X Marks the Spot
Wild Life 9
“This is a good place to split up and take a look around,” Fig announces to the group as the long haired lovers splash toward the attentive assembly of environmentalists. The mutually besotted hippy couple slosh arm in arm through pure frigid water. Pendulous boots swing from knotted laces strung round their necks, jouncing and bouncing beneath their unruly hairdos while they wallow through the creek.
“I’m hoping to check out this old track...” the bearded greenie says, jabbing a finger at a survey map unfolded on the gravelly riverbank, “...when we’ve gone another mile or two. ‘X’ marls the spot. It might make a good dry north-facing camp to bed down for the night - and a quick escape route if there’s a flash flood.” Fig squints at the sky as Seheal flops onto a vacant boulder. She ties flame coloured curls of tangled hair out of her eyes using a loop of vine she plucks from a low hanging Sandpaper fig. “Do you think it’s going to rain?” she asks.
“This is a rainforest,” Fig replies with a quirky smile. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about any rain tonight, but the survey’s going to take a day longer than we thought. Tomorrow might be different.”
“The forecast said it’ll be fine for the next few days,” Mac asserts. His slouch hat nods briskly as his nephew scans the thin blue ribbon of sky shining between overarching canopies that shade the creek’s steep banks. “That’s a blessing,” says Ms Pergola. Jim’s greying head nods as he crosses cardigan-coated arms. “That’s why we chose this time of year,” he affirms.
“So if we break up into teams of two or three and fan out into the forest here, where it’s widening out, we’ll have a good chance of getting some interesting samples and…”
“Be sure to take some plastic bags.” John’s impatient intrusion interrupts Fig’s speech as the elder environmentalist pulls a box of resealable sandwich bags from his cannabis backpack. “Samples of what?” Paul asks as he skips a stone across the stream’s slightly ruffled surface. Mac’s hat tilts toward his nephew. “Not rocks,” he tells the boy. “Not today…”
“Seeds and scats, mainly,” Fig explains.
“Scats?” Paul asks as he lines up a suitable stone for another shot at his personal best. He glances at Seheal to ensure she’s watching before he hurls the rock downstream; seven sets of expanding ripples map its bouncing path across the surface.
“Poo,” Mac says before Joel can enlighten his friend with cruder scatology. “Animal poo,” Mr Pergola elaborates. “So don’t bring back your own,” advises Joel. His giggly laugh infects the other two boys.
“Damn!” exclaims Fig as he slaps a floppy fisherman’s hat on his thigh. “We should have collected some of those mussels!”
“I did,” says Seheal, and she extracts a shell as long as her hand from her overstuffed string bag. The shell’s concave interior is almost as pink as her smiling lips. She passes the river oyster up to Ms Pergola, who inspects the shell lackadaisically before passing it to Fig.
“Ahem,” John begins afresh. “Seeds, scats, fresh branchlets, feathers, shells – we’re looking for anything like that, anything we can identify. If you find something, we need to mark its location on the map. Don’t get lost; we’ll meet back here in – does everyone have a watch?” Ram’yana carries a battered old self-winding automatic seventeen jewel Omega his grandfather had given him twenty years earlier. He can never wear a watch (or any chain or bracelet, for that matter) without incidentally breaking the constraining band within a few days. He pats the trouser pocket where the silver watch is ensconced in a leather pouch to ensure he hasn’t lost the childhood talisman during their scrubby scrambling.
Seheal holds both slender arms above her head; her pale freckly forearms are adorned by a brace of slim bracelets and a filigree of silver rings, but bereft of any watch. Paul and his friend (Or perhaps younger brother, or step brother? Ram wonders) do the same, sans jewellery. “No?” says John. “Well, team up with someone who has a timepiece then, and let’s meet back here in two hours.”
Seheal springs to her bare feet and leans against Ram’s chest. Her hands drop to clasp his wrists and when their fingers entwine she crosses his arms over her bosom. His fingertips encounter a soft curve of naked breast through the recently torn rip in her dress and as her hand guides his fingers beneath the torn fabric he cuddles her close and tries not to fondle her alluring flesh too obviously in sight of the other, more staid members of the expedition.
Jim holds up a weathered hand while he stares down at his battered grey boots. “Some of us should go up the sunnier side of the gorge while others head toward the shadier southern facings.”
