Doing a Harold Holt
Shaman of Centraxis 23
*
Massive walls of turquoise water smash the unpacified coastline to fine white powder as the Sun beats down from a cloudless sky. Rippling waves of heat distortion waft from the baking ground while loose clothes and long hair are whipped by a gusty, blustery wind.
The young shaman absorbs the extraordinary view and takes a few preliminary happy snaps of his companion. She poses before an empty stretch of sand and decorates her sensitive skin with a succession of bikinis, sarongs and loose summery dresses. When she finally settles on a pleasantly revealing ensemble he takes a few more shots before securing his camera over one shoulder, then leans down to peck his girlfriend’s faintly freckled cheek.
He hefts the heaviest portions of their load - a picnic basket, esky and folded beach umbrella - from the back of the vehicle. She locks the rear doors behind him, adjusts her sunglasses in the windows’ dim reflection, picks up a trio of overstuffed bags and drapes the luggage about her lightly clad frame. He gestures for her to precede him and pauses to admire the rolling grind of her muscular buttocks as she sways away from the vehicle.
The teenagers leave the borrowed panel van on a gravelly stretch of otherwise empty car park and make their way down a hard packed track through shoulder-high dunes covered with tussocky sage coloured grasses. They avert their pale freckled faces from barrages of blustery sand-laden gusts and cart their disassembled picnic onto the beach.
Natasha shields her eyes behind the sunnies and hides her face inside billows of hair as they walk toward the beckoning sea. She holds fast to her freshly rediscovered boyfriend, clinging tightly as a limpet to his side with an arm overladen with bedding, towels and changes of clothing. Her swaying hip bumps his thigh and the picnic basket grazes her knee with each alternate sliding step. Bare toes scrunch through squeaky white sand and a blast of heat induces trickles of perspiration to salt their lips and sting their eyes.
The sun rides high in a deep azure sky, gleaming from weirdly convoluted rock formations that extend across the shoreline. Furrowed complexities of salt-streaked monoliths stretch away from the land in tumbledown swathes of eroded volcanic boulders and toothsome half submerged crags. As he takes in the scene Ram’yana is unaccountably struck by a sense of déjà vu, but the biting wind whips sand into his eyes no matter which way he turns to admire the coastline. It lashes their half exposed skins with inescapable flails as they stand on the crest of one curving dune among many; a temporarily fossilised sandy wave that emulates the unending ranks of regimental breakers rolling in from an infinite horizon.
When they finally drop their cumbersome burdens and stand arm in arm on the hard-packed damp strand the deafening, threshing surf taunts and daunts the young couple. Gnashing rumbles and furious explosions of foaming white water are breathtaking to behold. They huddle together at the rim of the earth while white crested hillocks scroll into the distance in mile after mile of blue sine wave aisles, receding through a shroud of salt spray mist to a fading horizon. A curving dunescape melts into wind-blown haze that occludes the vast uninhabited shore.
“Remind me - why did we come here again?” Natasha asks from beneath Ram’s arm as she shelters from sandblasting gusts in the lee of his slender frame. Windy blasts whip the short skirt up around her hips as he pulls a towel more tightly round her bare shoulders. They squint through billowing tangles of windblown hair as a long roller pours in from the distance, and watch the sinuous wall shatter and reform atop foam hidden, rip-torn sandbars – invisible waves of sunken land that slope toward abyssal depths, beyond the continent’s skirting shelf. “Maybe we should wait in the back of the van ’til the wind drops or something,” she suggests.
The relentless wind sprays fragments of ocean across their bodies while flocks of seagulls scream overhead, jockeying for position above the shifting shoreline. The teenage mage feigns a relaxed mien while he envisages Natasha’s sweat-streaked skin stretched out in the blazing sun - sultry, horny and readily eager to make sweet pashing love; Maybe she’ll even go all the way...
