Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 23
“Fealty?” the Cold Wanderer snorted through the roseate pits of his nostrils. “Bah!” His watery blue eyes examined the crowded establishment’s visible exits and roved the faces of the patrons before alighting on the Lady Racheal’s slender thigh.
“But fealty underpins the structure of the tribe – ’tis the very nature of the Centrax,” the prince rejoined. His palm automatically shifted to caress the sculptural perfection of his lady’s marble-white kneecap. Wanderer stared fixedly through the reflective windowpanes of his spectacles as he continued his critique; “Indeed it is, much to our shame.” He watched his blood brother’s fingers wander thighward to skirt the hand embroidered hem of his ladylove’s skimpy miniskirt.
“All such arrangements are inevitably bound to become a scenario of us and them,” the Cold Wanderer averred. “It all comes down to the same old damned territorial imperative – down to who and whose.” His eyes flashed upward to meet the Lady Racheal’s guardedly curious regard. “Whom?” she suggested with a feline smile. Her beringed fingers entwined with Ram’s at the summit of her smooth white leg, gently restraining his further advance.
“Whose territory is always the real question - the foundation of all action and survival in Go, or Chess - or in war or politics or the Glass Bead Game. But the prince knows all this,” the Logician said and his windowpanes flashed toward Ram’yana as he affected a plummy accent: “Who am I to be telling anything to nobility?” His eyes swivelled downward to observe the dissolving cat’s cradle of his tobacco-stained fingers and he began constructing a slim one-paper rollie. He seemed unaware that he was already puffing and sucking on a well-stoked pipe.
Even as his drawling voice attempted to communicate a reasoned and reasonable message to his peers, any meaningfully informative core was smothered beneath his unpalatably demeaning attitude. He continued with a thickly larded garnish of carefully honed sarcasm; “Loyalty and fealty’re akin to patriotism” – he fairly spat the word at them – “the fossilised husks of an old tribal ploy to preserve the status quo at the expense of true liberty and free thought.”
He bit down harder on the wooden pipestem that was firmly clenched between yellow stained sets of even teeth. The prince became acutely aware of his own medically discoloured dentition and sealed his lips to hide a phosphorescently greenish grin as the tightly drawn simile of a simian smile emerged from the thicket that covered the lower half of Wanderer’s face. “It’s how we consent to getting less than our fair share.”
“So ye must therefore believe that being fucked or fucker makes no difference – ’tis always consensual?” The Lady Racheal’s provocative suggestion momentarily hushed both men. Her strawberry blonde mane brushed dust from the tabletop as she leant into their triumvirate circle, eyeing the Cold Wanderer through the smoky occlusion of the private thundercloud that encircled his head like a misshapen halo. “And if personal loyalty be freely given - instead of being stolen or seized by false right of might?” she inquired while her sapphire eyes glittered through lowered lashes. A slender trace of reflected streetlight dappled her rosy cheek as she held the Logician’s camouflaged gaze. “Nor taken by stealth? What say ye then, yon courtly anarchist?”
Wanderer replied slowly, eyes flashing through pools of frozen liquid crystal. “Freely given, milady?” His Vancouver accent was moderated by an unusual precision of intonation, a conciseness Ram’yana interpreted as something other than his customary sarcasm; a rare compromising attempt to demonstrate that he was entirely comfortable with the anachronistic parlance of the Centraxian tribe.
His Lady Racheal perceived an unsubtle attempt at sly seduction conveyed by the selfsame tone and body language. As she met the bearded Canadian’s stare she relived the unexpected sensation of his uninvited nakedness moving against her body in the privacy of her boudoir, and received confirmation of her suspicions in the message she read within the older man’s gaze.
They remained silent as a slow, relentless drumming emerged through the penumbra of the discussion’s pause. The arrhythmic rhythm seemed a fitting score for the emotional tension implicit in their bantering converse. It thrummed and pounded from the dazzlingly retro-futuristic curved glass cabinet of the nearby juke box, which enclosed that season’s compendium of songs in a mobile diorama of 45 rpm vinyl singles.