“Good idea,” Mr Pergola agrees. “We’d best get going – we only have another two or three hours before we have to find somewhere to camp.”
“See you back here, then,” John affirms with a squint at the sky. Ram’yana tugs Seheal’s fingers away from the hole in her dress and turns her away from the limpet-like stares of the teenage boys. They begin traipsing toward an obvious animal track hand in hand and John passes a clutch of plastic bags to Seheal before they step into the shadowy forest. She leads her beau into dimmer recesses of cool south-facing darkness before too many other teams decide to press into the more sensitive shadowy side of the serpentine rainforest creek.
Bared feet sink into musty mounds of leaf mulch as they pick their way though a network of snag-toothed vines which laces together the border of a deeper forest, stitching shut the opening to the outer, brighter, sunlit world. In another dozen paces they’ve broached the protective viny margin, pacing beneath unseen crowns of massive trees whose topmost extremities are lost overhead in a gabble of shady green shapes. Flittering insects and avian forms dart though a vast three dimensional cosmos, supported by gargantuan columns of vine-wreathed wood.
At first Seheal cautiously surveys the forest floor, intently watching every step. Then she suddenly skips ahead of her lover, darting past tall tree ferns and shorter walking stick palms, gleefully dancing round moss covered boulders and tiptoeing through deep drifts of leaves. When she penetrates a vine-festooned entryway between two towering trees the grinning hippy grrl turns back and attaches her elfin self to Ram’s side.
Their eyesight rapidly adjusts to the stygian gloom in the lowest storey of a multilevel series of natural apartments. Birds swoop through layered fronds and crisscrossing branches while chitters and chatterings emanate from multiple unseen sources. Various unknowable somethings scuttle beneath the leafy matter all around their bare soles. The lovers continue unperturbed, stepping carefully to avoid crushing diminutive unseen creatures; as far as they know, no poisonous spiders dwell in this paradisaical rainforest but any number of tiny unknown species may be burrowing underfoot through the forest floor.
The ground is a spongy mat of leaf-blanketed black soil and every third step they sink up to their ankles in damp, cool, musty-smelling humus. The forest is permeated by subtle smells which are far more appealing and intricate than the ambient fustiness can account for. Strange scents redolent of anise and mint, musk and sandal mingle with sharp acetylene smells and resinous mace-like odours. A sweet and sour fugue of fungal fragrances conspires and respires in an unnameably splendid potpourri that somehow amplifies all their senses.
The landscape is remarkably flat and their progress is only impeded by an occasional fallen giant or the Brobdignagian buttressed boles of mighty living legends. Strangler figs enshroud some of the largest trees within a tangle of roots and vine-like extrusions, enwrapping entire trunks of massive rosewoods and buttressed black booyongs within a filigree of semi-symbiotic growths. The lovers crane their necks to follow crisscrossing ladders upward through nested layers of canopies, but the tangled entwinements extend way beyond their ground dwelling hominid sight.
Seheal espies a glimmer afoot and bends to retrieve what appears to be a smooth, brown, tan-striped cowry shell. “It’s a seed,” she breathes in a reverent whisper while boisterous sounds of frolicking youths burst through outer pickets of spiky thickets. “A Black Apple seed,” her lover informs her proudly. “From way up there.” His emerald gaze rises to the crown of the emerald forest, seeking the source of the fallen fruit.
“Are they edible?’
“No, but you can use them for jewellery.”
“I mean the fruit, silly.” She peers up into greenness and attempts to locate the source of the seed. “Aye,” he says as he glances down and toes a rotting husk of apple-sized fruit, revealing another clutch of crescent-shaped glossy seeds. “They are. If you find the right tree they’re even tasty – a little like custard apples.” She picks up a handful of seeds and they both wander about in awestruck admiration, peering through and around a vanishingly small fraction of the manifold wonders of Little Wonder Creek. The rarely witnessed forest is beautiful enough to distract the lovers’ attention from each other for many seconds at a time.