Now that they’re finally alone together he dearly yearns to show the beautiful girl of his lovelorn dreams the tricks he’s learned since last they parted as much younger teens. She’s so beautiful… perfect… I want to watch her face as we make love under the open sky… He watches her from the corner of his eye; imagining the expression on her face when he finally leads her to heavenly bliss. I want to see her eyes when she feels the real thing… watch her transform into an angelic fucking animal…
The self conscious magic student swiftly mediates the unseemly thoughts that flood his eager mind. He assures himself this magnificent setting will be a wondrously memorable site for the virginal girl’s first experience of the real thing – far more befitting than the tawdry interior of her family’s van. Slow down, he tells himself as his hand strokes her hip beneath the flapping skirt. Savour the moment…
“We could find a windbreak in the dunes,” he finally counters, while his palm cups the oval of firm feminine flesh which reflexively flexes through her skin-tight bikini pants. “It’d be good to find somewhere more comfortable.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Natasha agrees with a dubious air as she presses her cheek into his palm. The fashionably oversized sunglasses completely hide her beautiful eyes but her downcast lips let him know she requires more persuasion. His kiss melts the stern set of her lips into fulsome softness while he caresses her bottom and slips the glasses off her face. The lovers’ eyes stare into unfocused fixity as they examine their souls through shadowy shades of mingling dark hair.
Liquid tongues entwine and fingers slip beneath sparse summer clothing while skin adheres to perspiring skin in the windy noonday heat. Neither wishes to be the first to break the mesmerised rapture of their besotted gaze and their kiss endures for seeming aeons. Wandering hands pet electrifyingly ripe flesh and the lovers press closer and tighter with each shared breath as they hide from the wind in the weltering shelter of intimate passion.
Young hearts overflow as loins rub together through skimpy sheaths of thin cloth. The wind abruptly drops and they relax into a cuddlesome embrace, drifting together in an extending idyll of sensitised stillness. They meld into bliss, completely entranced by the magnetic attraction of their mutual regard. They sup on slippery tongues and fruity lips while twinning heartbeats pound as one, drowning the outer world in the pell-mell rush of hormone-rich bloodstreams. Natasha’s firm bikini-bound breasts mash into Ram’s chest as she hooks a leg around his hip. She reaches up to hang from his shoulders and presses him closer to her flaming inner heat with a bony heel that drills into his clenching buttock.
“Mm,” she hums as their mouths slowly separate. “That’s better.” They hug in a sunny huddle of gathering warmth and her high forehead rests against his equally smooth cheekbone as a roaring breaker rumbles along the shoreline. “It might even be warm enough for a swim,” she says, untangling her sunglasses from her hair and hooking them into her bikini’s tight waistband.
“Warm enough,” Ram’yana agrees as he presses his hardness into the juncture of her thighs.
“Maybe where you come from,” she says with a delicious shimmy and a brief glancing kiss, “but the ocean’s freezing here this time of year. I’m not a wuss you know,” she adds. “You may notice it’s not exactly crowded around here right now…”
She finally breaks eye contact and drops away from his body, twisting around to indicate the empty sweep of coastline with a broad sweeping gesture and a flickering green-eyed gaze. “I might even go topless and get a tan,” she muses as she wraps a sarong about her hips and examines the dunes for signs of other beachgoers. The sand is unmarred by any footprints bar the twin winding trails that lead back through tuft-studded hills toward the distant spray-hazed car park. “Let’s find someplace more sheltered – more private,” she suggests.
“Sounds good.” Ram’s hand remains glued to Natasha’s sleek flank when she bends to retrieve her burdens. He gives her backside a fondly lingering pat and she deftly kicks his shin when his fingers delve under her waistband. He picks up the rest of the supplies and they heft their bulky loads through the dunes, walking inland from the open strand while Natasha’s arm snakes round his waist.
They stroll through softly soughing sand with ungainly swaying gaits. Natasha deliberately bumps her hipbone into Ram’s leg with every second step as they make their way upslope from the compacted shoreline. Convoluted hunks of smashed bleached driftwood emerge from storm-wracked tidelines, like shattered and fossilised bones of long extinct species once foolish enough to brave the battering surf of the Tasman Sea.