Racheal nodded in time with the beat. She obviously approved of the music; a soundtrack befitting the current fractious episode in her storybook life. She met Ram’s gaze as they simultaneously noted the tune’s synchronous alignment with current events, and the implicit course of action suggested by the familiar lyrics. When Wanderer’s smile broadened and Ram’s fingers began playing arpeggios on her inner thigh she decided the song’s title could only be an unmistakable omen.
‘Now you want to know the reason why I cheated on you
Well I had to be a hunter again
This little man had to try to make love feel new again…’
She mouthed the words under her breath while she guided Ram’s fingers toward her outer thigh, where his annoyingly arousing manipulations were hidden between their closely cuddling bodies. The anarchistic logician tapped his pipe bowl against the scuffed sole of an unpolished coal-black boot and pierced the Lady Racheal’s composure with a steelier stare. He commenced another fragment of his manifesto while she mimed lyrics in his face:
‘’Cause there’s just a few things honey
That I’m old enough to do for you
And they’re the things, momma, you just never care to show me…”
Wanderer spoke through her mime. “How can loyalty be freely given when all the lower orders – along with more elevated ranks, all the way up to those with so-called ‘courtly’ connexions or bloodline inheritances – are brainwashed t’ believe bullshit like ‘noblesse oblige’ and ‘divine right to rule’ from birth?” His eyes zigged toward the lusty mask of the prince’s face and rapidly zagged back to the unbroken gaze of the haughty young tribal priestess.
“No-one can see the cruelty inherent in their daily lives. It’s lost to ’em - usually all covered up by a false sense of belonging t’ something larger than their puny little egos – full of dangly trappings and logos and mottos and flags and a pile of hypnotic superstitious lies.” He blew a frothy cloud across the dishwater surface of his rapidly cooling cappuccino. “Nationalism. Fascism. Religions. All that crap creates the dangerous illusion of us and them. We’re taught more separatist divide and conquer bullshit every day - exposed to an endless chorus of lies and propaganda. We don’t need t’ bring it home – it’s already in us. We need t’ get rid of it!”
‘So this flimflamming loverboy found him a flamingo
And his flamingo showed him how to tango
And when the tango did send their hearts aflutter
Their tears would clear the strutters
They were so young and tender
Sweet, sweet surrender…’
“An admirable oration, but make up thine mind, milord,” the prospective High Priestess admonished (Racheal’s official initiation into the court was still almost a week day away). “Dost thou decry the virtues of unquestioning fealty? Or eschew the burden of a broad if biased education, freely bestowed upon all and sundry?” She leant into her prince’s side and was immediately enfolded by his velvet-clad arm while she returned the Wanderer’s stare. “Is not all modern schooling a rain of poisoned offal spewed from beastly slave masters of the Unseen Eye? Be more clear in thy denunciation; whither lieth thy truer objection? Be it blind loyalty or brainwashing?”
Wanderer refilled the pipe’s bowl and tapped the makings into place as his eyes remained fixed on the priestess. “Education is no burden when freely given - without strings attached,” the court Logician demurred; he was currently engaged in another attempt at tertiary graduation and glared down upon the younger Centraxians from the presumed coign of vantage of a collegiate ivory tower. “And a good education teaches us that nothing can ever remain unquestioned or unquestionable.”
He blinked and inspected the pipestem for flakes of tobacco or resinous blockages, breaking the current of their interlocked stare. “History books are written by the victors, and victors are always goddam warriors with a personal axe to grind.” His words were almost lost beneath the compelling welter of lyrics and music, whose import Racheal attempted to unravel through a percussion of cups, spoons and plates and the symphonic ringing of pinball machines.
