Lady Racheal Flowered
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Juggling Promises - Sex + Drugs + Rock + Roll 19
Juggling Promises
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 19
*
“Feels like storms a’brewing.” Kha-Aan’s voice surprises the witch girl; she hadn’t noticed her prepossessing liege’s approach. He’d crossed the longhall with uncanny stealth to offer her the tribal brew. Multiplying layers of import shimmer around his words, ensnaring Racheal’s mind with elaborate potentialities that transcend his apparently innocuous statement.
“At this rate we’ll soon have a full hand of trumps,” he declares with a smile, holding the silver chalice to the priestess’s mouth. His long-nailed fingertips tremble against her lips as the rich warm potion of honeyed mead flows down her slender throat, admixed with an indefinable range of spirits and essences.
T’Ruth chimes up from the floor; “And not enough Indians?” the poetess asks with an innocent pout. The moustachioed baronet appears to ignore the jibe, but his eyes flare darkly. A spidery nut-brown hand drops to his hip to resocket a ceremonial brass dagger in its costume-jewelled scabbard, producing a singularly unsubtle thump. The warrior stirs, a voice proclaims from somewhere within the Lady Racheal’s strung out and hung over mind. Unseen beneath the wide rim of the chalice, the elongated nail of Kha-Aan’s calloused index finger outlines her lower lip, gently sawing sidewise. “Drink up,” he says, “and make room for more!” A handful of singers straggle through dimly remembered lines;
*
‘…The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You rearrange me ’til I’m sane
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head and it’s not me.’
*
“The Moet is gone, milord.” Vostra inverts the emptied bottle and a flurry of droplets falls onto a tattered Victorian rug. “Barely enough for a belated libation.” Kha-Aan slaps his narrow belly and a wave of mead spills down Racheal’s chin, splashing mahogany beads onto the hummocks of her breasts and polka-dotting the azure lapels of her revealing jacket. “But we have not yet swelled into the fully bloated satisfaction that heralds the onset of utter liberation!” he decries.
A mighty roar erupts from the corner, where Nathan the Marcon has finally wrested the keg open beneath the twinkling two-dimensional regard of Meher Baba. A foaming spume erupts from the spout while the moustachioed Sufi master smiles within the window frame of a black and white poster, shining face beaming above his famous catchcry; ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’
At the very moment her lover’s silhouette occludes her view of the longhall the Lady Racheal feels an unfamiliar wave of pressure pour through her body, cascading from her electrified crown to her tingling toes. Ram’yana lowers his slender frame, kneeling before the High Priestess’ throne as he peers into the oceanic pools of her glazing eyes. She stares directly through him, vision fixed on a parallel plane at the expanding horizon of altered perceptions. ’Tis only to be expected, the puzzled prince reminds himself. Tonight’s her first trip…
Unless… He recalls his beloved’s partial description of the vicious trial she’d undergone the previous night, and swallows a knot of anger that threatens to disturb the tightrope trek of his psychedelic sojourn. His thoughts leap from one partial conclusion to the next; And after what she’s been through…
A tremor passes through the tribal Hierophant’s body and a stab of painful pressure suddenly assails him, centred in the pit of his left shoulder, clawing into meat and muscle, nerve and tendon, burning like claws of frozen steel. Curving talons bite down, pressing into the flesh around Ram’s collarbone and tearing through his armpit as a black presence inexorably settles upon the kneeling teenage mage. An unforgiving load of gravitas fills his lungs with leaden heaviness and dims the swarming field of his sight, threatening to remove his awareness from the earthly plane.
His benumbed left hand automatically rises to pour an infusion of healing light into the source of his syncopated heartbeat. Raphael… The shaman whispers a silent invocation to the Divine Physician and concentrates on the radiant pulse beating betwixt heart and palm, attempting to settle the runaway pace of his stricken metabolism with a deep cycle of carefully hoarded breaths. He inhales a lungful of air and prana, then another, and Racheal’s eyes slowly swim back into focus.
Look at him… into him… Racheal’s new inner guide directs her eyes to shift between worlds as a tremulous breathtaking wave passes through her handsome young prince. The priestess feels the dark cloud that constricts his being, pouring down upon him like a drenching thunderstorm whilst another, brighter presence adds fuel to the pyre of Ram’s spirited soul. Her muscles contract in sympathetic synchrony when a grimace distorts his ready smile; she watches her hand caressing his whipcord-tense shoulder with a will all its own.
Ram’yana regards his beloved from behind the rictus simile of a reassuring smile. His lady-love’s fingers blur and assuage the pain of unseen talons tearing into his etheric flesh, loosening the clutching brace of scimitars that squeeze down a little less tightly with every heartbeat. Her pronounced forehead pulsates and throbs, cycling through sapphire, puce and lavender hues as turquoise waves of cool relief flow through his stricken psyche and shuddering bioplasm, beating in time with the pulse in his palms. One hand spreads across the fine golden down of her smooth cool thigh and the other hovers above his pounding heart as he kneels before the High Priestess’s throne. His lips are bared in a feral grin that mimics a psychotic leer and his vision burns and blurs with the effort required to keep trembling eyelids wide open.
As Racheal’s sight slips into and out of focus the shaman watches pulsations arise from the central axis of his beloved’s body. Light flares within the transparing tissues of her brow to form an all-seeing oracular eye - the unmistakeable Mark borne by all Centraxian Initiates. The lovers stare into each other’s interlinked central core and flow together while time slows to shimmering treacle about them. Racheal’s face pulses with fields of stars and geometrically arranged platonic solids, flaring with every throb of Ram’s pounding heart. He turns from her gaze before his helpless thrall to the desperately chaotic internal arrhythmia can be transmitted into his lover’s supersensitised psyche.
*
‘And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no-one seems to hear
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tines
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon…’ #
*
The High Priestess’ hand breaks contact with the Hierophant’s shoulder. Her palm hovers a few inches above his head while an inaudible syllable pours from her painted lips in a slowly drawn out surrender of all withheld breath. The shaman prince notices a tidal flow passing through all the bodies thronging in the communal longhall and the material world throbs into momentary translucence with every strike of his stricken heart. He watches rolling waves course through them all, shifting various bodies this way and that with each expanding current of every passing breath, each and every person present producing some individualistic artefact of unconscious displacement behaviour when the wave passes through them on its rolling route toward eternal infinity.
Is it happening again? the prince wonders with an ironic sense of helpless self-parody. How untimely. He witnesses the rising swell of somatic alarm as his bodily systems respond to the threat of extinction with a compounding swarm of efforts, a battalion of instinctive reactions which seem to make his heart pound even more quickly. He breathes into the base of his diaphragm, keeping his ribcage inert as possible to relieve the pressure that wells in the pit of his arm and swells to constrict each slow inhalation.