“Maybe we could test the water now the wind’s dropped,” Natasha suggests and immediately alters course, dragging her staggering boyfriend back toward the rushing walls of seawater. “A woman’s prerogative,” he replies and her features squirm with half feigned disapproval as he shrugs with a sigh and stoops to rehang his dangerously dangling camera from a bony shoulder. He drops behind to observe the pleasing rock and roll of feminine curves through the translucent skirt and admires the sleek stretchy musculature of her slender limbs as she slogs through the sand; I want to feel those legs wrapped round me…
Much of the driftwood they pick their way past is thoroughly shattered; smashed shards of trees shrouded in torn seaweed ligatures and jumbled assortments of unidentifiable marine ganglia. Jagged, splintered metaphors of femurs and ribcages bespeak a likely fate for any foolhardy enough to challenge the mighty waves, which smash themselves to flotsam scant yards from the approaching teens.
The crashing smash of massive waves grows to a deafening roar and they drop their burdens on the edge of the strand once again. They continue to the foaming brink of the shore and stand ankle deep in cool swirling water, facing the oncoming might of the tide-swollen ocean. Swirls of sand and ripped clots of seaweed roil within heaving walls of translucent water, fragments torn from the seabed by the fluid fury of horizontal tornadoes. The ocean makes endless wild attempts to rise beyond the constraints of gravity before the awed couple, bursting into breaching paroxysms of unfolding immensity that rise far above their line of sight. Endlessly twisting vortices erupt into the air as mighty flowering waves, rising and breaking through the angry seeming surf-face of the sea.
“Are you sure people actually swim here?” Ram’yana asks as he rolls up the legs of his pants. The challenging intensity of the surf becomes even more obvious when wavelets swirl around his knees and an impressive undertow tries to suck him forward into the onrushing waves. “Of course they do,” Natasha replies with a querulously unconvincing lilt as she reaches out to steady him. “We did, on that camp excursion – remember?”
“That was here?” he yells over the deafening noise. “We almost died!” Her voice raises in pitch to match his as she tucks the hem of the sarong into her waistband; “It’s pretty safe - even Prime Ministers have been known to go for regular swims around here!” Her freckled cheeks dimple beneath a frosting of droplets and she smiles at the sea as she pulls him closer. “But not for a while! I wish the Crazy Grazier would go for a dip here…”
She scrunches closer and kisses him in a welter of breasts, arms and legs while foam swirls around them and currents gradually tug their bodies seaward. When the water reaches her upper thighs she pushes him away and they struggle back out of the undertow hand in hand. They stroll through a damp field of broken shell fragments which crunch underfoot and recover their breath as they sink to their ankles in the crusty morass, passing through a gravelly grave of white, mauve and pink exoskeletons.
An offshore breeze swings about to raise taller whitecaps on the long rolling waves and gently cools their overheated skins. A flotsam of gulls wheels and caws loudly as they glide across the interface of sea and land, eyeing the human interlopers with suspicious anticipation.
Ram’yana finally makes the connexion as Natasha cleaves to his side and tickles his armpit. “You mean Harold Holt? Is this where he drowned?” He squirms away from her fingers as Natasha wheels around to show him a perfect pearly grin. Her free hand points into the distance-defeating haze behind them. “No – that happened a few miles down thataway, podner.”
“So that must be where that expression was born…”
“I wish L.B.J. had gone all the way with him!” she laughs as her fingers slip under Ram’s shirt and climb up his abdomen.
“Not that one,” he says while he slides her skirt downward a couple of inches and caresses the naked tops of her hips. “You know - ‘Doing a Harold Holt’?” Incomprehension fills her fair features. “Doing a bolt?” Her hand slips away and she twists aside to pick a sharp shard from her sole while he strokes her slim back. The feel of her smooth flawless skin is thoroughly arousing and Ram’s clothing starts to become too confining. “Don’t know that one,” she tells him while she eyes the bulge that distorts his pants. “No?” he asks, and his fingers slide around her ribs and encounter a bare edge of the firm white breast that bulges beyond her bikini.
