younger teenager and releasing her with an ill-concealed groan of disappointment - but as his cock pulls away in the cold currents Natasha reaches down to press his hot flesh back between her thighs, squeezing its length against her submerged furry slickness. “You know I want you,” she gasps. “Oh god - you’re my fantasy lover, my darling, the one I go to bed horny for...” The words tumble from the girl’s painted lips in a breathless embarrassed rush while her mouth, hands and eyes plead with desperate urgency.
“And I promise that this time… soon… we’ll go all the way…” Natasha’s eyes glisten and her slender body stiffens with a coiling tension that the young shaman attempts to massage away with gentling strokes. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect time and this is it…” She leans her cheek against his shoulder and her free hand strokes the length of his spine, dawdling around his clenched buttocks and tailbone before rising to tangle in his long hair. Her left nipple peeks at him, exposed by the narrow slip of rainbow material that eases itself from her shoulder as she leans back against the stone. “You remember how it was, last time?”
They’d met – been matched up by Klara, really – at a surprisingly progressive and free-spirited annual summer youth camp in what the Eurosurpers of the Great Southland had named the Grampian Mountains. More than a hundred children from idealistically socialist families had bivouacked in huge army surplus tents and marquees amid tall ancient gum trees and windswept pines.
It was an antipodean Summer of Love at the tail-end height of the psychedelic pop-art era, and the kids ranged in age from six to seventeen; the camp was run by a small group of eighteen and nineteen year old students, who acted as suitably lax facilitators. The younger kids called them ‘Helpers’ and many idolised the flexible young oldsters who filled their minds with unheard-of notions of universal equality, utopian socialist ideals and the rudiments of philosophy, ethics and self-examination.
When Ram’yana had a problem he couldn’t take to the wise Helpers, he’d approached his friend Leo to ask his advice. He desperately needed to talk to his older friend on the evening that a then-thirteen year old Natasha - with freshly budding breasts and a fine emerging thatch of bodily hair – had told her fifteen year old boyfriend to expect something unprecedentedly intimate during the coming night. She’d cryptically informed him they were going to ‘go further’ than the usual petting and mutual oral exploration of their firm ripening bodies, when the rest of the camp bedded down for the night.
She’d already held his swollen hardness in her hot little mouth. He’d been lost in rapture at the sight of her perfect lips stretching around his circumcised crown, and blinded with desire when her precocious young vagina pressed into his lips. She’d instructed him in the intimate examination of its mysterious folds between inaudible murmurs and half-smothered moans. He’d pressed his mouth firmly into Nasha’s clean strawberry flavoured essences and wiggled his tongue inside her tight wetness as she writhed above him in their first utterly illicit and illegal ‘69’.
Both were afraid of being discovered in the darkness, and neither had a chance to come before they’d been forced to flee back into their creaky metal-framed bunks in the large canvas tents, when a group of campers wandered their way in the gloom. Natasha had told him they’d ‘go further’ tomorrow night, as she kissed him before making her way back to her eight-girl army tent in the cloud-occluded starlight.
Ram’yana couldn’t exactly ask one of the Helpers how to safely make love with one of their young female charges. The older university students’ nights were spent fully involved in philosophical and lustful encounters around the kitchen table in their small private marquee attached to the mess tent - but talking about contraception with one of them would probably stretch even their tolerant leniency beyond breaking point.
His parents had been candid about sex but unfortunately unforthcoming about how not to make a baby; he wasn’t supposed to need to know quite yet – or at least he hadn’t been, the last time they’d raised the issue of birds and bees with him - a year earlier, when he was still fourteen. He knew about condoms and the pill, but neither option was readily available to the underage teens at the remote month-long camp.
‘You’re kidding.” Leo was sixteen and he squinted at his younger friend from the vantage of an entire year’s experience as they strolled through a maze of lantana in the hot midsummer sun. “That’s what she said?” His hands clasped his long cheekbones with theatrical dismay. “Oy vay, what a problem. You don’t have any condoms or anything, obviously – and there’d be no way to get any even if there was a shop around here.” Ram’yana didn’t want to ask how to use the exotic items and further display his massive ignorance to his respected friend and mentor.
Leo stopped pacing and stood with his eyes fixed on the ground. “Wow. Natasha, you lucky dog. But isn’t she a little young?”
“She doesn’t think so,” he replied noncommittally. “Obviously,” Leo snorted. “But do you?” His unrelenting pale eyes rose to meet those of his younger friend. They stood in a small dirt-floored clearing in the dry mountain forest, out of earshot of the other campers. “Honestly,” the younger teen had replied, “if she’s ready then so am I. You know how it is – the girls make all the choices, not us. I only want to make sure she’s not terrified of getting pregnant if she decides to… go through with it.”
“Very noble of you. And the last thing either of you needs now is a baby, right? So let’s see…” Leo resumed pacing, running his fingers through his dark lank hair. Distant sounds of a volleyball match filtered though the trees from the campsite and they walked away from the happy noise into denser canopy. “All right – here’s how it works. Do you know if she’s having her period yet – or when she had her last one?”