Am I going to keel over before the entire tribe? Or am I reliving a memory… His heartbeat is magnified with each pulse that vibrates throughout the swelling penumbra of his aura; …of a memory… and he can sense all the bodies and minds in the longhall as a vast interconnected series of cells, sensory extensions of the same global mind extruding like eyestalks from the conscious living being of planet Earth.
Ram’s thoughts keep spinning along well-trod arcane tracks while his
‘subconscious mind’ - the anima of his physical body - struggles for repose, barely coupled to the hurtling carriages of his unending mentation. ’Tis the Oikumene… he decides while the Angel of Death hovers close nearby; …the living flesh that clothes the stony bones of Adam Kadmon.
He senses the delineaments of a shared awareness comprising all the tribes of humankind, pouring through the tripping clan of Centraxians in a microcosmic extension of an infinitely extensive, all-pervasive cosmic consciousness – one so much greater than the sum of its disparate organic parts that Ram balks at immersion into the vast multidimensional mind that glimmers with an omnipresent array of omniscient perspectives.
His mind flies apart as a thousand fractal shards and he drifts toward oblivion; then, at the instant of dissolution, ferrous little icons of fragmented psychic DNA swim into each other, drawn back through an infinite sea of possibility to reassemble around the unique magnetic locus of his earthly body. Isolated particles gradually reform and meld into the pain-tinted crystal of his particulate personality while the world spins about its central axis and the party continues around him.
Ram’yana feels his self revolve and resolve into focus as he stares into his Lady Racheal’s empathic blue eyes. The Centraxian shaman still feels a dark mass pressing down on his shoulder; claws squeeze and jab his flesh with every breath, distracting him from the transcendent vision of overarching unity just as it begins to become lucidly clear to his reforming mind. Am I truly already dead, and the time for this wonderful fantasy world of friends and lovers is about to draw to a final close?
Regardless of all worldly and unworldly confirmations of the undeniably ubiquitous life force that infuses every grain and jot of the wondrous wide world, Ram’s doggedly logical mind can’t drop the bone of contention he’s been gnawing for two completely life-altering years. He’s still daunted by the realisation that there can be no such thing as proof of his own existence. Neither rapturous bliss nor agonizing pain can confirm or deny the likelihood that the Prince of Centraxis is living an imagined existence inside a convincing fantasy world, somewhere in the Bardo realms beyond the gate of death.
*
‘I can’t think of anything to say except…
I think it’s extremely marvellous! HaHaHa!’ *
*
And the music mirrors everything… It’s all too pat and convincing, like a well constructed dream… His ears pop with a pressure drop and the psychedelic rock flows all the way through him in a sudden rush of increased volume as he re-enters the locale of his patiently kneeling body. Ram’s eyes slither sidewise to survey the expanse of the longhall before his lady’s irresistible presence draws his dislocating attention back to the wondrous here and now, to the extraordinarily beautiful painted mask of her pinkly glowing face.
He becomes aware of the fact that Racheal’s ribcage is inflating and deflating in time with his as an infusion of cool cleansing light slowly fills his aura. Yet how can I doubt the reality of Her? While he stares into a brightly blazing blue star at the centre of his beloved’s bright being, Ram’s constricted frame gradually relaxes and his constrained demeanour is transformed by a freely flowing current of glad delight. Laughter fills the hall as a fresh group of partygoers appears from the kitchen bearing potables, comestibles and combustibles to add to the generous cornucopia already being consumed throughout the tribal stronghold.
“Art thou ready for the cocktail hour?” Kha-Aan’s voice raucously booms into the hallowed hollow space of Ram’s contemplation, filling the wake of the flotilla of gleeful laughter. Their liege twirls his brass dagger inside the ceremonial silver goblet as priestess and priest turn to meet his dark gaze. He withdraws the sodden point of the dagger and drags each flat surface over his long tongue before proffering the cup to Racheal. “’Tis for the circle to share,” he remarks, and as her hands leave the vicinity of Ram’s shoulders he passes her the chalice.
The shaman closes his eyes and rekindles the fire of his inner sun. He feels an amber glow swell in the centreline of his chest, growing from a point just behind the ‘v’ of his ribcage, and the vestiges of his tremulous discomfort fade before a refulgent wave of midnight sunlight. “What is it?” Stardew enquires, watery eyes glancing from the chalice to her sister, the equally enhanced and semi-entranced Lady T’Ruth. “Some of us have already had quite enough acid, thank you very much indeed!”
Their liege’s voice booms down in resonant reply while Ram’s sight remains fixed upon the delightful landscape of his ladylove’s rapturous features; “No more hallucinogens, most assuredly.” He flicks a wrist toward Tony, who juggles balls before his mirrored reflection in a nearby corner. “We nobles art fain to juggle promises in the sacred core of the court,” he declares, shifting his penetrative gaze from the Lady Racheal’s unreadable expression to frown down at Stardew’s dubious regard. “Merely a spirited mix.” Racheal sniffs the potion. “Smells like sugar and hazelnuts,” she says as her nose and eyes crinkle.
T’Ruth rises to her knees beside Ram’yana and savours the scent of the brew, displaying a gourmet’s rapture of intense concentration. “Aye,” she agrees after a seemly pause. “That’s Strega, that is – and a dollop of rum, if I be not mistaken!” Arne Stook appears at her side, looming above the kneeling duo as he smiles down at the enthroned High Priestess. Two handfuls of pale ale slosh round alarmingly, foaming to the brims of a mismatched pair of half-pint glasses. “I guess you won’ be needin’ these then,” he says, and turns away before any can reply.
“’Tis a great drop when tripping,” Stardew suggests. “Go on,” she encourages the new High Priestess, “have some – after all, ’twas the most favoured tipple of the
“There’s some mead in there, too - among other things,” the Na-Baron informs the group. His long dark hair surrounds the Lady Racheal’s shoulder, a thundercloud occluding the triple suns of her glowing eyes as she passes the chalice to her transfixed lover. “Oh, ye of little faith.” Kha-Aan leans away and chuckles down at the priestess while Ram’yana savours the eclectically scented cocktail, watching his lady’s wry grin over the brimming rim as their gazes relock. “On my honour, all our oaths must of needs be fulfilled,” their liege declares.
Ram’yana watches a shudder pass through his lady love as her eyes squeeze shut and he witnesses a strange expression suffuse Kha-Aan’s moustachioed face as the older man observes her reaction. Does she shirk from the drink - or his words? Ram’yana puzzles over the conundrum while the tipple’s sweet blazing odours and stark mingling flavours assail his hyposensitised senses. Both, he decides as the insipid drink burns its way past his tongue.
“Drink up!” Kha-Aan commands. “There’s plenty more in this batch – enough for all the tribe, and more!” He turns to the rest of the court and spreads his arms in an expansive gesture. “Enough for all our esteemed guests, of course! And enough of these admittedly artful recordings!” he announces, pointing at the speakers with a flourish of lace-cuffed leathern wrists. “Bring on the minstrels! Music must be live to be enlivening – and to be magical as well, forsooth! This magical night has only just begun!”