‘…and soul’s sweet surrender,
In sweet surrender to love…’
“Loyalty’s for dogs, not men…” announced the Logician. The prince stirred by his lady’s side and she squeezed his hand more tightly around her thigh. Ram’yana was aware he’d been inculcated with a certain subtle reverence for loyalty - and even the intrinsically objectionable notion of royalty - from childhood, by incessant sublime propaganda foisted upon all the denizens of the planet; one that infected even the most freethinking of nations, including the supposedly rebellious Great Southern Land unto which he’d been born.
In the lengthening interval since his untimely demise, the boy who’d become Prince Ram’yana slowly realised that much of his awareness extended and depended from another, not entirely dissimilar plane. His attention refracted from an archetypal realm to reach the material world of cabbages and kings, coffee cups and jukeboxes through a spectral rainbow portal. He bore an innate connexion to a realm where the exigencies of primate pack bonding were considered neither the law of the land nor the lore of the day. Indeed, they were usually considered to be anathematic aberrations in more enlightened realms.
And although the princely mage was fully aware of the emotional interplay coursing between his friend and his beloved, its import was just another undercurrent in an unchartable riptide of conflicting undertows.
Even in the elevated plane of the Central Axis - where each being lives their role in a harmonic conjunction of will and interdependence - the intrinsic majesty of individual worth and talent is not entirely subsumed and attuned to collective ends. The reciprocal respect shared by all dwellers at the Central Sun partially echoes antiquated terrestrial feudalism, enacted without the commonly unfair one-way transactions of illusory Earthly hierarchies. Mutual regard transcends the brutalising competitiveness and unbalanced relativities of more primitive social orders; everyone in the amber-hued plane is intrinsically aware of each other’s powers and potentialities.
Stature and status are still recognised by formally recognised (or entirely informal) discretions and entitlements, by mutual assent of the peers of the Centrax - but all affairs and tradeoffs are intrinsically imbued with a sense of justice and fair play.
“…and fealty’s for gods. ‘No god, no master’,” the Wanderer concluded.
Racheal stiffened at Ram’s side. “Aye,” the prince agreed, interceding before his lady’s impending – and doubtless withering - comment could emerge. The priestess bore his interruption with gracious annoyance and barely restrained a gasp when his hand slid upward and disappeared beneath her skirt. “Yet loyalty is possible among equals, surely?” he inquired while his long, sharp fingernails paused a hair’s breadth from Racheal’s naked Mont of Venus. Beringed knuckles brushed against a sparse untrimmed portion of fuzzy pubis; the rest had swirled down the drain in a bathtub of the tribal stronghold only the night before.
“Surely brothers – and sisters – can be loyal to each another? And we can overcome the impediment of sibling rivalry…” Ram’s hand shifted from the sultriest vicinity of his lover’s anatomy to caress her inner thigh. He circled her leg with an ascending scale and played a riff on a sleek curve of flank beneath the brief skirt, while stirring his cooling espresso with his other hand to misdirect any curious glances. “And despite the bad example of good old Charlie Manson, we in the Centrax are surely a family.”
‘But now you’re gonna go out and get yourself a reputation
But I’m gonna have to show you where to start
And then you’re gonna bring back your little reputation
And prove to me what I could not prove to you…’
The crowded bohemian district’s currently chicest café was full of aloofly disinterested clientele, who subtly perused the Centraxian trio in an offhand manner while they sipped and supped and spoke with fellow travellers. Every few moments an apparently incurious glance was directed toward the theatrically garbed hippies from one of a dozen sources; most were understandably directed at the scantily clad teenage priestess.
The Lady Racheal leant closer into her prince’s embrace and her hand crept onto his lap. She was relieved she’d grown adroit in artfully concealing their increasingly bold forays into public sexuality. She’d had plenty of practice during her sojourn in the communal warrens of the Centraxian stronghold - and at partying revelries she’d attended with her Hierophant prince in similar squats, sundry shared houses and occasional mansions in the quasi-classless society of the Emerald City.