Natasha leans into his hand and bends to stroke her sensitive sole. She shakes her head and long wavy hair flows in harmonic sympathy with the world-girdling sea. While firm flesh jostles against Ram’s fingers another relay clicks in his mind. “We have been here before, haven’t we? Exactly here.” Memory overlays blurry images upon the bright sunlit scene while his fingertips steal beneath her bikini top. Fuzzy recall flows into a vision of another, hotter bygone midsummer, where dozens of holidaying kids eternally form a human chain to survive the challenge of the tremendously churning surf; a scene forever engraved in Ram’s internal landscape of fond or impassioned or dire recollections.
Ram tenderly palpates the soft curve of fulsome breast that twists closer into his palm, and the enticing memory of her nipple hardening between his lips ascends to the foreground of his adolescent imaginings. Natasha laughs. “I wondered how long it would take you,” she trills, and cautiously plants both feet in the gravelly shells as she leans a shoulder into his chest. His fingers slowly edge closer to the hard little nipple that distends the tenuous bikini and his hand is entrapped against her tender skin beneath the stretchy material.
“Yeah – we were here together once before,” she affirms. “Sort of together,” she amends as her hand closes over his to stall his advance. “It was the year before you started paying any attention to me. When you still thought I was just another silly little chick.”
He’s about to refute the accusation when she forestalls his reply with a finger that jabs against his breastbone. “I don’t blame you,” she says, and her eyes automatically scan the beach for unwelcome intruders as he squeezes his hand right around her breast. “I was just a skinny little girl – mm, not too hard, that’s nice - and you were pretty green, too; you always hung out with the boys. It’s no big deal.” Her brow leans into the nape of his neck as she reaches up to guide his hand, planting the centre of his palm directly over her swelling nipple. “A lot skinnier than this. But you remember how we almost drowned over there between those rocks?”
She watches the memory unfold behind Ram’s unblinking eyes. “It was such great fun!” she declares and slips her hand beneath the bikini to punctuate her assertion, squeezing his hand more tightly round her meaty teat. Soft pink lips slip along her young man’s throat and the obviously aroused younger teen sucks his beardless skin into her mouth. She nibbles and sups on his flesh with the insatiable hunger of a defanged vampire. Her breast is an extraordinarily delectable tactile feast and his unoccupied hand slides down her backbone and past the elastic-hoisted skirt to dandle her bum through the clingy spray-damp bikini.
“So do you want to go…” she gasps into his lightly bruised skin and nips him again while he wonders at her meaning, “…for a swim before…” another sharp nibble; “…mm, lunch?” Her challenge is punctuated by a deafening crash as a monstrous wave dashes between waterworn boulders and smashes against the foamy strand. Rent foamy remnants scroll up onto the dry powdery sand and quickly ascend around bare feet and ankles, surrounding their calves as they wobble together on the ever shifting tideline. “It isn’t too cold when you get used to it… sort of warmish…”
“That’s because you’ve gone numb in the cold,” he asserts with a smile. “You know, when I was a kid a lot of my summers were devoted to the beach. And the surf,” he muses in semistoned reverie. Their interlinked fingers dance around Natasha’s unbelievable soft aureole in a subtle interplay of subliminal messages while waves of memory unreel and unfold into tableaus of jetsam. “I’d usually fight my way through the dumpers, all the way out to the edge of the sandbar, past all the other surfers and swimmers. All except one, that is – I’d always make sure at least one person was somewhere out there beyond me, floating in deeper water.” His other hand dips inside her pants and cups her sleek cheek.
“As a lure for sharks?” Nasher asks with a sharp little nibble as she squirms in his embrace.
“Too right.” He squeezes her bum and slips his forefinger into the tender cleft between her cheeks as he pulls her closer, pressing the girl’s sultry loins hard against his swollen arousal. “You got it,” he said. “I’ve been dumped underwater onto hard packed sand dozens of times - not able to grab a breath or get back to the surface for ages while the waves and undertow swirled me round.”