Ram’yana was stunned by Leo’s revelatory question, and shocked by his own ignorance as he desperately attempted to recall details that had never been provided in biology lessons or made clear during father and son nights. “No idea.” School sex education lessons came back to him while Leo described the intricacies and theory of female reproductive systems and outlined the rhythm method. “She almost certainly can’t get pregnant if she’s just had her period in the last couple of days… or maybe a few…”
Ram’s memories of his all-male school’s inadequate lessons were overlaid with an off-putting clinical tinge of suppressed distaste, which had been communicated along with the textbook information and sixteen millimeter documentaries by the schoolboys’ uptight and harassed female biology teacher. Little of relevance had precipitated from the arms-length and largely metaphorical lessons, or from the barrage of disconnected information his class had been subjected to.
By the end of Leo’s complex and comprehensive dissertation, the idea of coupling with the gorgeous innocent girl had become so daunting that he’d almost been relieved later that hot midsummer night, when Natasha had pulled away at the last possible moment. Their slick perspiring young bodies had been so close; the immature lovers had barely been able to resist the temptation of their implacably eager young lust.
They’d come over and over in each other’s arms instead, taking turns to stroke, lick and suck each other to barely suppressed orgasmic screams in the moonlit eucalypt forest - not far from the tents of their sleeping young compatriots, but not too close for comfort, either.
During that hot midsummer night’s eve Ram’yana had discovered the alluring addictive beginnings of a lifetime of intricate, intimate, implicate exploration of the eternal feminine mystery. It had been another year before he managed to lose his own virginity between the legs of an exotic older woman - a beauteous twenty-one year old magician gemologist who bore the improbably accurate name of Fifi L’Amoure. It had happened a little more than a year ago now, during his unforgettable sixteenth birthday.
Leo’s smiles and sympathetic grimaces come back to him in the cool water of the swimming pool beneath the gently waving palm trees, as the young magician feels Natasha’s hot breath against his chest, and her labia presses insistently against his erection. She’d be sixteen now, surely, the teenager calculates through his alcoholic fuzz. Or is she still fifteen? Then the gorgeous sweet thing opens her arms to him and her bikini top slips all the way off her left breast, baring her heart as she makes her declaration; “I wasn’t ready then – but I am now.”
The lucky lad goggles at the gorgeous girl. “You mean you’re… you still haven’t…” Natasha laughs and gives him a good strong squeeze between the muscles of her thighs. “I’m not a virgin, silly. I’ve had sex before…” Natasha’s thigh muscles flex around him again in confirmation. “But it was practice sex.” The long haired young shaman eyes the gorgeous nymph with a quizzical expression. His hands peel her bikini top down and release her finely freckled mounds; they bounce apart and wobble on her birdlike chest.
Natasha bobs downward and the water laps at her succulent fleshy globes with a hundred liquid tongues, while a flock of seagulls sweeps the sky above the trees. Her eyes scan through palm fronds to check the windows that overlook the backyard pool. “Practice sex?” Ram’yana cups her warm wet breasts in his hands and Natasha presses her nipples into his palms beneath the surface.
“Practice sex,” she affirms, shaking her pretty boobs free of his grasp and smiling mysteriously as she leans back against the sandstone rim of the pool. “I’ll show you if you like; and I’ll show you how to really make a girl come – if you want me to.” Ram’s questing fingers hook in the narrow rainbow waistband of her tiny pants and begin to pull at the bow that hangs at her lean rocking hip - the single tie that secures the strip of coloured cloth around her loins.
Natasha grabs at his hand and holds it still with a surprisingly strong talon. “I don’t let anyone see me completely naked. Remember?” her eyes plead with him. “It helps preserve a little mystery – for later.”
“I remember,” the teenager sighs through his frustration. “Random access memory.”
“Huh?”
“That’s another thing it’s short for…”
“Very funny,” she says as a flash of annoyance flees across her features. “But I promise.” Natasha smiles as her hot smooth thighs squirm around his rigid shaft, and she tickles his torso with her nipples while the cooling water laps around their over-sensitised heated bodies. “If you want to stay tomorrow night you’ll get to lift my veil and we can go all the way...” Alerted by a barely audible grinding sound, she glances to a neighbour’s window as it slides open above the fronds.
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -
Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 2 - Surfing the Cosm
Shaman of Centraxis ३ - Turning Tides, Breaking Waves
Shaman of Centraxis Part 4 - To Infinity and Beyond
Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living
Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way
Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden
Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders
Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games
Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 14 – Waking Wet Dream
Shaman of Centraxis Part 15 – Rending the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 16 – Interrupted Dreams
Shaman of Centraxis Part 17 - Wherefore Art
Shaman of Centraxis 18 – Stranger in a Strange Land
Shaman of Centraxis 19 – Supplicants
Shaman of Centraxis 20 – Proposals & Propositions
Shaman of Centraxis 21 – Shamanic Training
Shaman of Centraxis 22 – Skirting the Edge
AND
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra Part 1
Springs Eternal – Wild Life Part 1
Latest – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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