“In the Centrax we share all that we are,” Ram’yana reminded his brooding blood brother. Wanderer was immune to the young mage’s simplistic legerdemain and his eyes flickered through blue billows of smoke to Racheal’s hem as she sat poised on the edge of her chair, nestling beneath her mage’s arm. While Ram’yana tickled a filigree of curls on the rim of her fancy she recaptured Wanderer’s stare and held it without so much as a single betraying twitch of arousal. Why tempt him so incautiously, my love? she wondered as she gave her young man a playful squeeze.
“Within the Centrax?” the Cold Wanderer jeered in a low growling tone. “Inside another exclusive sect?” He spat his challenge through a billowing cloud of mulled tobacco. Ram’s fingers encircled the sensitive narrows where Racheal’s slender thigh met her flaring pelvis. She shifted closer to help conceal his motions beneath the low table and her skirt rode upward as the plastic stool skidded noisily across the floor.
“Therein lieth the heart of the issue…” the prince replied, pausing as his questing fingertips took advantage of his beloved’s customary lack of underwear. “…At the very root and hardwood heart of the matter, the self-perpetuating cycle of war and warriors - badly trained puppies; immature hunters who love destruction and primitive games more than life itself…” His head bobbed in time with Wanderer’s approving nods as he tenderly stroked Racheal’s outer labia with his forefinger; “…scavengers that prey on the weakest within any tribe, as well as without.”
“Make love, not war,” the priestess breathed while she shifted her hips and parted her thighs to accommodate Ram’s addictively incessant probing. The tribal Logician – who devoted many a free hour and night to complex war games based on actual historical battles or fictitious wars projected into future multiplicities of time – frowned at a china teacup of wine that had somehow appeared in his hand. His fingers whitened when he squeezed the glazed ceramic and the prince pressed onward; “Without ego and conflict there’d be no abuse – or use - of power; no need for titles of rank at all.” As he drained his lukewarm coffee a loud pop sounded and Ram’s eyes flickered toward his favourite pinball machine before reengaging with the Cold Wanderer’s steely stare.
‘’Cause I was just too young and harsh
Just too cold, honey
Just too hard to care
Just too hard…’
Is he slightly… pinned? Ram’yana wondered. Another plosive crack rifled through the café as a local pinball wizard racked up another free game. Surely not… “And I agree with thee, brother,” he continued after a contemplative pause, while his forefinger circled a spiralling track around the responsively distending bulb of his witchy lover’s obvious arousal. His thumbnail traced the place where the soft curves of Racheal’s labia blossomed and met upon her sleek pudenda; his sidewise glance dared her to react to his gentle ministrations in the dimly lit but surprisingly popular public space.
“Rank hath no virtue and is, indeed, rank-smelling ordure overlain across the senses,” he continued apace. He poured a dram of wine onto the floor from the cup that appeared at his elbow - a libation surreptitiously delivered to their table by a grateful patron after a particularly portentous Tarot reading a few days earlier. “Gaudy blinkers to misdirect the eyes of workhorses who give up liberty and life for lord and master. Or mistress,” he concluded, cupping his lady’s fingertips around the contraband wine cup and bringing it to her lips.
“Women rule the world,” the Logician declared through a lopsided grin, “despite all carefully contrived evidence t’ the contrary.” Racheal snickered into the wine as a faint but unmistakeable scent of feminine musk arose from beneath the table. “Don’t tell everyone,” she whispered, shifting her unbalanced chair while Wanderer’s nose twitched above his rapidly regrowing moustache.
His gaze flashed downward when the tenuous layer of embroidered cotton bulged into a tent upon the Lady Racheal’s lap. The hem of her skirt slid all the way upward to reveal the complete slender lengths of her titian thighs and a tantalising glimpse of sleek feminine pinkness.
