Beachside Tiphareth Festival
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Fire in the Belly
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 19
Before the ritual commences Ratty addresses the seated neophytes, arranged in a crescent round his curly-toed slippers. Only seven advanced beginners remain in the Group after a particularly challenging year, a surviving cluster of pre-initiates from an original intake of almost two dozen. Rratz Bander apparently intends to tell them very little about the rite they’re about to experience; he merely imparts a sly suggestion that his interpretation will be “slightly unusual”.
Jomana and Arne plead with the theatrically inclined initiate of the Dawn of Ra, beseeching him to impart more details of their pre-initiation ritual with an amalgam of importunate cajoling and unbecoming flattery. After an indecisive pause in which he contemplates torrents of rainwater spilling from the leaf-blocked guttering, Ratty relents to a degree; he glares at the darkly shattering sky and cautiously announces his impending evocation of the Great God Pan to be an uncharacteristically austere affair.
After a smattering of further prompts the initiate adopts a positively regal bearing. He rucks up his golden cloak about sharply angular shoulders and shifts his glare to the neophytes, spitting their enthusiastic attentiveness with the lance of his martial bearing. Ratty’s eyes glitter in shadowed pits beneath the capacious pulpit of his unfurrowed brow as Jomana’s pestering banter fades into broken Germanic syllables.
The slightest of frowns silences the last of her entreaties and Ratty speaks into the thunderous silence of the summer downpour. He tells them his “freeform version” will be very different in form and substance to the bog-standard ritual; nothing like the pomp and theatricality of the prescribed rite (derived from the works of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn) which they’d previously enacted in the course of their magical training.
“When the ritual is complete,” he informs the group, sternly pricking the slackening bubbles of their relaxing demeanours with an intensifying rapier stare, “I want you all to do absolutely nothing. Nothing,” he repeats, driving the notion home. “Nothing at all. I want you to internalise the energy flow and concentrate every iota into the core of your hara.” He frowns down directly at the sole female among the pre-initiates, who remains unbowed by his posturing. Jomana interlaces her fingers and her knuckles crack loudly while she murmurs inaudible comments to herself. “Your navel chakra, Jomana.”
“I know all about der hara.” The darkly haired German places both palms upon her slim belly and grins up at the imperious initiate while the intently focused glances of a semicircle of magi meet askance. The aspiring magicians have all been informed that chakra work is best suited to initiates and adepts, a level of power purportedly beyond the province of uninitiated neophytes who are still nurturing the living crystal spheres of the Tree of Life, growing a systemic array of energy centres within the subtle bodies of their auras. Until all the sephirothic fruits of the Kabalistic Tree are fully formed and capable of rechannelling any misdirected energies from the far more potently focused inward power centres, unguided chakra work would likely be dangerous folly.
Rain sheets down from the broad bull-nosed roof of the sandstone manse’s capacious back veranda. Ratty’s impervious gaze turns away and stray beams of yellow lamplight fluoresce across his cloak as he waves toward the pillars of the temple. The pattering roar drowns out muttered asides from the cloaked group of neophytes, all thrumming together in a shadowy weave of expectant enthusiasms. All are barefoot and naked beneath their robes and none has partaken of food, sex or alcohol since the previous day; all the pre-initiates have been prohibited any recreational or mind-expanding drugs to for almost a year.
They wait within sight of the entry pillars to the temple, sheltering within hand-sewn silver lined purple cloaks to avoid gusty blasts accompanying the summer downpour. Ratty’s lips part and widen when he glances downward to bestow a cunning grin upon the hunkering group. “Be not afraid,” the thespian initiate announces with the confected accent of Vincent Price; he actually rubs his palms together as his mobile features slide into a mischievous frown. “The core of your being is the place where Great Pan truly dwells – not in the base chakra, or in your genitalia…” He pronounces the last through a narrowing smirk. “…as many believe. No. Pan puts a fire in your belly – a rather Promethean flame.”