Seheal proves adept at finding feathers of all descriptions; tiny grey-green featherlets (miniature miracles of subtle geometries that her beau would likely never notice amidst multihued curling leaves on the dark forest floor) and multicoloured feathers taken from the decaying corpse of an exotic Wompoo pigeon soon fill one of the plastic bags. She discovers part of a male lyre bird’s fabulous tail; a great curving mockery of a peacock’s proud plume, the elaborate quill is a detailed study in drab coloured finery, muddy undertones shot through with subtle streaks of tan and fiery amber. The beaming girl places the collection of seeds into another of Jim’s bags and inserts the lyre bird’s pride into her flaming bee’s nest of tangly curls.
A monstrous black beetle perambulates across Ram’s foot and he barely restrains himself from kicking the insect – half the length of his sole – away into nether darkness. The glossy apparition jitters down into the mulch and promptly disappears. A sound that’s just a little too ponderous to be deemed a flutter swooshes over their heads and a grey-white shape alights on a branch ten fathoms above. “Is that a sea eagle? It is,” Seheal whispers. “Fig said they nest up here, all this way away from the sea…” A high-pitched whistle affirms her conclusion as the eagle swoops out of sight though green corridors overhead, leading the way through the glorious wildness.
They follow the raptor’s path and spy the bird watching their progress through screening vines and intertwined branchlets as the floor of the forest trends gradually upward. After another half hour they finally lose sight of it and stop to share a smoke; unlike much of the surrounding landscape the riparian rainforest is so damp there’s no chance of starting a wildfire. They wander to the furthest margins of flat soft ground, where a jumble of cyclopean stones marks the foot of a serried series of basalt cliffs.
A family of man-high walking stick palms surrounds the broken trunk of a mighty buttressed tree; each small palm is far older than the combined years of the lovers who kiss in their midst, warming themselves with each other’s bloodstreams in a vagrant waterfall of slanting sunbeams. They climb onto the mossy bones of the fallen giant and finish the half-forgotten joint, holding the smouldering white rice paper tube to each other’s lips as they cuddle atop a hollow trunk that could easily contain Ram’s rusting old Nexusmobile.
“Do you think they’ll really try and cut all this down?” Seheal’s widening eyes refract awful imaginings into Ram’s attentive mind. “All these magnificent trees? All these homes?” He cuddles her closer and her forehead settles onto his collarbone. “They’ll probably try,” he says, “but we have a good chance of stopping them. There’s hardly anything like this left in the entire country… or anywhere else in the world.”
Seheal pulls away. “There’s nothing like this anywhere but right here. Can’t you feel it? The life is still in the land, unspoiled. She’s here, all around us. It’s a miracle. More than just a little wonder - it’s one of the wonders of the world!”
“Aye. Just like you.” She frowns up into his emerald eyes. “We can’t let them destroy all this. I’m serious…”
“So am I. This place has survived for good reason and the land is on our side; we love it.” Seheal’s frown disappears and she kisses his lips. “She’ll help us save it again,” she avers. “Let’s cast a little spell together to make it so!”
“A Tiphareth invocation at the very least,” he agrees. “And one of thy personal makings, of course.”
“One of ours,” she corrects him. “Let’s do it here,” she murmurs into his mouth. She slides from the tree, tugging him down toward the smashed jagged opening of the moss-shrouded trunk. The tube is so large Seheal easily strides inside, but Ram bows as he enters the huge hollowed trunk and crouches beside her on the natural shelter’s crumbly ground; the once woody floor has transformed into crumbly earth. Another soul-shuddering kiss lights the hollow husk of the primordial wooden Titan with the blaze of their passion.
Seheal ducks down and in a matter of moments scribes a circle around them both, penetrating the soft dark mulch with a rotting walking stick staff until an underlying bed of russet clay is revealed. Sunlight streams through gaps in the wood, dappling their cloth-coated bodies and filling the dark, semi-subterranean space with an aura of warmth and lightness.
The hippie shaman settles his breath and adopts a version of Horse Stance to fit snugly inside the tree house. His long dark hair snags on dagger-like overhead splinters as he centres his energies in the core of his hara, just behind and a little below his physical navel. The lovers face each other in the sunbeam-pierced cavern, surrounded by the encircling buttressed bodies of living guardian trees – massive intertwined neurons and dendrites forming great dreaming ganglia in a greatly reduced and shattered continental nervous system. The glade emanates a slumberous aura of anciently wise forbearance, sailing along through the unimaginable vastness of eternity in the bosom of Mother Earth.
Ram’s fingers form a flowering cup and he holds this vessel in a prayer-like posture before his heart. He brings his thumbs up to his brow and silently resonates emanations from the seed of his third eye into the cavity of his palms while he imagines the suitable Sanskrit syllable. Seheal mirrors his actions and follows his lead as he repeats the process at his throat, then his heart, where he fills the cup to overflowing with an stream of unseen green fluid. The emerald fountain pours out through the spigot formed by a tiny hole that still passes through his breastbone (unlike the sternums of most uninitiated, fossilised, jaded and adulterated adults, whose breastbones customarily fuse rock solid and seal over after puberty; hardening hearts invariably follow).
Filled with a rapturous rush – a pale echo of the bliss a mother feels when feeding her babe at her teat - he closes his eyes. The lotus cup fills to the brim and he inhales sweet esters that fill the cavity of his being and blossom within his solar plexus with imperturbable solar light and a nourishing rush of warmth. His hands shift and the Tiphareth mudra inverts and converts to a spraying gesture of benediction that spreads the golden illumination of Ram’s inner Sun throughout the hallowed hollow trunk. Amber light spreads outward and permeates the forest of Little Wonder with glowing astral sunbeams.
“Jehovah Aloah va-Da’ath…” They both intone the Hebraic god-name of their central suns - their solar plexuses - rejoicing in a reverent nexus of lovingly resonant harmony. Seheal’s voice reverberates with an unusually deep and husky tenor and the world stands still at the end of their breaths. The vibrations of the invocation pass beyond the glade and dissipate like the disappearing chimes of resonant bells and the magi lovers unseal their eyes.
They both witness the selfsame core of a single spirit shining behind the eyes of the Beloved.
“Now for our little rite,” Seheal whispers with a wink. The glorious redheaded pixie sashays toward her magic man, toes digging into the living soil. “Let’s go downstream a bit and find a place to be together in the big Sun; we can rub ourselves together like two stick figures and make a nice hot fire.”
Even as she rose toward waking after hours of sex-slaked passion she automatically reached for her new lover’s hardness and spread her sensitive moistness around him. The fingers of her other hand danced along the rise and fall of his ribcage and followed the tight curve of his flank. His hands cupped two firm handfuls of ripe breasts and he was faintly surprised to find them smaller than he’d imagined.
She buried half his length in hot slippery tightness while her fiery mane lashed him to wakefulness. He tried to focus on her face as she gaped when he squeezed inside her, but his eyes couldn’t quite find hers through a blurry tangle of orange hair; when his gaze slipped downward they wouldn’t fix on the place where she drew him within the flame-coloured topiary heart of her barely trimmed pubic hair. Her frizzy mane fell across his face and tickled his chest while a wet tongue lolled against his shoulder and lapped along a fuzzy pectoral toward his hardening nipple.
He closed his eyes to more fully enjoy the abject ecstasy of their impassioned loving – the culmination of his fervid hopes – and became lost in sheer sensation. After an unmeasurable interval, while the rapturous shaman was gloriously fucked by the beautiful wee pixy of his dreams, a voice that wasn’t Seheal’s at all called his name aloud and he suddenly realised he was making love with someone else entirely.
His eyelids flashed open and he witnessed the poignantly impassioned expression on Andrella’s aquiline face and saw the rhythmic flexing of her elongated body as she rode him toward a climactic morning glory. Her eyes were sealed tightly shut.
He struggled to shrug off his semi-somnolent mental absorption in the imagined girl of his dreams and tried to concentrate on the bird in hand - but even as Andrella’s fragrantly arousing scent suffused her artistically decorated bedroom and filled him with flagrant desire, Seheal’s chameleonic eyes burned through the russet blaze of the other girl’s profuse wavy mane. Before either lover was fully awake the taller, slimmer young woman – much more slender and boylike than the girl whom Ram was hopelessly and hopefully fixated upon - had already come in a moaning flurry of deep self impalements. She fell against his furry chest and sucked at his lips between breathless gasps.
While Andrella panted against his cheek the hippy shaman found he was still filled with unrequited raging lust and decided to take her from behind. He wanted to feel her come again as he came with her, inside her. An irresistible ache grew within him - a burning need to groan his orgasm into the slender young woman’s palpating loins while she screamed in oblivious rapture. Andrella pressed herself against him and moaned his name encouragingly, twisting her slim body around while their skins pressed as closely as possible, inside and out.