‘Sweet surrender, surrender to love…’
The Logician’s sight seemed to waver slightly as he stared at the place where Ram’s partly hidden hand caressed a glistening margin of the priestess’ enticingly half-revealed loins. His eyes subtly bulged behind their glass encasements and his pipe slowly slewed to the side of his mouth. He became aware of Racheal’s stare - still fixed upon him - and flinched as he met her smirking gaze. “Shh,” she hissed through moistened lips, brow and cheeks beaded with a glossy sheen. “Don’t tell everyone,” she repeated.
While she held the Cold Wanderer’s blinking eyes with a quivering stare the priestess’ smile widened and her eyes narrowed to feline slits. Her grin became fixed and wilfully enforced, a tautly stretched bow flushed and flexing between twin engraved crescents of parenthesising dimples. She barely suppressed an indiscrete squirm and hardly restrained a squeal of delight as she stared the bemused Logician down – and finally sighed, relaxing into Ram’s side with a subtle blink of consent as she decided to allow her Centraxian brothers their various little tokens of esteem. Boys will be boys…
Her eyes flickered shut when Ram’s fingertip squeezed through her inner lips and circled the girdling brim of her elastic entryway. All the mundane world whirled around their little table in a spiralling galaxy of interweaving rainbow-hued streamers. “Every man and woman is a star…” Her murmur transformed to a gasp that was fortuitously submerged beneath the jukebox’s screaming refrain as she jammed her lips closed with a resonant hum.
‘…surrender to love…’
Racheal opened her mouth to resume her quotation but was overridden by the tribal General’s dawdling riposte; “Aye, but there’s the rub. How to protect the ones yer love most if yer can’t resort t’ force of arms? And even as a last resort, how can yer fight t’ stop tyrants without developing a well prepared confederacy, where everyone knows their role in a pinch?” During the brief moment when Ram’yana looked aside to pull his stash from his shoulder bag Wanderer tapped the damp stem of his pipe on Racheal’s wrist, smearing her skin with tarry saliva. “In a real tribe everyone really knows each other, inside out…”
“Or knows their place, as Don Juan would say,” remarked the breathless Lady Racheal. “Castenada’s Don Juan,” she clarified as she clamped Ram’s hand between her thighs and gripped his hardness through his pants, “not that cheap gigolo… Oh!” She gasped aloud as Ram’s entrapped fingertip hooked round the interior face of her clitoris. Her glittering eyes blinked into Wanderer’s infuriatingly bemused bespectacled stare.
She was vaguely aware of heads turning in her direction from shadowy quarters of the bucolic little Calabrese-owned coffee shop. The premises fronted a fairly grotty gambling den that flourished in the rear of the building, well within sight of the broken door leading to a cramped and poorly maintained women’s toilet - that suddenly came to Racheal’s mind as Ram’s finger burrowed deeper.
Wanderer frowned. His next words told the priestess he’d missed the point of her pointed double entendre; “Damn all hierarchies,” he declared. “We can only grok in a circle, man, where everything is shared. Milady,” he amended with an uncharacteristic attempt at courtly chivalry.
“A self sufficient circle has no need to fight if it’s in its true and fitting place…” She slipped into the breach before her beau could reply, matching Wanderer’s earlier erudition with a lateral thrust as she squeezed Ram’s probing finger. Her next words emerged a couple of seconds after her mouth opened and widened into a silent sigh; “O”, she breathed while both brother and lover smiled at the flush of her cheeks and the rubin swell of her parted lips. “Uh… if all are secure in their Uhh, their place of enthronement…”
‘If we could just surrender
Love would heal the mess we’ve made
So give it up momma
It ain’t gonna be no good to keep goin’ round and round
You hurt me
Then I hurt you again
All there’s left to do is give it up
Ah momma, give it up and surrender
Moroccan and Greek, Italian and Corsican, Aussie and Kiwi, Sicilian and Chinese eyes glittered from unlit margins of the smoky mirror-clad chamber as the teenage priestess sighed aloud. More than a dozen men and boys (and not a few women and girls) surreptitiously drank in brief glimpses of the Centraxian priestess’ slim flanks and the pale curving crescents of her partially revealed derriere. A perfect orb of rose petal cheek was almost completely exposed as she slid to the edge of the low plastic stool and nuzzled into her young man’s long hair, yet was instantly covered by his arm’s enfoldment.