“I thought Pan was earthier than that – like the base chakra, or the sphere of Malkuth,” Woodman posits, knobbly fingers stroking his long blonde beard. Jomana nods effusively within the purple cowl of her hooded robe. “More like der sex centre,” she disagrees. “Like Yesod, between der base and der navel …”
“Ahem,” the initiate harrumphs. “This is an illustration of what I don’t want to see you doing at the climax of the ritual. You must empty your minds of all contention and contagion and simply feel the impulse of the life force within you, internalising Pan’s effulgence into your hara – and nowhere else!” Ratty snares them within the contracting net of his elastic awareness with a seriously fierce reprise of his patented glare: “And this time we’ll commence with an anticlockwise flow.”
The Centraxian prince’s lips begin to work towards a query that incessantly recurs among the neophytes. He rehearses the clockwise arrangement of the elements in his imagination and prepares to resurrect an unresolved disagreement over the nature of widdershins and deosil circulations in the southern hemisphere. When he notices the intense disapproval beaming down from Ratty’s severe countenance Ram’s mouth seals shut without uttering a word.
The initiate watches objections and questions die aborning before his withering glare, swallowed back down before they can emerge from neophytic throats. He sweeps his gilded robe up into the crook of an elegantly folded arm and nods toward the temple’s entrance. “Time,” he announces, and steps down from the veranda into the soaking rainstorm. When he reaches the temple he stands aside beneath the overhanging roof to allow them entry. “Remember,” he says as they file between pillars Joachim and Boaz: “Not a word, not a sound… not a single expository gesture!”
When the neophytes have assembled in the small vestibule Ratty sweeps past and proceeds into the circle. They all enter the temple in solemn silence, passing through the silken vesicle at the northeast gate in halting single file. They follow the initiate’s lead, turning right in a disorienting twist to the north instead of greeting the elemental gate of the Tattva of Air - a sky blue circle that floats in a cloying cloud of incense leftward - as is their general wont. Before he orients himself to Ratty’s novel directive Ram’yana spies a robed initiate holding the eastern quadrant, maintaining the energy field of the air element from behind the Lotus Wand.
The elemental energies are stored and regulated within the corporeal batteries of four initiates, robed in the colours of the quarters and seated behind carefully constructed and consecrated macrocosmic weapons; pentacle, chalice, sword and wand. Weapons and magi form an interlinked circle of archetypal forms, an ancient wisdom of unity in diversity (the arrangement and attributions of elemental weapons remains a hotly disputed topic amongst various groupings of magicians; the Dawn of Ra places the wand in the eastern Air quarter and the sword within Fire, unlike many other interpretative arrangements of traditional ritual magic).
They greet the quarters in single-filed perambulation, basking in the essence of each element before continuing to the next quadrant. After spiralling inward through three full cycles, the neophytes all close their eyes and conjoin into an inner circle assembled about Ratty’s golden-robed form. They link hands in familiar fellowship yet the flow begins to circulate more slowly than usual, eddying backward and forward in the sluggish currents of their mismatching intent. After this indecisively to-and-fro prelude, a rotating wave of energy begins pouring through their auras, swamping the vestiges of their contentious indecision. The overweening flow pushes against a subtle tide of resistance for a few uncertain moments before the wheel of their combining wills begins to turn - apparently of its own accord, but actually in accordance with the cycle established by the surrounding initiates.
The neophytes stand in utterless silence. They quiver with the inflating pressure of immanence, palms hotly hovering at the vibrating juncture of a psychic spark gap, barely an inch apart.
As hitherto signalled, Rratz Bander eschews his usual idiom of artistically styled ritual performance. He stands completely still in the Moderator’s position, a pillar of silence in the centre of a psychic cyclone. He charges the egg-shaped mass of concentrating ether and concentrates the circulating energies of the ringing group, intensifying and compressing the magical field from his centralised locus. The initiate stands within three concentric rings of pure copper, silver and gold; circles of metal mirrored above his head in an identical, harmonically separated series set into the conical roof of the carefully constructed temple of the Dawn of Ra.
Alongside a tableau of unforseen images, unanswered questions file through Ram’s mind as (despite grimacing attempts at inner quietude) distracting phantasms of his ladylove parade through the Centraxian mage’s awareness. He struggles to focus beyond the surface ripples of egocentric concerns and enter the beckoning depths of the ritual. His eyes slit fractionally open and he tries to quiet his thoughts by concentrating on the secure sanctuary of his hara - a small seed-sized locus situated below and behind the hollow of his navel, in the gravitic centre of his physical body.