He grinds into her groin and squeezes her nipple, grinning down at the obviously aroused girl’s rapt and enrapturing features as her eyelids seal shut against the overwhelming rush of blinding sensations. “Usually couldn’t even tell which way was up. But I’ve never been in surf like this before or since that day with you and the others. That was just suicidal.”
Nasher’s eyes flash open. Her foot slips through the sand as she wraps her leg around his waist and tilts onto her toes to bite his earlobe. “So you don’t want to go in, then?” His erection glides against her mound through two thin layers of dispensable material. “I didn’t say that…” he replies, and gasps when her tongue dives inside his ear. He squeezes a meaty globe of naked flesh within each grasping hand and kisses the faint spray of freckles on her high-boned cheek. “Let’s find somewhere to set up first and then see how it looks. It may stay quiet a little longer.”
They reluctantly draw apart to survey retreating ranks of identical dunes. “Well that’s a relief,” Natasha says as she dons her sunglasses and begins to slog through squeaky sand toward their belongings. “I’m scared shitless of that surf. Let’s find somewhere to cuddle instead.”
They unpack their repast on the queen sized blanket as the Sun blazes down from its zenith. Sticky with perspiration and rimed with windblown sand, the teenagers are glad of the shade provided by the beach umbrella in the blazing heat. Natasha removes an array of gourmet comestibles from the esky and picnic basket while greedy gulls land on the sand nearby. They stealthily approach in nervous red-eyed anticipation as she arranges the meal she’d liberated from her parents’ larder earlier that morning.
High dunes protect them from gusty blows and they recline on the broad blanket in the sweltering noonday heat. The craftily smiling girl produces a small hand-carved wooden pipe that fits neatly within the concealment of her dainty hand. She passes it to her beau and he takes a puff while shading his eyes to watch a falcon glide seaward from the hinterland. Its wheeling approach instantly scatters the impatient seagulls.
Rolling breakers continue their endless assault on the shore. Viewed through a gap between sand dunes the extraordinary surf seems smaller and less lethal as it smashes onto the beach, bereft of the windblown whitecaps that earlier crowned its crests. “It’s supposed to be pretty good,” Natasha says dreamily as he sniffs a half ounce lump of fragrant brown resin. “The shampers, I mean. The hash is definitely A-grade.” Her boyfriend finishes the pipe while she retrieves an imported bottle from the icy depths of the aluminium cooler and proudly displays the label.
“Moetry in potion,” Ram’yana spoonerises to Nasher’s frowning incomprehension. “Like you,” he explains; “Poetry in motion – and definitely top shelf.”
“I think your brain’s convoluted enough without the hash,” Natasha replies. She rips the foil from the bottle’s neck and untwists the wire cage that surrounds the oaken cork. “Maybe this’ll help you unwind – are you going to do the honours?” She passes the bottle and retrieves the pipe, refilling it with crumbs of exotic Himalayan hashish while he embeds a pair of elegant crystal flutes into the sand. A loud pop signals a warning to returning seagulls as the cork flies though a swarm of airborne bandits. The flock swirls into a momentarily rearranged pecking order before it settles back into a holding pattern above the umbrella.
She lights up while bubbly wine erupts into foaming spume that Ram redirects into the waiting flutes. “Let’s keep the food in the esky for now,” he suggests, passing her an overflowing crystal goblet. “Away from prying eyes in the sky.”
“If you like.” Natasha has stripped down to her bikini and a few drops of the Moet & Chandon splash into her cleavage as their flutes jangle together amid the loud cries of the gulls. “Lachaim!”
“Lachaim!” Ram’yana echoes. “But you know what Ponchick says?” She shakes her head while she swills frothing fluid around her mouth. “He says there’s no point in just making a toast ‘to life’ – ‘It is a vaste’, he says, ‘if you drink to health, velth und happiness then you get life anyvay, eh?’” Natasha narrowly avoids snorting champagne through her nose at his caricature of the wisecracking old death camp survivor they both know so well. “So to health, wealth and happiness – and to life,” he concludes before downing his glass with a slow, appreciative scan of Natasha’s extraordinary mature looking form.