The bustle of the café quietened noticeably as Ram’s fingers slowly played the highly strung instrument of his lover’s flesh, just beyond sight of their inquisitorial glances; incessantly caressing and stroking Racheal’s sleek white skin and flushed crimson membranes, always concealed behind a shifting velvet curtain - the flaring drape of a capacious green sleeve that hid his beloved’s most private portions behind a surprisingly effective veil.
“And how canst ye fight… uh… without losing thy very soul?” the priestess asked her bemused peer through clenched white teeth. She gripped the edge of the table and pulled it a few inches closer to interrupt Wanderer’s view. “Uh... fighting thy self in another form… mm…” She straightened her spine and slid a naked leg atop her young man’s cotton-covered thigh. Swallowing a mouthful of sticky red wine to loosen the knot of tension that was looming in her throat, Racheal tried to appear unaffected by the finger that rhythmically probed between her clamping labia, pumping in time with the music.
Sweet surrender, momma
Ram’yana admired his witch bride’s perseverance and concentration in the face of incessant distraction. He watched his blood brother’s face as she quickly forestalled Wanderer’s reply; “And thereby lose the ability to transform thy troubles through will or magic… mm…” she said, “or to simply remain aloof and inviolable… uh… untouched by all that may transpire?”
With a supreme effort Racheal regained enough aplomb to beam a genuinely warm smile at the Cold Wanderer as she settled into Ram’s lap with a slithering sashay of feminine hips. Two fingers slid all the way inside as he welcomed her onto his tented trousers with a thoroughly intimate handshake. Her vacated stool tottered and rocked on the chequered chessboard of the linoleum floor as a resonant pop signalled another free game.
The lovers watched one of Wanderer’s eyebrows arch while smoke steamed from his nostrils. “None of us would need protecting at all if such, uh, useful preparations weren’t continually being mm… made by urh… by some…” Racheal declared before draining her wine cup. Her cheeks parted about Ram’s concealed erection while his fingers slewed slowly back and forth through her quickly moistening quim, unsettling the flow of her speech.
She kept her eyes on Wanderer as she shifted her hips and rubbed Ram’s sheathed hardness against her heat, dislodging his hand. “Uh… ah…” she faltered and began anew, “If competitive war games didn’t take uh… up every waking hour of easily led dumb males,” she said as she shifted position and stroked Ram’s jawline with a beringed index finger, “mm… and their brutish bevy of stay at home breeders didn’t encourage them,” she continued with a glance at a frumpy matron who waddled past the wall-sized front window, partially deflecting her barbed comment from the easy target of the Cold Wanderer’s rapidly beating heart, “then… we could all be happy together…” Her hand slipped across the table and the older man’s surprise was evident on his face when she gripped his fingers betwixt hers.
“Warriors make wars,” she said to the slack jawed Logician. “That’s all killer male apes can do.” She slid against her prince’s cloth-bound staff and kissed his fingertips as she straightened her bare, unshaven, unshod limbs onto the vacated stool by his side. A sphere of silence expanded around them as their lips met in a lingering kiss. Ram supped the liquor of Racheal’s arousal and tasted her scent on her flavoursome breath as he stroked her upright spine. “Most males, at least,” she amended to mollify the men as she bounced on his lap to rearrange her brief skirt. “And females, too. There are so many other, much better pursuits we could all enjoy instead if…”
“Agreed,” the Cold Wanderer blurted into the dregs of his cappuccino, cutting her off once more. “But even the most pleasant pursuits are beset by, uh, competition. And competition for scarce resources means someone is always left out.”