He sees Ratty’s eyeballs roll back inside their sockets and the initiate’s mouth begins to emit a hum so low as to be virtually inaudible. The cloaked figure of Arne Stook faces the Centraxian shaman from the other side of the circle - a stocky purple pillar standing between the identically robed but slimmer figures of Jomana and Gladryn – and Ram’yana espies the lustre of Jomana’s eyes, twinkling through the window-bars of her lashes.
Ram’yana closes his eyelids and Rratz Bander’s melodious intonation slowly swells to fill his awareness, gradually intensifying into a resonant thrum, a resounding note that travels though his spine and thrills through the entirety of his plasm. The initiate’s ongoing vibration fades, and without any obvious evidence of inhalation he immediately begins chanting in barely discernible breaths of ancient Hebrew. A scarcely audible evocation rises and falls through the hubbub of his continual drone, a secondary voice issuing from the selfsame voice box that produces the wordless thrumming vocalisation.
The shaman prince refocuses his awareness on his navel chakra and is somewhat surprised to slip directly into that securely central coign of vantage. Ram’s view expands in a sightless fugue and he senses the circle of the world from the level of his belly, a perspective hovering just above the surface of a stilled liquid space, seemingly suspended at the centre of a slightly bulging fluid meniscus. He floats upon the unfurrowed mirror of a petal-fringed pool, hovering in the centre of a broad round bowl that must surely be the material vessel of his bone-cased pelvis.
Ram’s mind stops spinning and plops to a sudden halt.
Everything is different. The cosmos is transparent, yet simultaneously solid and eternal. The circle expands to the limits of the horizon, and Ram’yana floats above a vast unsullied pool of silent liquid dreaming. He basks in rays from an amber sun that shines directly above, luxuriating in the core of an expansive spaciousness that brims with blissful peace. Solar plexus, he realises. Tiphareth…
After a timeless time he gradually becomes aware of Ratty’s deep chanting voice, now joined in rhythmic counterpoint by the four initiates who hold fast the quarters of the universe. At some indefinable point their chant has morphed into ancient Greek – “Io Pan! Io Pan!” - and the shaman feels the intensity of the magical field throb in time with each resonant syllable as a glowing light begins to form, within and beneath the transparent depths of his sumptuous internal sea.
A column of fire spears up from the deeps, throbs in Ram’s belly and rears up his spine, a surging cobra looming upward in sudden strike. His vertebrae straighten as his body lengthens and a scintillating presentiment of kundalini’s inexorable rising fills him with a flaming rush of energy - and then the blazing, surging, wholly real thing happens. A blinding rush of flaming light and burning heat sears upward and expands through his being, racing all the way up through his spinal column in an unsurpassable etheric analogue of orgasm. In another instant he’s thoroughly blinded, all thought dissolved in a blast of white-hot brilliance as the combining voices of the initiates disappear in a sea of white noise that surges beneath three bright shining syllables; “I-o Pan!”
The Centraxian High Priestess lies on her belly in dreamy torpor, thoroughly relaxed amidst a cloudy sea of puffy cushions. She loses all track of time, luxuriating in purest pleasure while five pairs of hands massage cluttered memories and knotted torsions from the sleek bands of her musculature.
“Are you sure you don’t want the needles?” the Lady Ringell asks from somewhere nearby. Racheal emits a negatory grunt for the third time. As her head turns towards the initiate, the slim packet of acupuncture needles disappears into the top drawer of an antique apothecary’s cabinet.
The massage has worked its magic on the Lady Racheal, who can hardly bring herself to move as the practiced fingers of various neophytes stroke and caress all her naked limbs. A pair of hands presses down confidently along either side of her spine, sliding lower to compress the tightly clenched moons of her snow-white bottom before gliding up along her back to knead her shoulders and neck.
Racheal had earlier availed herself of the manse’s copious hot water supply. A near-boiling steamy spray jetting from silver fittings in the large bathroom salved her tensions and washed away all surface discomforts. She stood under the blasting flow for apparent ages while her beau was occupied in the temple, and when she emerged from the shower two of the newer neophytes had been waiting with a huge fluffy towel. “Fifi says you need a massage,” one of the slightly older young women informed the teenage priestess while they wrapped the towelling around her dripping body. “After a healing flow,” the other woman, a longhaired brunette, had added. “I’m Lucy,” she announced.
“Lucky name,” Racheal opined while they dried her copious golden mane.
“A loose woman,” her companion declared with a lopsided smile. “I’m Jane.” Her symmetrical features appeared slightly marred by a fine cratering of old acne scars that followed the curve of a strong jawline and peppered the cleft in her chin. “Aren’t you in the pre-initiate group?” Racheal caught herself nodding as she retrieved her clothing. “Not any more,” she confided.
The neophytes glanced at each other while Racheal knotted the towel around her breasts. “We’ll do a flow first, if you like,” suggested Jane. “We can use the room across the hall.”
At first Racheal wasn’t keen on the idea, but she soon allowed herself to be convinced. When they finally persuaded her to lie down in a vacant attic bedroom of the sandstone manse, the priestess had been uncertain about removing the towel and had tucked it more securely around her body as she lay on the unyielding futon mattress. She was unsure whether any of the various members of the Dawn of Ra – some of whom she’d never before met - held salacious designs on her lithe young body, and she’d lain on her back on the white silk sheet with eyes wide open.
“Just relax. We’ll be back in a minute.” The neophytes left her to relax in peace while they explored the manse for massage oil. As her breath slowed and the faint scent of sandalwood entered her awareness she felt her body sinking into the bed.
The Lady Racheal stared at an ornately beaded lampshade and her carefully honed aesthetic sensibilities imbued her with a sense of appreciation for the detailed artisanship of its geometric design. As she came to recognise the style of the shade Racheal gradually realised she was familiar with the creator; the construction was a device of the Lady Alion, one of her fellow Centraxians, – who was also an initiate of the Dawn of Ra. She shifted her body to readjust the towel just as a handful of barefoot neophytes – all new chums from the latest intake - entered the room.
Rachel lay back and resealed her eyelids while the silent group of semi-strangers assembled around the bed. The moment her head pressed back into the thin cotton pillow, she relaxed into a completely supine posture of acceptance with a soft satisfied sigh. Despite her initial trepidation, the hot shower had left her in a pleasantly enervated daze and she found herself sinking into an uncharacteristically trusting mood.
Rain thrummed against the slate roof in a persistent heavy drumming that resounded inside the steeply angled prism of the attic. A haze of white noise penetrated stone, timber and pilaster with a ubiquitous hum, an unending patter that further calmed the uncomfortable schism of her fractious nervousness.
After all the challenging experiences she’d so recently undergone Racheal had remained perpetually on guard, unwilling and unable to drop her defences for a moment - except for those times, brightly burning beacons of bliss in a storm-tossed sea, when she poured into the arms of her beloved prince. During those paradoxically brief eternities she became a molten manikin of honeyed nectar moulded into the chalice of Ram’s loving.
After an ongoing series of unfortunate adventures with less trustworthy individuals than her true love and first lover - and various encounters with malevolent magical circles and uncertainly aligned covens - the priestess had developed an ingrained distrust of the works and motives of magicians and witches who worked together en masse. She regarded most aspiring magi as blithely unaware dabblers, blind to the import and ramifications implicit in their chants and invocations: artless blind mice conducting unknown rites that suited the private purposes of secretive tutors.
Yet she felt entirely at home in the manse of the Dawn of Ra – or the House of the Rising Sun, as the Centraxian High Priestess occasionally disparaged the Magic Group. It was one of the few places Racheal felt she could truly drop her guard. Lucy’s voice breathed into her ear; “We’ll start with a healing flow.” Racheal’s eyes slitted partway open to reveal half a dozen inexperienced magi surrounding her recumbent body. She was relieved to note they were all fully clothed, their neophyte status in the Group made obvious by identical silver talismans hanging at their throats.
Lucy lifted Racheal’s head in nimble hands and sat on the pillow, placing the damp blonde mop of the priestess’s hair in her trousered lap. A tingle of adrenaline rushed through Racheal’s bloodstream as Lucy’s fingertips massaged the base of her skull. She tried to divine the neophytes’ thoughts and determine their motives as the barely familiar young woman touched her most vulnerable auric entry point.