He rolled her svelte smoothness over atop him, spinning her slowly around his rigid pole and lifting a long slender leg so her uniquely unusual and tautly squeezing vulva literally screwed right round his rigidity. He rolled over around her while he drew her in closer with hands that grasped her narrow hips, and settled her onto her knees as he called her name in return.
Her face turned from the heart-patterned pillowslip and as he admired her elfin profile Andrella’s inexpressibly rapt features soon succeeded in temporarily dispelling incessant thoughts of his absent dream girl. Her eyes remained closed and her breasts pressed into the shiny sheet when he started to lift her almost weightless pelvis back and forth around his long hard shaft. Deliciously reciprocating motions and regular panting gasps assured him he was right where he was meant to be, doing precisely what he was born and bred to do.
He watched her inner lips enfold his cock as the starkly pink membranes turned inside out with every slow withdrawal. When she moaned his name more loudly he began twisting her pelvis from side to side, widdershins and deosil, while his furry scrotum butted between the peachy cheeks of her backside and bumped up against the distended pinky of her clitoris. His fingers caressed the swollen love button with a gentle regular rhythm, spreading Andrella’s strangely unhooded membranes so her unusually long clitty could extend even further from its sheath while they screwed in the bright broad daylight. They knelt spooning before the apartment’s wide window directly opposite two other blocks of flats and ten paces from the windblown curtains of an apartment that directly overlooked Andrella’s quirkily decorated bedroom.
From the way she’d ridden him with unabashed abandon throughout the previous week, the beautiful redhead (who he’d always presumed to be shy and insecure) seemed blithely unconcerned about what her plentiful neighbours may see or think. He surmised she was an exhibitionist at heart, unlikely as it seemed - though she certainly possessed a delectably svelte body and features befitting the role.
Despite their near-identical height, Ram’s more mature masculine body easily outmassed Andrella’s slimness. She felt weightless in his grasp as he twisted her back and forth around his shaft until his full length was crammed all the way inside her. He kept screwing her hips around and about to wrap her tight grasping heat about the fulcrum of his lust while his mushrooming crown ground right up against the sensitive pillow of her cervix. “Oh god!” she screamed, and he stopped lest he hurt her – but she cried, “My god, don’t stop, hold on, I’m coming!” in her perfectly enunciated English accent – the longest sentence she’d emitted since he arrived in her bed some time ago in the wee early hours.
She surrendered to desire and flopped into his hands while he worked her into a moaning lather. He kept screwing the suddenly supine young woman until her rhythmic pants and soprano moans became a single high-pitched screech. When her womanhood suddenly gripped his cock and she squeezed for all she was worth Andrella’s heated grasp was instantly too much to bear; “I’m coming!” Ram warned with a muted yell.
He hadn’t come inside her uniquely infolded loins since he’d first arrived in her life a week earlier; instead he’d spurting hot white jism into Andrella’s mouth or across her lightly freckled flushed pink skin at the young woman’s whim. Now the top of his head exploded outwards in a blinding rush and his seed sprayed inside her belly before she had time, breath or will to cry ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.
He jetted bursting gouts of steaming fluid through the grasping milkmaid’s succulent membranes, pressing right through her distending cervix to plaster the walls of her womb with a fertile swarm of swimming seeds. She didn’t complain or shy away from his thrusts. While she screamed and shook and creamed and trembled and screamed again he had no difficulty deciding which beautiful young woman was coming and bucking and fucking beneath him.
Even so, when they lay in the breezy afterglow sometime later and Andrella was telling him she’d almost never let a man come inside her before, an entirely different freckly face kept intruding into Ram’s idyll. He couldn’t get Seheal out of his mind – until he noticed the time, and realised he had to pick up his young daughter and take her to feed the ducks in the park in less than twenty minutes.
“Hello?” A brash male voice poured across their naked skins from the bedroom doorway, and Ram didn’t know whether he was surprised or annoyed, angry or resigned to another man’s presence. Then he realised someone he knew was watching them fuck - someone he knew all too well.
A true story
Images – author’s
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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. If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment! Thanks for reading this far…