The prince leant his head on his lady’s shoulder while he began rolling a twisted joint beneath the table. He assembled the makings in a fold of the skirt Racheal had hastily smoothed back across her lap in a belated display of modest demureness. His free hand roved toward her radiant heatedness as her thighs closed firmly together and squeezed his throbbing engorgement through a thin membrane of cotton. “There’d be no scarcity if all were freely shared,” Ram’yana quoted, throwing one of the lone Wanderer’s customary lines back at him. “And that means giving up all exclusivity. All possessions and possession.”
Even though his eyes rested on the tribal General’s, Racheal knew her lover was speaking to her and, somehow, simultaneously on her behalf. Like he’s apologising for me… or to me? she pondered and filed the question away for a time when they could be alone; she shared most every secret with her inordinately loving young man and dearly wished she could be absolutely certain he was just as frank and forthright with her. Or moreso, preferably… “And such a high flying free-for-all vantage precludes primitive notions like sectional loyalties,” the shaman prince continued. “After all, attachment is the source of all suffering.”
“So sayeth Siddhartha,” the oracular priestess agreed. “But it’s just a genetic prerogative,” the Cold Wanderer objected as a trendy young couple bumped past him, walking arm in arm. “Just a reflex - a twitch. An itch.”
‘To love….’ *
The extraordinary sensation of another woman’s hairdo tickling the supersensitised surfaces of her slender thighs and tender cheeks is a visceral reawakening to the utterly discombobulated Lady Racheal. The sudden awareness of others – close by, hot, sweaty and naked - distracts the new High Priestess from the molten fugue of her swarming memories and overstimulated senses.
As she’s sucked back into the turbulent currents of the present she realises her body is rocking and bouncing with untamed rhythmic wilfulness, and almost completely exposed in the flickering light. She shudders to a sudden halt, jerking spasmodically around her laid-back prince amidst a stupefying shroud of candlelit gloom that conceals as much as it reveals.
A pair of semifamiliar bodies rocks to and fro beside her; beside them. She feels the resolute strength of her tripping lover moving inside her, through her, around her. He’s undaunted by her sudden cessation of movement, surrounding and filling Racheal’s body, mind and soul with his reassuringly demanding presence. She senses presentiments of his thoughts and desires passing though hers, invisible ripples submerged in the depths of a rainbow-hued pond, and feels her body begin to respond to his flowing caress once again.
Sensations flood her senses as waves of unnameable feelings and unknowable visions rise and fall through her dazzled awareness. The delicious slow thrust of familiar male hardness swelling inside her becomes the centre of a spinning, tumbling, weaving vortex of flexing legs and flailing arms and stroking hands and bouncing breasts and steaming loins as pounding music swells in her brain and a fire ignites behind her eyes and between her thighs while darting satyrs and dancing nymphs turn invisible corners to pass back and forth through unrecognisable dimensional playgrounds.
He’s so beautiful, she decides as she stares down into the glittering pits where she knows Ram’s eyes must reside. Shadows weave round glowing trails that swirl about his high cheekbones and bulging brow, expanding to fill Racheal’s swarming vision when her tongue slides between his fulsome lips. As her shaman lover – her man, her first - moves all the way through her to fill her with love and with searing light, she turns inside out and spins through the coils of his scrolling mind, slipping and sliding through twisting arms of spiralling galaxies and the squeezing coils of serpentine DNA helixes.
He leads her beyond the swirling edge of the whirling world where they ride succulent tides of mutual absorption, rarefied as glowing nebulae and concentrated as white-hot stars. They burst through the veil of time and space in unified waves of harmonised love and resounding glissandos of tumultuous lust, and, gradually, from an immeasurable distance, through waves of pleasure and blinding rushes of sheer untrammelled ecstasy, an ever-vigilant fragment of Racheal’s blown-away being becomes vaguely aware of other presences on the edge of their yin-yang world.
Other thoughts and perceptions slither and dovetail into their sumptuous intertwined private universe. The tribal priestess senses the intensely focused interest of other minds dawning and blossoming inside her, feels observers watching from near and afar; knows the touch of their sight as gentle sighs and soft caresses, feathers and pinpricks, sly tickles and sumptuous sucklings, fingerpainting patterns and smouldering brands that swim and play and strum and burn along the curving planes of her palimpsest skin. They stroke and stoke her flaring aura, igniting unquenchable fires of overlapping desires that pluck symphonies of exquisite sensations through the tripping witch girl’s singing nerves. They spear through the immaterial shell of her radiant flesh and swirl roiling random patterns through her wide open transmogrified mind.
It’s all too much yet she still craves more, riding toward an approaching horizon that grows ever closer with each fast beat of her cantering heart. Her man rides with her, as her, beneath her, sharing her rush toward molten melding and utter, total, mutual annihilation. She’s part of his being and he’s half of her soul as she moves to the rhythm that swells within her, galloping toward the bursting point of singularity - and as she soars across a rainbow bridge she blows apart in a screaming explosion of blinding white heat.
Time dissolves and space expands as a blazing sun recedes through her plasm… Then the ticking clock of her racing heart resumes in the core of her heaving bosom, beating in perfect time with the heart of her true beloved. Her breasts massage his hairless chest with every deep breath as his welcome hardness moves right through her; taking her mind away with each slow stroke, stretching and swelling in ceaseless tides that hypnotise her recovering mind.
She sees her body from a strangely close distance, a naked, almost hairless primate rocking and rolling round the object of all her fleshly desires. She watches from a timeless space as her flesh presses closer, closer against her heart of hearts, fucking her handsome young prince to his wilfully unshakeable tempo as she presses so close they meld together in a slippery singleton vice of succulent love and matchless matching desire. Then, somewhere way above at the surface of deep, unplumbed awareness, she senses swarming souls warming the cockles of their selves in the blazing heat of their enflamed immolation.
All of them are in you… A distracting inner voice returns to remind her afresh as she studiously ignores their inconsequential presences. …Are you…
The Lady Racheal’s cosmos is encompassed by interlocking seams of slippery flesh and melding minds. Sparkling neurons are splayed into electrified feathery forms that wave and glisten phosphorescently on a mossy bank of rhythmically creaking coils. A distant portion of personality perceives the spiralling forms as a metal-sprung mattress in a smoky firelit chamber while a psychedelic fernery tumbles across velvet cushions and satiny flesh twists into coiling serpents in a swarming nest of hairy, sweaty, bony flesh. …and you are all of them…
Translucent pythons transform into scarlet, cyan and indigo tendrils of veins and arteries that glow through the slick white vellum of smoothly slick hominid forms – young naked apes that disport in a shadowy corner of the world’s vast revolving cathedral. A foursome of lovers slips and slides in shadowy firelight beneath a chaotic array of flags, wall hangings, op art posters and intricate graffiti in the communal Centraxian longhall. ...as them…
‘Ramses,’ she breathes, or thinks she does. Her lover’s name remains an unvoiced thought but his viridian eyes immediately flash open, glittering into her dilated pupils in the flickering demilight. She opens her mouth to say his name aloud but an extraordinary sensation assails her senses as tingling stars rush upward through her spine. A fingertip outlines the stretching juncture of their sex and tickles Racheal’s inner labia, and she reacts with a sudden involuntary squeeze that elicits a groan from her recumbent mate. Stark staring needs and unendurable desires rivet her attention to the blessed moment - and a hot wet tongue starts lubricating the juncture of their jockeying genitals as a surprisingly soft pair of lips kisses Racheal’s shorn labia.
“Oh!” The priestess begins to pull away with a start and with stunning abruptness her clamping loins disengage from her lover’s sex-laved pole and the slippery tongue slides up inside her. Chrissie?
…All of them…
A True Story
Images – author’s
* Sweet Surrender lyrics by Tim Buckley
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
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The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com