When they all began to chant the syllable ‘Om’ and commenced the familiar energy circulation of a healing flow, Racheal felt an inexorable tide of utter relaxation carry her troubled thoughts away while her body sank into syrupy warmth in the shallows of a golden ocean.
Her consciousness returns to her body as the neophytes’ hands slip apart, unsealing the ring they form about her. A moment later freshly warmed fingers gently begin to caress her limbs while Lucy’s hands burrow through her hair en route to the nape of her neck. An amber glow suffuses Racheal’s entire being and she feels cozened and coddled as a warmly swaddled baby in a cosy bassinet.
She nearly rebels against this freely willed surrender to helplessness, almost bristling at her uncommonly comfortable state. Her awareness reawakens to the warm press of bodies all around and she struggles toward focus once more to divine the intent of the strangers who caress her semi-naked flesh. A dozen palms and a squadron of soft fingertips begin stroking the ley lines of her body’s meridians and she sinks back into a golden torpor, blissfully enjoying the kinaesthetic dreaminess of their tactfully applied ministrations.
She finally comes to accept that all of her masseurs are trustworthy and dedicated students. Despite the brief period of training these new members of the Magic Group have undertaken thus far, the neophytes are all obviously well along the road to becoming sensitive and talented healers. They scrupulously avoid taking liberties with the teenage witch, skirting her most sensitive and private parts while they anoint her flesh with appropriate scented oils and the healing balm of gentle strokes and touches.
The Lady Racheal decides to loosen her self and drift within the softly stroking menagerie of hands, enjoying the release of utter abandonment to tactile pleasure. She surrenders to a cosmos of satisfaction and sinks into an infantilising ecstasy of drowsiness, placing near-absolute trust in the strangers’ hands while they drag clots of tension from her unwinding muscles.
After a while they begin to slowly peel the towel from her body and strip her bare, and Racheal is thoroughly happy to allow this further license. Her body tingles all over. She fully expects them to caress her soft feminine breasts and her firmly muscled belly, but they gently roll her face into the pillow and commence coating her back, her neck, her hands and feet, legs and arms with fragrant rose oil admixed with tincture of myrrh. After an indeterminable time of surpassing bliss, six pairs of hands slip beneath her sides and turn the supine girl again, rolling her onto her back. Her body flops into their hands with the ease of enduring familiarity.
Racheal is entirely comfortable in their collectively sensitive grasp, unconcerned by her exposure to the innocent healing touches of the unknown neophytes as they begin to massage the front of her pale limbs and white belly, her bruise-mottled throat, symmetrical feline face and fulsome white breasts.
When her beloved returns from the temple - silently contemplating the extraordinarily compressed charge of energy implanted in the pre-initiate group’s auras during the unusual ritual - he searches the ground floor of the sandstone manse for his unpredictable paramour, dripping a trail of rainwater onto the pale pine floors. He encounters the Lady Ringell in the hall, and Fifi L’Amoure smiles at the light in his eyes as she directs him upstairs.
When he mounts the treads to the second storey, he stands in the open doorway and watches the remaining five neophytes massaging essential oils into the fine naked body of his beautiful bride. Her skin glistens with alluring sheen and a dreamy smile lifts the corners of her pale pink lips. Strange hands stroke her slim calves and thighs, her shoulders and belly, shaping the sides of her fulsome breasts with passing caresses, barely avoiding her recumbent nipples and the carefully shorn prominence of her loins.
Umber-blotched bruises shine in angry accusation at Racheal’s throat and Ram’s teeth grind together when he notices the marks. He watches Lucy’s slight frown when her eyes meet his across the young priestess’s naked body, and recognises the unspoken assumption of his guilt in her momentarily unguarded expression. His fingers tighten on the doorframe as he remembers how the foul indigo stigmata were graven on his ladylove’s soft white neck. He attempts to reassure himself that he feels no jealousy as he watches the new intake of neophytes caress Racheal’s flesh, that his anger is understandable, almost, indeed, righteously benign.
He unclenches his jaw and endeavours to relax, to recover the brilliant glow of inner light in the backwash of the Pan ritual: to restore his aplomb and match the mood in the low-ceilinged healing chamber. He tries, somehow, to ignore this egregious affront to his heart, ignoring the unvoiced slur on his reputation - that he now suspects must be circulating amongst all his peers in Centraxis and the Group.
A facet of Ram’s personality finds a way to distract him from this self-defeating fixation, and his swimming mind notes the egg-shaped ring of neophytes forms the points of an elongated pentagonal star around his Lady Racheal. Her body is a study in perfection to his sight as her limber white limbs are lifted and parted, stroked and oiled with a bright glossy glaze of liquid fragrances. She reclines with her head in Lucy’s lap while the slim brunette’s fingers follow the bony ridges ringing her mauve-tinged eyelids.
The healers turn occasional glances toward her young hippy lover, who returns their cherubically innocent smiles with the unsullied mask of a beamish grin. They continue to immerse their combining awareness and energies into a rapturous channelling of healing chi, as the unforced field of living light directs their hands to knead the neediest parts of the priestess’s multileveled bodies, physical and otherwise.
Racheal moans in utterly satiated pleasure while practiced palms and fingers stroke and tease knotted tensions outward to her extremities. They draw cloying strands of ectoplasmic adhesions from her aura and flick them away Tibetan-style so the sparks of samskara subside into the slumbering soil of the salubrious tongue of land known as Long Nose Point, poking far into the harbour of the rain-drenched
When Racheal’s legs slip apart at the urging of neophytes seated by her feet – a young man to her right and an older woman on her left, her lover idly notes - and two pairs of hands begin lubricating her inner thighs, Ram’s gaze shifts from the pinkly floral exposure of her mesmerising vagina. His sight tilts up along Racheal’s slender form, once more lingering upon the bruises on her neck. The purple blotches have paled surprisingly quickly over the past day, edges fading to yellowing ovals around the fingermarks on her fine china-white throat. He looks away, his eyes avoiding the oil-dripping fingers that skirt his bride’s hairless labia, to fix on Lucy’s hands as they mould the firm white dough of Racheal’s perfect breasts.
The teenage Centraxian shaman stands naked beneath his cloak in the doorway. His erection is unavoidable, beginning to rear noticeably beneath his purple robe. He holds the silver trim closed around his slim frame and feels an unexpected bump when Jomana’s naked body squeezes beside him in the hallway. Apparently intent on being the first into the shower after the ritual, she has plenty of room and the contact is obviously intentional. The German pre-initiate flicks the bathroom’s light switch and catches him peeking at the tightly clenched cheeks of her flattish backside. She smiles, winks enticingly as she turns the shower tap and climbs into the bath, leaving the door wide open.
Jomana’s wink recalls another. After the ritual’s formal closure, Ratty had scarcely suppressed his annoyance at the irreverent members of the pre-initiate circle. As they’d thrice farewelled the elemental quarters prior to leaving the temple via the south-westerly gate, Dai’s hips had begun to cavort and his long white hair had shaken free of his silver lined purple hood. He’d flung his arms wide, swivelled his hips and begun a martial dance, swinging and gesticulating before the scarlet triangle marking the fire quarter.
He’d caught Ram’s eye and given him a smirking wink, and the Centraxian shaman had simultaneously sensed a quivering shiver pass through the bodies of all the advanced neophytes assembled within the circle of the temple. Dai’s spine began to swirl and his hands rose from his sides as his body formed a series of magical stances, postures of power easily recognisable from Ram’s perusal of nineteenth century magical documents; strangely coincident forms from one or another of Dai’s well-practiced Eastern martial katas.
A suddenly liberated frenetic lust for movement and unhindered expression burst from the silver-sealed vessels of almost all the neophytes. He watched Jomana and Gladryn, Woodman and Arne and the indomitable Dai twist and turn in the helical spin of pressure as this wanton outpouring began spilling back into the energic battery of the temple. Ram’s own movements were constrained by the curse of the Marcon (which assured great risk if he ever dared dance), an effective restraint on the echo of motion that sang in his nerves but remained unexpressed by his body. “Keep it inside!” Ratty had boomed, and the balloon of their unleashed desires had instantly burst. They’d all concentrated on refocusing the unfinished Work of the Pan ritual into the cores of their navels, a wilful silence reinstated amidst guilt-riddled glances.
Now, as he absorbs the sight of his naked lover with a mounting sense of expectant lust, the Lady Racheal’s beautiful features bear an appearance of utterly blissed-out - almost post-coital - relaxation. Her eyes remain closed while multiple hands rove the living leys of her perfectly feminine form and the quiet low moans that issue from her slightly parted lips evince the placidity of sublime depths of enjoyment.
Ram’yana spies T’Ruth approaching up the stair, her soft tread submerged beneath ubiquitous water-sounds from the shower within and downpour without - and thoroughly occluded by the ball-tightening lust that fills his young body. He watches her eyes drift to his groin before meeting his gaze with yet another wink; the extraordinary coincidence convinces him to follow her when she beckons and turns. At the short-shorn woman’s silent signal he follows the Dawn of Ra Initiate and Centraxian Poet into the manse’s wood-lined upstairs hall. “Has she told ye anything?” the diminutive woman asks in a tone akin to command as she closes the door behind them. “Nay,” the prince replies. “I’ve had no time alone with her.”
She interprets his statement as a rebuke to the neophytes who surround his beloved and bestow their attentions upon her. “After all, she certainly is attractive,” T’Ruth declares in her cultured Scots brogue. She watches his puzzled frown before inspecting the undiminished bulge in his cloak with obvious relish. “I mean to say, the neophytes are drawn to her like iron to a magnet,” she says to his tumescence.
“But ’tis still very curious,” she wheedles, turning her eyes on his face. Throughout her small speech the poetess slyly examines the shaman prince’s reactions to her challenging observations. “The way she doesn’t seem to realise how beautiful she is, even after all… this time...” Ram’yana still feels thoroughly affected by the ritual and the confusing interludes of its aftermath. He stares down at T’Ruth for a few recondite moments before his lips can form a reply, glaring through the prism of the rite’s enduring potency. “Aye,” he finally agrees with monosyllabic ineloquence.
“Let’s have some hash down in the alchemy lab,” T’Ruth suggests. “Stardew’s managed to get some treated
“Suit yourself.” T’Ruth shrugs and nods at the door, gesturing toward the bedroom where Racheal endures her pleasuring. “It’s A-grade hash. And bring the High Priestess along; she hasn’t seen the lab yet.”
“Hash?” Jomana’s voice knifes through the door as she flings it open, dripping naked and beaming with zealous glee. “Count me in!” T’Ruth performs a slight curtsey to the Prince of Centraxis and Jomana looks at her queerly. The totally tanned German wiggles her hips and jiggles her breasts when Ram casts his eyes upon her. She stares at his groin and repeats her wink as T’Ruth pushes past, then eagerly follows the initiate downstairs toward the cellar.
Ram’yana watches her swagger away for three thoughtful seconds before dashing down the hallway to be next into the shower. He passes the open door to the attic room and catches a glimpse of the healthy pink glow suffusing Racheal’s oil-soaked skin, glancing past the bodies that surround her to absorb a fleeting token of her winsome beauty. He beats Arne (who hesitates at the threshold of the healing chamber with a towel hanging over a beefy arm) into the bathroom by a whisker. The door seals the prince into a personal cleansing rite, and he sighs with the sudden remission from challenging scenes.
Removing his cloak and twisting the taps in the steamy room, he belatedly recalls his clothing still awaits him on the veranda downstairs. As hot water streams into his tightly sealed eyes, psychedelic rainbows and colourful rectangular Toltec reliefs parade across his the cinemascope screen of his inner eyelids. He surrenders to the pounding of soft-nibbed needles flowing through the miniature waterfall, resounding with the drumlike thrumming that beats on taut swathes of his summer-pinked skin.
At least she seems to be recovering from whatever that bastard did to her, the shaman surmises. His heart lurches when he recalls the raft of secrets he witnessed freighted through the aquamarine oceans of his lover’s eyes. She’ll tell me when she’s ready… Ram’s teeth clench and relax in turn while his manhood grows even harder in the blood-hot flow. He wants to know – needs to know – now!
A true story
Images – author’s
Further True Tales from the Prince of Centraxis -
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 6 Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7 Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8 The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9 Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10 Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11 Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12 Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
And see -
(These sites have been frozen and cut off from this author by Today.com: More Images - http://imagine.today.com
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