“The Ladies have decided,” the Empress announces as she performs a courtly curtsey before her new High Priestess. With an artful flourish she produces a miniature container from nowhere in particular – displaying her prowess at legerdemain – and passes the tiny chest to the Lady Racheal, whose lips curl into a semblance of a smile when her eyelids drift open. The priestess turns the box over and around, examining the intricate silver cloth filigree craftily set into an ebon-wooded casing. “It’s beautiful,” she announces as a genuinely awed expression disarranges her carefully subdued features.
Princess Stardew flops to the floor and the poetess T’Ruth reclines at the priestess’s feet, leaning against the fur-covered leg of her wooden throne. The poetess sniffs a chalice of pink rosé while Stardew giggles into a champagne glass as a tentative jam begins nearby. Fifi L’Amour the Empress Ringell twirls a strand of dark hair between thoroughly beringed fingers encrusted with a colourful array of impressive gemstones. “Our High Priestess deserves – nay, requireth – her own personal chamber within the stronghold,” Fifi declares as her eyes drift toward the tribal shaman. “Though she may not have need of private quarters for sleeping,” she adds with a wink to Ram’yana. “Most everyone needeth their space from time to time – and a priestess most ’specially so.”
The Empress’s wink goes some way toward settling the wave of anxiety that ripples through Ram’s soma as her words trill through the rising storm of mind-melting music. The prince leans back and his eyes traverse the alluringly revealed display of his lover’s slender white legs. He begins tootling on his silver fife, accompanying Li Po’s mandolin in a rousing round of riffs. His besotted gaze drifts upward past Racheal’s tightly constrained swelling cleavage to fix upon her mesmerising eyes, ignoring the intricate tableau of the partying court as he plays for her alone.
The syncopated ramblings of Arne’s new djembe are easily outmanoeuvred by Jean-Claude’s tabla, and as a trio of guitarists joins the fray Fifi falls to her knees before the enthroned priestess. Her voice carries well enough to penetrate the interweaving beats and melodies of their unrepeatable jam. “A space for private dreams, forsooth!” she insists, inclining her floral-crowned head to stare up into Racheal’s eyes.
The Centraxian Empress and initiate of the Dawn of Ra has nurtured a stellar career as a cabaret artiste for an unchallengeable number of years, achieving renown for unique and challenging performances in the Emerald City and far, far beyond; a diva Dame freely lauded in freewheeling damp Amsterdam and the perpetually decadent swinging halls of ancient Londinium. “Go on, priestess,” she implores with a tap on the lid of the tiny box, held like a fragile bouquet by Racheal’s soft hands. “Keep us not in a lather of suspense, I prithee – open it!”
“Aye,” agrees T’Ruth, “do thy stuff, Pandora!”
The Lady Racheal frowns at the irreverent poetess and as she turns a tiny golden key set into the chest’s ornate frontispiece the lid instantly springs open. A much larger and obviously more antiquated brass key sits on a tiny pale pink silk cushion that almost fills the treasure box. “I’ll not be requiring the vacant room, after all’s said and done,” Fifi informs her, “and ’tis thine, if ye choose.” Count Marco passes the Empress a fragrant Nepalese hash joint and she hands it directly onward to her slightly stunned priestess.
The Lady Racheal stares at her beau through a cloud of smoke and Ram’yana nods in affirmation without missing a note, winking and smiling to ensure she’s aware he approves of her new private space. Racheal has made subtle mention of the need for a studio workspace ever since she moved into the communal squat, and her prayers seem finally to have been answered.
“Thou art truly the door to the mysteries…” the priestess says to the Lady Ringell through a widening smile. The Empress’s cheeks dimple in recognition of the arcane attribute, ascribed to her chosen archetypal Trump and Role within the tribe – annotated by various magical authorities including the Golden Dawn, and the ‘Great Beast’ Aleister Crowley himself. Racheal takes the key from its silken bed and espies a small silver pentagram half concealed beneath. “Ye might be requiring that for the nonce,” Fifi says with another wink. “Until ye…”
The rest of her sentence is drowned out by a flurry of duelling guitars as a pair of visiting partygoers joins the xpanding jam in the Centraxian longhall. The post-midnight morn has progressed at an imponderable pace whilst the decorous courtly figures have slowly transformed into a progressively more decadent bunch of blithering trippers, stoned raving ragers, rowdy inebriates and divinely inspired mystics.
Racheal examines the face of her prince. Does he want me to leave him? She turns aside as she realises she’s venting a fear that’s likely nothing more than childish insecurity, but the idea burns at the back of her tripped-out eyes and echoes repetitively inside her skull - accompanied by a repellent yet vivid vision of her lover rejecting her, an ill-concealed expression of repugnance on his fine young features. Is he easing me away, pushing me out of his heart? She glances back at her beau, hoping for a glimpse of confirmatory love through the smoky mirror maze of her post-initiation LSD party, but can’t catch Ram’s attention through the rowdy crowd.
His eyes are closed and she watches his breath shorten to gasps as he blows into the silvern mouth of the cold metal flute. As he gulps overheated air between a flurry of notes and Li Po’s solo ignites the night, Ram’yana is seized by an overwhelming sense of oppression and a dank premonition slinks into the margins of his hallucinatory awareness. As the Lord’s High Deathwatch – one of numerous accrued titles encompassed by his shamanic Role within the court – he’s grown used to such forebodings.
A so-called Deathwatch beetle – or an unlikely series of such beetles – had haunted all the houses of Ram’s childhood, tapping out the varying dooms of various family members over the years. He’s become well attuned to the rhythms of life and death, particularly after experiencing the Dark Angel’s icy grip far more intimately - and so relatively recently. Yet he feels a welling rush of panic when his breath flows ragged through his throat and a pounding pulse sends intricate fluorescing three dimensional geometries surging across the hallucinatory field of his inward vision.
The shaman prince feels his frame of reference slipping from the borders of the collective agreement known as life when a darkly heavy presence extrudes into his awareness, lowering its not inconsiderable weight upon his left shoulder for the second time in as many hours. The metal fife is an icicle in his grasp. His breath burns in his throat. His heart is a leaden weight. When a wave of nausea sweeps through his entire body he finally abandons the riff that had so artfully sustained his aplomb.
He places his right hand over his heart and regathers his breath as a cool beam of light pours into the crowding darkness that wells between the bright rainbow beacons of his chakras. The evanescent fluid replenishes his central Sun and fills the empty spaces in his soul with an onrushing glow of prana, chi, mana, ki – the ever-flowering life force.
“Art cool, Ram’yana?” Arne leans across to hiss the question into his shaman’s ear while his fingers slap and pummel the African drum’s taut goatskin. “Or a little too hot? Thy face is a little pale…” He notices Ram’s posture and the placement of his hand, and swivels around to face his friend more directly. Li Po sees the concerned expression on the young monk’s face and leans closer, tightening their small circle amidst the group of visiting musos. “Again?” he asks. The shaman nods and Arne’s face swells in his sight as his eyes smear open.
“There’s a breathing pattern I know,” the chip-toothed young martial artist tells him as quietly as he can and still be heard over the noise. “My sensei showed me…” He instructs Ram’yana in a healing method, splitting his inhalation into three parts – sipping the air through his nostrils as if through a straw until his diaphragm is filled – and exhaling through his mouth in a similar, slow, tripartite staccato pattern. “A little like playing a flute,” suggests Arne. Li Po listens and continues stroking the mandolin while Arne Stook’s large frame blocks the Lady Racheal’s view of her lover. She leans forward when the Empress Ringell moves to affix the silver pentacle of protection about her pale neck, and a gilded cloud of wavy hair drops over Racheal’s dazzled eyes.
The teenage mage gradually regains his composure as the rictus-inducing constriction rapidly fades to a mere memory of discomfort. By the time he’s breathing comfortably again the conjoined houses have filled with rambunctious guests and unknown visitors from all across the city.
“That’s not just physical,” Arne assures his prince. “That’s something else – like a psychic attack…” He trails off as Fifi beckons him onto the dance floor amid a pleasant scene of riotous near-mayhem which fills the tightly bound cloying night air. The psychedelic sights, sounds and scents of the late-blooming flower children’s unquenchable thirst for enjoyment – fun, alcohol, dancing, laughter, sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll – pursue each other through the timeless tripping night in overlapping cycles of utter transfiguration, blithely libertine bliss and spontaneous distraction.
Of course! Ram’yana berates his unseemly stupidity while the world spins around him. The longhall revolves in time with the seemingly timeless music which throbs anew from the reignited speakers, effectively erasing the artful mass jam – and yet the tableau simultaneously contrives to stay fixed in place in time and space, an eidolon graven deep into eternity.
*
‘…I get by with a little help from my friends
I get high with a little help from my friends…’ *
*
The young shaman scribes a silver circle around himself. He closes his eyes in swift examination of his aura, to ensure that no elemental or wayward spirit has entered without his awareness. He moves sightlessly through the fortuitously parting crowd and flops down to sit cross-legged on a cushion in the corner of the hall beside the throne of the High Priestess, his eyes still firmly shuttered. The bright flame of our Working could easily have attracted some moth or other…
*
‘Do you need anybody?
I just want someone to love…’
*
Racheal’s fingers slide through Ram’s chestnut mane and glide along his throat. His eyes prise open to the raucous sight of a steel keg being hoisted into the air and drained by a trio of Kiwis. The capacious keg has served the tribal party well and Joe’s inestimable Clearlight, Kha-Aan’s private blends of liberating libations and the ubiquitous herbal mind food have all added an indefinably unique atmosphere to the boisterous revelries.
Ram’yana turns toward his beloved and his eyelids slip open as Racheal’s lips brush against her prince’s opening mouth. Their kiss dissolves all cares as wondrously reciprocal passions meld the tripping magicians into an undifferentiated cloud of body, mind, soul and spirit.
*
‘Could it be anybody?
I just need someone to love…’
“Not true,” Racheal whispers in his ear. “I need thee…” Her tongue outlines Ram’s earlobe and glides across his cheek toward his parted lips. He rises onto one knee between the gossiping sisters who recline beside the throne, and the lovers’ kiss becomes a heated aperitif leading on to ever more intimate petting and stroking. His hand slides up along the priestess’s slim belly and slips beneath her revealing bolero jacket; she gasps when his fingertips reach her aureole.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” a familiar feminine voice declares.
*
A True Story
- R.A.
# Brain Damage lyrics Copyright by Roger Waters (& The Pink Floyd)
* With a Little Help From My Friends lyrics, copyright John Lennon & (Sir) Paul McCartney
Images – author’s
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 2 -Free World
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 3 -Stretching the Envelope
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 4 - Home to Roost
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 5 - Could It Be Any Body?
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 6 - Free Lovers
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 7 - Wild Widow's Son
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 8 - Womanimals
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 9 - Incautious Wishes
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 10 - Freedom of Choice
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 11 – Smuggled Desires
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 12 – Love the One
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 13 - Open Secrets
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 14 – Between Initiations
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 15 – Promethean Preparations
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 16 – Through the Looking Glass
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 17 – Second Arcanum
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 18 – Psychedelic Prayers
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 19 – Juggling Promises
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 20 – Riding the Ridden
AND
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Psychedelic Water Part 1 – Fractal Rainbow
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
The author’s images and art - Imagine Nation
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a small donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Monday, 17 August 2009
Viva La Difference - Psychedelic Water 19
Viva La Difference
*
Psychedelic Water 19
*
The shaman shakes his long wavy locks to dispel an all-encompassing recollection, a sensuous vision that occludes the livid living realm of his elementary senses. Yet when Ram’s disoriented head settles into repose, his long-lost lover’s delightfully creamy embrace rises to the fore in a kinaesthetic fugue of scintillating cellular memory.
Zsuzsi’s scent, taste, textures and touch are a song of songs long stored in the singing skein of his nerves and flesh. He revels in this rekindling of heartfelt reverie, supping the sweet spicy aroma of his bygone beloved as he relives a brightly burning eternity of sensual absorption. He kisses the gracile silken throat of his Sino-Japanese princess while mammalian softnesses and feminine declivities enfold him in a submerged yet ever-present memory of eternally loving lust. Yet even as he feels the welcoming caress of his erstwhile primal mate’s embrace, the intoxicating image of her flawless face transforms into a less familiar visage and Ram’s body shivers with surprise, tingling with dawning recognition.
Her heart-shaped features stretch into a more aquiline cast and limpid nut-brown eyes take on a burnt orange hue, brightly bold and as utterly disarming as a lioness’ stare, when Zsuzsi’s face morphs and melds into the patrician countenance of the mysteriously aloof and umber-skinned Amber. The confounding woman’s presence emerges from the vortex of Ram’s desires, grafted onto idyllic recollections of his alluring lost bride; his body shudders at the uncanny displacement, rocking and reeling in semidarkness beside the rock-rimmed fireplace on the bank of the Dreamtime stream.
As he basks in the splendid glow of Amber’s vividly recalled image the psychedelically enhanced shaman sighs, taken back and aback to once more witness the mysterious smile, delicate form and resilient flesh of the woman who’s so swiftly and thoroughly captivated his consciousness. He’s loth to compare Amber with the Asiatic lover of his bygone youth, or to preconfigure what he haltingly conceives to be their barely extant new… Friendship? he ventures; Relationship? He’s unsurprised to discover his unwillingness to sully thoughts of the extraordinary woman with expectations - particularly those based on experiences with another young female, no matter how similar in texture or fondly recalled.
He warms his lone soul in the afterglow of the lovely stranger’s lambent smile as his body slowly toasts by the fire, drifting in self-hypnotised thrall to her commanding image. He stares into glowing coals that shimmer with the very same hue as Amber’s eyes - until Ram’s head shakes afresh and his moustache curls upward, echoing the curve of his lips when he recognises the folly of undue optimism. She’d not have left with Rupert if she’d wanted me this night… or on any other, most probably… It’s been a long time since any woman pursued me…
Ram’s eyelids slide shut but Amber’s image remains, burned into his mind’s eye, growing more tenuously remote and yet simultaneously more formidable as her expression of engagingly warm and inquisitive regard hardens into an adamantine glare. The tripping hippy experiences an ego-diminishing wave of presumed rejection and shivers with hoary inner coldness, a benighted clamminess magnified by the cool breeze pouring down between the winding creek’s banks. A frigid mist drifts down from night-dark upstream rainforests and descends from the black rock escarpment that looms above his spinning head, occluding the spangled starscape with colossal gravid presence. He swallows a sweet slug of saliva, allowing the personalised dram of alchemically distilled and transformative healing nectar to salve and centre his soul as it slithers all the way down into the alembic core of his belly.
A refreshing droplet of sublime stillness falls into the receptive bowl sconced behind and beneath the shaman’s navel. His enervating sense of diminishment abates while the coldness of solitude seeps through his bones and touches his marrow. He inhales, filling his lungs with the aerial waters of life everlasting; Holy Spirit, the Ruach… He drinks nourishing prana, drawing the life force deeply into his diaphragm as he exults in the breath of the living goddess; Shekinah… Mother Eve bonded to the sleeping bones of her long-lost Adam…
A recollected collection of satin-smooth young women suddenly swims through the nearer reaches of Ram’s mind, distracting him from the cool caress of earthy and unearthly vapours arising from inner and outer worlds. A succession of lovers flows forth from the fastnesses of the past, gilded with all the shades of Eastern womanhood; blessedly elfin females possessed of addictive textures and avid proclivities:
Frighteningly satisfying cries soar from the curving throat of beautiful, dainty, half-Chinese Renée, screaming out loving epithets in her native West Papuan dialect while she writhes astride Ram’s pinned-down teenaged body in his candlelit black-painted bedchamber – the most stunningly furious sex in his first months of freedom as a runaway urchin;
The jigsaw-like fit of Zsuzsi Creemcheeze, her hot waxen textures and shapely form forever engraved and embedded in his body/mind after years of continuous nymphomaniac lovemaking, rapturously wrapped and warped around him, tight as a glove, inside and out, screaming his name as she comes over and over and over again - forever demanding, forever inspiring, forever satisfying in a never ending greedy meeting of mutually addicted need;
The beautiful long-haired leggy ‘tourist’ from Hong Kong, whom thoughtful Squidly introduces to him (knowing how much the young shaman misses his departed Zsuzsi) in the long-gone Manzil Room during a Kings Cross Cold Chisel gig – a model named ‘Sue’ who turns out to be an illegal Chinese refugee with extraordinary hidden talents and dangerous connections, blithely confessing capital crimes in the intertwined afterglow of drunken abandon - blowing fragrant smoke rings at a paper lampshade globe in the spare bedroom of Delta House while a paralytic young Fae (the paramour he’d longed for over many years, who’d unexpectedly arrived from the southerly fringe of the continent and promptly passed out in a stupor while awaiting his return) sleeps in his own bed in the connecting room, each unaware of the other’s close presence;
The brown-eyed girl with no name who says not a word when she takes him (stubble-faced, still covered in grime and with leaves in his hair) to an uptown hotel room one cold bleak night in the glowing street-lit purple haze of the Emerald city - scant hours after he’d descended from celibate weeks of rainforest blockading and death-defying stunts with ragged feral forest defenders, holding off cops and robbers on high plateaus both geographical and spiritual, to arrive barefoot and innocent at a deep dark place in a high glass-lined tower. The (presumedly Japanese) well-dressed and demure stranger tests the Rainbow Warrior’s spiritual resolve, presenting him with velvet cords and asking to be tied down and ‘used, but not abused’, in a small timid voice while her wee hands strip him bare. He gasps and shudders, considering the motives behind her rare request (and his own unseemly eagerness to accede to her wishes) as her slippery tongue begins to caress the full length of his long-unsated tumescence;
The very Willing Worker On Organic Farms, a green-thumbed backpacker volunteer he picks up from the nearest train station one sultry summer’s eve and drives home beneath a descending mantle of meteor-shot deep purple infinitude. His incessant glances at the unfathomably ageless young woman lead the Bluebird of Hippiness to wander, veering toward catastrophe off the shoulder of the narrow winding road, so they stop at a hilltop lookout to admire the half-tamed rural landscape. The dazzled tourist teeters backward as she surveys the emergence of a glorious Milky Way, the majestic sky-spanning common heritage of all humankind that the breathlessly awe-struck, city-bred office worker has never before seen in all her relatively well-travelled quarter century of life on Planet Earth. She slips into his arms and her lips find his with nary a warning. He takes her there, on the earth beneath the stars.
After an eternity of slow luscious humping they share a smoke and climb back into the sedan. Li Lu keeps up a running commentary on all the hitherto unseen sights she’s witnessed since stepping off the jet not quite two days earlier, and her slim little hand keeps falling on Ram’s thigh as they wend their way down the long gravelled road to his ramshackle shack in remote forest-covered gorge country. She regales him all night with tales of Korea and Singapore and San Francisco, laughing and raving in broken halting English while they work their way through a magnum of French champagne she’s brought in her capacious backpack - downing the whole bloated bottle long before it grows as warm as her golden skin, shimmering with sweat in the subtropical night. They sink into the succour of deepest wordless intimacy through an unbroken morning, afternoon, night and next morn of full-length, full-bodied contact.
A succession of Oriental girls and women who’d seen fit to bed the shaman over the decades parades through his waking dream, all possessed of undeniably fey glamour, all inexpressibly sleek and gloriously silky as they share in the delights of primal primate coupling - melding molten memories of slippery hairless nubility, unyielding tight graspings and succulent clenchings of intimately tender pinkness stretched tightly round Ram’s hirsute manimal hardness.
It’s scarcely a wonder to the mage that many Western women of his acquaintance remark on these couplings with enviously muttered abjurations, or even loudly voiced venom. They know they can barely compete with that fine femininity, riven by jealous insecurity in the face of a smooth exotic beauty that shaving or depilation can’t hope to replicate… He knows many are angered by the realisation that the unmatchable form and feel of Asian women represents the very zenith of archetypal femaleness.