“Sounds good to me,” she agrees, watching his gaze roam the bright sweaty surface of her skin and linger at her precociously bountiful cleavage. She climbs to her feet and surveys the horizon while his eyes caress her skin. Smoke overflows the flute when she exhales through her nostrils and her eyes twinkle over the brim as he turns away to fix his attention on the sea. “You know,” he says while he meditates on the wave-warped horizon, “there was one weird thing about Holt’s disappearance…”
“What? You don’t believe that dumb story – that he was picked up by a Chinese submarine?” Natasha’s laugh is relayed along the dune by a posse of noisesome gulls while he watches her breasts jiggle inside the bikini. “Sure thing, man. Why would the Chinese want to kidnap some lame old Aussie prime minister? It’s not like he did anything meaningful...”
Her toes splay against Ram’s calf muscle as she nudges his shoulder with her hip. “The only thing he was famous for is a joke I never even heard of ’til you told me– ‘He did the Harold Holt’ and disappeared!” She absently flicks a smattering of sand from the upper curve of a breast and tucks it back into her twisting bikini top. “It was so appropriate of him. Take a good look at that surf. Let’s dive in and see how dangerous it is, what do you say?” Her painted toenails brush downward along his shin.
“Not quite drunk enough for that yet,” Ram’yana replies. He sets his glass in the sand and picks up a bottle of coconut oil. His hand wraps all the way around her narrow ankle and she straightens her leg and balances it on his knee, swivelling about while he begins to massage oil into her smooth calf muscle. “I’m not saying he didn’t drown,” he says. “But in all the conspiracy theories there is one verifiable thing that stands out as unusual. Just one, as far as I can tell.”
“Well?” she says when he stops speaking, while an oily hand ascends her thigh. “Don’t waste all this attention I’m giving you. What’s the punchline?” Her pink-rimmed eyes narrow over the brim of her glass as Ram’s hand slides higher.
“You remember his wife – Dame Zara? Well, before anyone knew Holt had disappeared - before she or the government or anyone else was told the P.M. was missing – a couple of men in dark suits turned up at her door and showed her some security I.D.; she said she couldn’t remember which agency they were from. They told her they had to get something out of his private safe, so she let them in and they took a briefcase out of his bedroom and disappeared with it. She says she never knew what it was all about and she never heard from them again.”
He indicates the roiling seascape with a broad sweep of an arm that culminates in an embrace around her sun-warmed hip while his other hand paints a slippery swathe along her inner thigh. “That’s the only really inexplicable thing – not his disappearance,” he concedes.
“That’s one conspiracy theory I haven’t heard before,” Natasha says as she shifts closer and leans a lithe flank against his face. “It was all a little before my time - and yours. And all those raves about him are all unprovable enough to seed a whole forest of suspicious crap.” She twirls her fingers through a long strand of Ram’s hair and jiggles on the spot as the sole of her foot shifts to stroke his knee. “Well – go on, refill me,” she demands. A twinkling eye winks down at him as she displays her empty flute. “And I could do with some more champagne, too.”
She slips from his grasp and squats beside him in the umbrella’s umbra while he refills her glass. When they kiss a stream of champagne pours into Ram’s mouth and erupts from his nostrils as he pulls away, coughing a fine spray of bubbles across her oily leg. He surveys the long beach for wandering fishermen or elderly dog walkers but the sand shows no sign of human inhabitants; the only beachgoers are swooping flocks of gulls that splash into the rolling swells beyond the surf, or hover above the teens awaiting a chance to swoop down and steal any available morsel.
Between sips of rapidly warming champagne the young lovers slather coconut oil on each others’ bodies. Hands linger lovingly on bellies and thighs and fingers slip beneath confining swimming costumes to spread edible oil into every cranny. Skins slip and slide together as they kiss and begin to make slow, languid love inside the narrow circle of shade while youthful desire swells and strains through coconut-sodden swimsuits.
Natasha sighs around Ram’s tongue and her tight little nipples harden against his slippery palms as he caresses ripe breasts through the tenuous skin of her bikini top. She reaches down to grasp the swollen stalk that’s starkly outlined through the elastic material of his togs as he watches her eyes dart hither and yon in search of an importunate stranger.