Their freshness and vitality, seemingly immature youthfulness and incessantly lusty vigorous lovemaking had ever been inspiring to the mage. Asian lovers had always provided rewarding immersion in supersensuous abandon, yet Ram’s incessant thoughtstream had continuously diverged toward realms of self inquiry even while he sighed and groaned in the tautening net of extraordinarily slim golden limbs and blood-engorged rubin lips. Even as interlocked bodies strove toward the brink of mutual annihilation and cock-filled feminine screams of fulfilment filled the night air of Oz, the shaman sometimes queried the rush of supreme satisfaction that roared through his being; he pondered the intoxicating swell of egocentric empowerment even as he revelled in their gratifying cries, exercising masculine strength and his well-trained will to ride the elfin females unto the heights of orgasm and beyond.
The golden girls’ reciprocally lusty sensuality was a wonder to behold and to hold. Like most other women of his intimate acquaintance, they were invariable pleased and surprised by the skinny hippy’s enduring stamina and his unusual absorption in their every need or desire. He rarely succumbed to the understandable desire to impregnate their sex-slicked littler bodies with superfluous swimming seeds, preferring to ensure their Tantric trysts or mindless animalistic fucking last an eternity. The glory of his partner’s rapture was always utterly fulfilling to witness and encounter, an experience far more sublime and riveting than the simple ending of volatile spending.
Self-judgemental phantasms oft flitted through the shaman’s hindbrain while he rode the wild tides rushing through his oriental lovers’ well-travelled bloodstreams - cultural imprints and familial-racial ratiocinations that lurk in shadowy regions beneath the varisome surfaces of all humankind. Semi-sentient egregious thought forms sometimes disturbed his appreciation of sweet orgasmic feminine screaming and creaming; She feels so young… Is enjoying her sleek little femaleness… this immature-feeling slimness and hairlessness… this incredible smoothness and elastic band tightness… is this just a sanctionable form of paedophilia? But when they screamed with delight those precious, sought after, siren-song entreaties invariably called him back to the gift of the eternal multisensory present.
He’s pondered the disquieting question more than once or thrice, stupidly thinking while Zsuzsi or Renée or Li Lu or ‘Sue’ wrapped her nubile selves around him, each of their unique sleek bodies more slight, smooth and seemingly unsullied than that of any occidental feudal lord’s immature child bride. Despite his pretensions to grace, the slender hippy shaman had often considered himself a bear-like, brutish, quasi-British masculine beast compared with their beauteous delicacy of form – a hairy rutting animal beside and inside the textures, tastes and scents of all the Asian women who’d stared into his emerald eyes and surrendered to the enraptured oblivion of orgasmic bliss in his arms, suspended in ineffably mysterious timeless moments of unbridled ecstasy beneath or astride or beside him.
The blood-hot warmth of silken skins transforms into the rekindling heat of the fire, heating Ram’s face to a ruddy blush as his mind unravels through timeless dimensions. Almost like dogs and cats, he conjectures for the hundredth time, dispelling less savoury atavistic notions with the irreverent idea. The incessant voice guiding his swimming mind drifts on and on, whispering into his hallucinating brain: Western men and Eastern women are a stereo fit of archetypical male and female desire… a sheer vibrant intensity of difference that arouses and magnifies sexual energies, bringing out the most primal attraction and satisfaction between man and woman… diversity blending in a stellar fulfilment of evolutionary harmony…
He’s seen envy burning in Asian men’s eyes and witnessed the mismatching desires that drive them toward and away from most Western women. Yet it doesn’t seem the same the other way round; that contrast of masculinity and femininity appears positively Oedipal when positions are reversed… He recalls how his Lady Racheal had been utterly aroused by the chance to have Li Po’s sleek surfaces moving around and within her, and remembers his blond bride’s subsequent carefully concealed disappointment after hours grappling with the unsatisfying reality of the slim Chinese youth’s androgynous body. But then, Racheal only rarely got off on making love with other women, too…
The glorious sensation of a smooth Asian body had always been an amazing experience for the shaman. Once you’ve taken the plunge and crossed the horizon of East-West interracial taboos the magnetised current of attraction is almost irresistible… and irreplaceable... After his enduring relationship with Zsuzsi Creamcheeze it had taken more than a year before white or black women’s bodies felt normal and natural beside Ram’s flesh; for many moons he could hardly be satisfied by the relative rough textures of their skins, or the slightly more robust mass of their bones when their grasping limbs girdled his torso. Most felt almost male, he recalls, after the satin caress of sweet gorgeous Zsuzsi.
A flaring vision of beautiful Amber resurges into Ram’s awareness and he ponders the flaming orbs of her mesmerising upward-tilting eyes, the sly subtle curve of her knowing smile. Where have I seen her before? Her face is vestige of somewhere and something unknown; a recollection of a dream of a memory. The shaman rounds on a troubling truth that further incenses his far-flung imaginings; I’ve never felt such feverish heat from a woman… a woman so literally hot… The mage’s fire elemental stirs within his plasm and he takes a deep breath to centre the internal menagerie of his thoughts. And I seem to be getting stuck in the lower chakras…
The shaman’s eyes slowly slide open and a pale wash in the eastern sky beckons an instantly older and wiser Centraxian prince to rise up onto unshod feet. A wan glow illuminates the meandering path to his campsite, occasionally brightened by flickers of firelight and jagged flashes from the dwindling outdoor lightshow. His mind traverses the route in advance, following the ley of the land to the place where folds of bedding await beside the mist-covered waterway, beneath sheltering acacia branches and a low screen of fresh lilli pilli plantings.
He smiles with an inward grimace. There’s no fool like an old fool… He glances toward Phico and Amara, and nods farewell to the tall alchemist when their eyes meet across the barely resuscitated fire; Phico echoes his gesture and a fleeting frisson of psychedelic camaraderie passes between them. The black-hatted woman is fully occupied in conversation with a young Japanese couple, who kneel on the ground before the enthroned Amara in postures reminiscent of respectfully acquiescent supplication.
The shaman follows a smattering of fading, scattered, gleaming pools, treading through stepping stones of lesser darkness while his fire-branded eyesight adjusts to the gloom. He paces beneath the sheltering arms of barely perceivable low hanging branchlets and higher arches of taller saplings; silent nascent towers of wordless slow thought immersed in scintillating expectancy, absorbing and projecting a vibrant stillness presaging the pregnant promise of tomorrow’s coming dawn.
His bared feet pick their way through seedy tufts and fallen branches with practiced ease, fire-warmed soles cooling with a dewy touch of denuded rainforest soil. He feels curiously awake and particularly alert in the residual fey gloaming of the LSD trip, and finds himself pausing at a nodal point which appears like an unfolding blossom in the network of tenuous pathways - barely visible signs etched into the living land by footfalls and slitherings from a plethora of differing species.
Ram’s slurred sight dissembles around a rough circle of flattened grass, and when he focuses upon a point of conjunction near the centre of the ethereal crossroads the tableau recalls yet another tryst – one freshly branded into his flesh and bones, still singing through his taut-strung nerves; the exotically erotic vision of Angel’s beautiful metal-desecrated face and her smoothly trim and likewise multiply pierced body returns to Ram’s sensitised mind. Her scent fills his nostrils as he subsides into reverie and relives making love with the wild Goth pixie on the meadow’s soft soil only scant hours earlier.
Her shape is embedded in the aura of the world, still moving through cycles of primate mating, still mating with him in a timeless vale, still perceivable through the shadowy reaches of yesterday. Only yesterday… In the blink of a closing eye he returns to the extraordinary hours shared with the black-lipped feral grrl, a willing pilgrim drawn toward the unexpected delights of the previous psilocybin-infused night. The sensations of the feral Angel’s body moving around him and the taste of her pierced tongue in his mouth return in a dizzying rush. He reels in the recollected feel of her metal-studded svelte skin and the elastic strength of her inward embrace, exulting in the memory of long tickling dreadlocks sliding across and between their slippery surfaces.
The experience is still so fresh that he feels the emotive emo grrl anew, writhing above him before a backdrop of stars, squeezing down tight, slickly absorbing and totally absorbed in the moment as her entire young body clenches all the way round his rigidness - the wily wild teenager twisting about the twinned twining loci of their explosive arousal, grinding the smooth swelling bulb of her panic button down against his curly-haired pubic bone until her limits stretch around him and her internal horizon swells and expands toward the Milky Way...
The veil of time parts and the shaman loses the present as the screaming feral Angel descends all the way into a primal salty tidal wave of sucking, bucking, screaming, stretching, pounding, metal-lined drug-fucked orgasm. They come for an eternity – another eternity, all over again – in a multisensory fugue that blurs all margins and liquefies all boundaries. Their voices meld into a divinely inspired wordless ululation of primordial incantation… Then he recalls her glitter-clad nakedness surrounded and pounded by other male bodies, the same startling scene that greeted his hallucination-fringed sight just hours before, and he’s shocked from his sensual reverie.
Ram’yana shudders forward and remerges into the riptide present. He takes a deep breath as his spirit refills the stilled vessel of his patiently awaiting body. Somewhere beyond the fading tinker-toy trilling of electronic muzak he hears crickets chirping, and the preparatory chuckle of a dreaming kookaburra. The bearded hippy mage swallows a measure of his pride and pauses, lingering in the place where passions and wills had so recently entwined and still entwine, forever, embedded in the dream-carrying plasm of the whirlybird world, embedded into eternal Akashic memory and the volatile internal record of his ongoing incarnations. The acid trip’s vestiges drain away though Ram’s bloodstream, pouring into the sacred site of last night’s lovemaking with the gentle hiss of his exhalation.
He sighs while he savours Angel’s unforgettable fragrance anew; as inexpressibly unique and individual as any other lover’s, but still vibrantly fresh and cinnamon-sweetly delicious, still clinging to his clothes and flesh and hair, infusing the flattened soil and smashed grass boudoir of their overnight coupling, suddenly resurgent and undeniably present in the damp of the lonely night air. Exclamations of ecstasy resound within his inner ear as the orgasmic teenager’s unalloyed screaming flays through his reverberating nervous system, echoing the early morning sexual strivings occurring all around his swaying body in the secluded little valley; sounds that gradually penetrate the funky fugue of his musings.
He sighs again as he steps from the sex-flattened circle. Thoughts of a lover much closer in time, but still not real, not in the here and now… Ram laughs aloud at his pointless and piteous self-pity. Everything is perfect, he reminds himself – and is slightly surprised to discover he’s telling the truth; he feels better than fine, at one with the whole wide wonderful world. His eyes widen upon the slowly brightening landscape and he follows his feet around occasional tents and blanket-shrouded mounds, which shift and heave on the valley floor as demonstrative moans and jangling electronica mingle with the first trills of birdsong.
When he first hears the plash of the rock-strewn river - a burbling thrum beneath murmuring susurruses and the sweet moaning nothings of mating lovers and breeze-blown branches – the dazzled shaman is bemused to glimpse an incongruous flash of orange, winking and blinking through the gloom. His besotted mind flips through gears and strips cogwheels as he recognises the strangely familiar hue of an unknown bright beacon, unerringly guiding the austral traveller to a long hoped-for destination.
As Ram approaches his campsite the bright orange blur resolves into a familiar silk dress. The garment hangs from boughs swaying slowly about his bower, waving in a chill breeze that heralds the approaching light of a Sun which still lingers beyond the slumbering mass of the world. Step by questing step, a rising sense of awed immanence draws him all the way into realisation of his overwhelming good fortune; he blinks at the heavenly sight that’s swiftly and unerringly appeared in answer to his heartfelt wish.
A silken, slender, almost feline form is enticingly revealed by the transparent flag of a Balinese sarong - a soft batik drape partly veiling Amber’s naked body, shielding her radiance from the clammy touch of morning dew.
When she’d accepted Earl Rupert’s offer of a lift, the shaman had been virtually certain he wouldn’t see the enticing hitchhiker (who’d matched his thoughts step by step and inflamed him with her touch as surely as their discourse enflamed his mind) soon, if ever again – yet Amber is spread recumbent on his mounded pillows, slim body outstretched atop a familiar pile of soft bedding. The pointed peaks of her breasts slowly rise and fall beneath the thin slip of material, and her glorious face glows a phosphorescent umber in the first pallid light of the morn.
The train of his thoughts judders to a halt and falls off its tracks as moments tick by. He draws nearer with the slow silent motion of an intent cautious hunter and enters a distinctly defined field of subtle pressure that surrounds the woman’s slim frame, a nimbus that sheathes her within a semi-hallucinatory aura of ethereal flickering flame. His nerve ends tingle and his manhood hardens with presentiment of deep luscious contact.
Mauve eyelids flutter open at Ram’s closer approach; when Amber’s eponymous eyes swim into focus time slips out of joint. The shaman watches her rouse from a shallow slumber while his fiery familiar stirs afresh in his plasm, a trembling surge of energic wilfulness coming to wakefulness in a surge that swells from the pit of his groin and the core of his heart, to flare up inside the cavernous twists of his cranium.
Amber’s fiery almond eyes widen and silently beckon him into the receptive welcome of her fluidly muscular and perfectly moulded feminine limbs. Accompanied by an ineffably sublime cloud of fragrance, an intense wave of heat envelopes the shaman as she rises and kneels with effortless gradual grace, matching his motions with enfolding touches that gradually transform to an enflaming embrace. “It must be dawn…” his voice murmurs on the rumbling edge of audibility, channelling a stray and straying thought as the sarong falls away from the dark thimbles of her nipples; “…the Amber Sun is rising…”
She winks and the cloth falls away from her breathtaking shapeliness as she wraps long slim arms around him. Her tongue is a burning salamander squirming between his lips. When nimble fingers reach forth to clutch Ram’s shirt she tugs him into her cushioned nest. Amber’s nostrils flutter and flare and dilated irises shrink into the bullseye centres of twin flaming pools, bright as the fluorescent aurora of her swaying dress - a silken flag rolling through the dancing breeze and signalling the place where their cuddling bodies finally prepare to meet in alchemical melding.
He sways on his knees before the blazing woman, enflamed and emboldened by the evidence of his desire, which presses through tightening trousers and swells hard up against the cauldron of heat at the slim golden juncture of Amber’s thighs. She silences the superfluous sweet nothing which threatens to rise from his throat, smothering all potential blithering with luscious lips while long limber fingers make short work of his shirt’s loose fastenings. A moment later she pulls the bow-tied drawstring to release his cotton trousers and the shaman sheds the last shreds of fig-leaf clothing.
Amber’s searing soft skin burns like a simmering desert sun as she strives to mould her heat around Ram’s naked flesh in the dawning light. Tongues slip around lips and outline the declivities of teeth and gums as they inhale the yeasty life-force of shared loving breath, passing mixed exhalations back and forth in an ever-heating rush. They entwine and caress, melding and kissing, pressing full length and skin-tight, striving to be closer to each other than humanly possible as they keel beside the gurgling platypus pool. Amber’s extraordinary body is uncannily hot as ever, yet Ram’s erection burns like a brand against her smooth concave belly as they squeeze tightly together in the cool morning mist.
After an inexpressibly vivid yet tender interval of gentle caresses and deepening kisses, Amber’s lips gently disengage from his tongue and her penetrative sight bores into the core of his soul. Two simple syllables emerge from her clicking teeth and her rolling tongue; “Tantra…” The word is an answer to the shaman’s most heartfelt prayer and a jolt thrums through his frame; he begins to fully awaken to the reality and import of the amazing woman’s vibrantly vivid presence.
“Lotus?” she suggests, and the pleasantly dumbstruck shaman nods happy agreement. He leans back and folds one hirsute leg atop the other before the splendid woman, sitting erect in more ways than one in full lotus position on the duvet-covered ground. Ram’s shaft swells high, darkly enflamed with the blood-fuelled heat of his arousal, a purpling pillar rearing before the freckly parchment of startlingly pale skin in the dim shadowed gloaming.
The feather-light flickering of Amber’s inner thighs burns trails along the shaman’s sides as she kneels astride him and stares into the centre of his heightened awareness, a laser-like torchlight burning through and beyond the eye in his brow to bore into the seat of his consciousness, between and behind his terrestrial eyes. Radiant heat blazes from lightly fuzzed loins and bathes Ram’s swollen crown in enflaming arousal. A wordless moan fills the still immanence of dawn as an oven-like fire of female desire stretches tautly around his rocklike pillar, and she commences a slow descent.
Amber’s heat-enflamed body is even smoother and silkier than Ram’s most livid remembrances of his long departed Zsuzsi, but he forgets all comparisons and relativities when a feather-like touch of fine downy hair precedes astoundingly sultry inner lips that kiss his summit and part round his rigid shaft. The feline woman’s unearthly heatedness burns all the way down into the racing, raging torrent of his bloodstream and penetrates the solitude-chilled marrow of his lonely bones.
Her descent is a deliciously long, excruciatingly slow, blissfully satisfying deep swallowing plunge that sucks their blended breath away to stream into cloudy vaporous swirls in the dew-dappled dawn. The burning tips of Amber’s breasts glide down along his hairy chest until their firmness flattens against his torso and her eyelids flicker in excruciated pleasure. The coils of her loins encircle his shaft with an unbreakable grip when she bears down even closer.
Ribs press together and lips meld in seamless conjunction within the ticklish orbit of Ram’s fecund facial fur as all her blazing, squeezing strength settles around him, inside and out. His nostrils flare within the arousing feminine scentedness of Amber’s liquid black hair while he resists a fleeting urge to thrust all the way up inside her tight little body until she cries out with the ecstasy of cock-stretched fulfilment.
He watches her eyelids flare open as her sight settles upon him once more and she peers up into the cave of his long dark hair. Her legs are gloriously smooth sheaths of flame-filled silk burning pathways atop his hairy thighs, riveting his attention to the small stretching seam where her limber limbs meet and squeeze right around him. Her hands stroke his spine and tickle his surfaces while he further enflames her with strategic caresses. The renewed succulence of their kiss endures the furnace of their passions and they purr into each other’s mouths when Amber’s ankles cross behind the small of Ram’s back and her inward muscles flex and strain about his raging erection.
The movents of their enraptured loving are almost entirely internal, and the motions of their lungs unify into a harmony of aroused relaxation as they feed the eternal flame of close-pressed beating hearts with the combining bellows of each shared breath. The commingling fires are fed and maintained by the focused energy centres of swirling chakras resonating through their very cores, silently spinning on either side of their closely pressed skins, just beneath the juncture of the lovers’ navels - nourished by the heavenly pools of pineal peace in the silent cyclonic centres of their crania. Amber’s brow brushes lightly against her lover’s as her body stretches upward and she spreads her mysterious blazing elastic interior round Ram’s immobile hard lingam – the elongated, overblown clitoris at the egocentric focus of all mundane masculine pride.
Tantra proves to be more than a mere faddish word to the slender golden woman and the lovers are soon transfused with bliss, transfigured by the sacred rites of deepening immersion into supersensuous supraconscious rapture. All need for speech sloughs away in the warm golden light, then thoughts melt away in the primordial furnace. Desire dissolves into nameless luminance as they ride the tides of sensation and transformation within a cosmic egg of unmoving stillness, blending all the way through ineffable dimensions of unnameable wisdom and endless delight; finally, time itself is eradicate, and turns inside out as they emit…
A True Story
- R.A.
Images - author's
Further true tales from the Prince of Centraxis -
See Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
Psychedelic Water Part 2 - What Thou Wilt
Psychedelic Water Part 3 - Trancefixed
Psychedelic Water Part 4 - Feral Dolphin
Psychedelic Water Part 5 - Angelic Tantra
Psychedelic Water Part 6 - Dreads Unlocked
Psychedelic Water Part 7 - Fresh Flesh, Old Bones
Psychedelic Water 8 - Predawn of Awareness
Psychedelic Water 9 - Merry Moot
Psychedelic Water 10 -Wandering Orgone Wand
Psychedelic Water 11 - Water Power
The Red Pill - Psychedelic Water 12
Mothership Crew - Psychedelic Water 13
Amber Flames - Psychedelic Water 14
Wills Writ on Waves - Psychedelic Water 15
Alternative Universe - Psychedelic Water 16
Fractal Free Will - Psychedelic Water 17
Reorientation - Psychedelic Water 18
Viva La Difference – Psychedelic Water 19
Big Boing Mindstuff – Psychedelic Water 20
Still more true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
And See -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
The New Illuminati – http://newilluminati.blog-city.com
(These two sites have been locked off from their creator and all commentary has been summarily censored by Today.com - Enlightenment Today
and Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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