Gulls alight on the sand around them, loudly commenting on the entertaining hominid display while breakers rumble in the distance. The lovers’ skimpy clothing is easily circumvented as Natasha climbs astride her young man and stretches the fabric of his tiny budgie-smugglers – borrowed from her unknowing older brother – until his erection snaps upward into her waiting palm. He emits a gratified groan as her soft, hot, oily little hand grips partway round his hardness.
Ram’s eager fingers hurriedly slip her rainbow bikini briefs aside, exposing a neatly trimmed slice of darkly furred mound to the warm salty breeze. He tickles Nasher’s inner thigh and slowly approaches the heart of her heat, stroking the extremities of her pelt as he circles the sensitive plexus of her femininity. The horny young girl shifts against his palm and deftly manoeuvres his fingers onto her budding clitoris. She gasps and her body becomes rigid with tension as she starts to stroke his shaft with both slippery hands, ardently pumping as fast as she can with enthusiastically rapid jerks. “Oh, man,” she moans, “mm…” The younger teen’s fingers strain and squeeze to reach as far around his swollen girth as possible; her dainty hands conceal little more than half his length. “Oh man…”
“Oh, woman,” he replies with a deliberately deepening tone that barely conceals the nervous awe that transfixes his body and stills his wandering mind. His voice vibrates through Nasher’s bones and her smile widens along with her thighs as she quietly thrills to his compliment. Rapidly panting breath pulses across Ram’s cheeks as her open-mouthed smile inexorably approaches his lusty grin. Lips barely meet before tongue tips touch and retreat, dart and dash and coil together. Breaths unite and withdraw, mingle and recycle through the complementary bellows of their lungs.
When his index finger touches the smooth cleft of her sex, Natasha’s breast jerks against his chest and their lips break apart. “Uh… so, rocket man… um… ready to blast off… mm… into heaven?” she asks his open mouth while her wicked leer morphs into a serious semi-frown. “Oh, god…” she gasps as an obvious answer appears in his rapt expression. “Juh… just don’t come inside me, okay?”
He nods in wordless awe and gently spreads her labia with a tentative touch as Natasha shifts his arching rod toward her silken membranes. A delicate livid pink flower gleams invitingly, utterly revealed inside the virginal girl’s dark curly pelt – slick and deliciously moist, expectant and ready between her trembling, oil-shined thighs.
Ram’s fingertip penetrates the torrid heat of her tight interior and he prepares her for entry with a preparatory plunge. She hums a soft moan at the thrill of his touch and her entire body vibrates as her eyes swim in and out of focus beneath blinking lids. His manhood strains toward the snug embrace of her silken seam and his heart races while she holds him an inch from his goal.
“Wait,” Natasha says as her eyes blink open and fix on his face. “Let me…” She pushes him down into blinding sunshine and climbs up to kneel astride him. His finger slips from her flowering bud and he stretches the tight bikini pants aside, pulling the elastic sheath partway round her flank. Quick little hands grapple his flesh with a vicelike grip as she guides his lance toward the Holy Grail of her blood-hot quim. “Let me do it…”
*
A true story
*
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -
Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 2 - Surfing the Cosm
Shaman of Centraxis ३ - Turning Tides, Breaking Waves
Shaman of Centraxis Part 4 - To Infinity and Beyond Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 14 – Waking Wet Dream
Shaman of Centraxis Part 15 – Rending the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 16 – Interrupted Dreams
Shaman of Centraxis Part 17 - Wherefore Art
Shaman of Centraxis 18 – Stranger in a Strange Land
Shaman of Centraxis 19 – Supplicants
Shaman of Centraxis 20 – Proposals & Propositions
Shaman of Centraxis 21 – Shamanic Training
Shaman of Centraxis 22 – Skirting the Edge
Shaman of Centraxis 23 - Doing a Harold Holt
Shaman of Centraxis 24 – Wave Dreams
AND
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra Part 1
Springs Eternal – Wild Life Part 1
Latest – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana