Sunday, 31 October 2010
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
“Things appear very different to me since I joined the tribe,” the Lady Racheal announced in a penetrative low-pitched tone. The young men’s gazes converged on the priestess in a glittering crossfire of emerald and aquamarine. “Things that happen to me or thee are dreams; reality is the way we allow them to transform us”.
Silence blossomed within the shadow of her statement and her bold lover’s fingers ceased their surreptitious movements against her inner thigh. “We have to be open to everyone and everything if we’re to break free of all that blinds and binds us.” Her words seemed to echo inside the crowded void of the Calabrese-owned café while the jukebox clicked a vinyl disk back into its slot. “How so?” the prince prompted while his index finger prepared to resume doing likewise beneath her miniskirt.
“Uh,” Racheal began, an indrawn breath momentarily marring her admirably maintained nonchalance. “ ’Tis as the Cold Wanderer implies; not a case of simple dominance games, but truly a matter of noblesse oblige.”
“I implied nothing of the kind,” objected the elder young man.
“ ’Tis hidden therein, thou tricksy imp; plied and piled behind thy words,” she countered. “Or mayhap the imp lied?” Her eyes sparkled at the tribal Logician while a corner of her comely mouth quirked at his smothered reaction. “And ’tis also implicit in the Centraxian motto – the one thou useth so frequently and with such little apparent regard; ‘Awa Ken’, milord – ‘Awaken Our Kind’.”
Ram’yana felt the phrase summon his tribal Role to the surface of awareness as an absent tenant returning to fill the temple of his waiting body. His lips automatically shaped the customary reply; “Awa Ken, Mon Ken,” he spake. “ ‘Our Kind, My Kind, Man Kind;’ with chauvinistic apologies to milady, of course.”
“Such blithe apologia may not ’ere long suffice,” Racheal replied with a timely dig at his ribs – a movement that served to camouflage the shifting of her thighs beneath the table. A watery glimmer shimmered in her eyes while she continued - the only sign her lover’s hand was delving closer to the heat of her hearth. “Thy… our… tribal greeting also means ‘Our Ken’ – our knowledge – and all knowledge be a doubly edged sword. How wilt thou males fare when women awaken and realise we neither need thine approval nor require thy protection?”
She paused and squirmed half astride Ram’s lap while a dozen eyes flashed in their direction from various crannies in the smoky room. “How long will nobility remain so obliging when chivalry is disregarded as quaint and superfluous? When women and men are recognised as equals and knowledge becomes the sole sovereign currency of the New Aeon, will the rank beast arise from the depths and show his true rapine colours?”
“Sounds like reverse sexism to me,” the Cold Wanderer opined as he sipped flat white coffee through a clotting skein of milk. “Or maybe racism. Which colours d’yer mean? Black, white, or brindle?”
Racheal glared into the windowed panels of his eyes. “The heated sunset glow of the rabid sons of Set,” she said. “Sexism is sexism, impure and simple; like racism, it can’t be reversed.” Her head tilted onto Ram’s shoulder and she eyed the Cold Wanderer through her lover’s lank curtain of chestnut hair. “Will males reassert the will to dominate when females reassert their stolen rights?”
“Careful what yer wish for,” Wanderer advised across the brim of his cup. “Or project.”
“That’s my point – if we pray for a protector like a flock of dumb lost sheep we usually get a fucking patriarch warlord who eats lamb for breakfast and rapes his charges by night, instead of a dashing knight on a pretty white charger.” Her brow furrowed with concentrated intensity as she held the Logician’s gaze and gripped the questing digit of her incautious lover betwixt tightly clamping thighs.
“I wasn’t aware you were a feminist,” Wanderer remarked through a catlike smile; “At least, not one of those who believes all men are rapists.”
“I wouldst say ‘fuck you’ but where’d be the point?” Her expression shifted between indulgent smile and disapproving scowl while Ram’yana stroked her forearm. “Or mayhap I shouldst not enquire, lest ye mistake my phrasing for double meaning and attempt to take advantage… uh… of my words.” She shook her lover’s assuaging hand from a brace of bracelets that jangled on her slender wrist, and grasped his other hand between her strong smooth limbs to still its importunate movements. “Damn!” she said, and sighed as she buried her face in folded arms on the cluttered round table.
Racheal’s words were clearly audible, unsmothered by her slumping posture and crystal clear despite the breathless distress that sucked the pneuma from her lungs when buried memories began to abruptly resurface. She stared into her pastel distorted reflection, infuriated by the likelihood that Wanderer might easily regard her reaction as an incomprehensible display of feminine histrionics.
“Inhabiting these semidomesticated primate bodies can be such a chore,” she told the half crushed paper doilies on the smooth reflective surface while detestable images faded back into dormancy. “They carry such rank burdens all the time – raging hormones, misplaced loyalties, sly addictions… primitive fears and superstitions, ingrained misconceptions…”
“Ah, here she is now,” announced the tribal General. “Miss Conception herself; or should that be ‘Ms Conception’?” Racheal glanced aside to see Princess Moonshine’s beaming face glowing amidst sifting shadows as their fellow Centraxian entered the open café doors. The girl’s hourglass figure was framed by flaring lights, her entrance heralded by bleating noises from the narrow headlight-streaked street.
The Lady Racheal’s head lifted that she might observe the younger girl’s comely features more clearly. Moonshine’s composure shattered into a mask of despair as the Cold Wanderer’s thoughtlessly rude introduction reached her through an untidy cluster of cups, saucers and sugar dispensers. Racheal almost voiced the thought aloud; Cruel, tactless and thoroughly untimely...
She slewed round on Ram’s lap and kicked Wanderer’s shin with the bare ball of her foot. “Princess,” she breathed as the young women’s eyes locked across a half-pint snooker table. When Moonshine recommenced a halting approach, circling the chaotic varicoloured solar system atop the eroding patch of green Bezier, Racheal leaned partway off her lover’s intrusive finger and reached to sequester a mismatching chair from an adjacent table. “Awa Ken,” Moonshine breathed as the priestess settled back against her prince’s chest.
The Lady Racheal returned her greeting on the trio’s behalf; “Awa Ken, Mon Ken.” The princess’ eyes seemed red-rimmed and weepy in the flickering glare of cold neon light as she settled onto the unyielding seat of the hardwood chair. Without further ado Moonshine commenced as if continuing an earlier interrupted conversation with the as yet uninitiated High Priestess. “It’s just the way it is. It isn’t something that’ll just go away. I don’t know what to do - I’ve prayed so long and hard,” she muttered through a sudden waxing of weeping.
The Lady Racheal stroked a lock of hair from the princess’s eyes while a host of café patrons surreptitiously watched the emotive scene unfold. “Thou must pray for what ye really want and hold that image in thine heart and mind,” the witch girl whispered into Moonshine’s tears. “Don’t think of that which maketh ye despair - nor empower that which thou dost not want, through undue concentration upon it.”
Prince Ram’yana nosed through his lady’s wild mane and watched Moonshine’s uncertain reaction to the priestess’s advice through a fragrant veil of sandy blonde tresses. “Thoughts breed reality and unfocused prayer can be far worse than nothing,” Racheal continued. “Thou canst easily fall prey to lesser dreams and unspoken terrors if ye reveal unformed torments to the wild blue yonder.”
Moonshine’s sight centred on the sapphire gems of Racheal’s mesmerising eyes and the Centraxian warriors simultaneously became aware of a throbbing pulse that thrummed at the centres of their brows. “Fear not - thou art a Wiccan witch, milady,” the priestess reminded the beautiful young noble; “Our tribe’s beloved Princess of Cups and an integral peer in our Tri-Aan of wise women; we’ll all come at thy beck, call or unspoken behest whene’er thee need us.”
Moonshine’s watery eyes grew wide as poached eggs as she listened to the reassuring voice of her tribal priestess. “The mind of the Goddess is the mind of a child – so do not imagine Her as remote or removed, like some distant Father in Heaven, nor even an Earthly mother.” Racheal gripped the girl’s hand and their fingers clasped tightly as she leant forward on Ram’s lap. “She’s thy intimate lover. The innocent Goddess within only knows, only hears what ye wish for – thine hope shown truly and plainly through thought, word or deed: She will hearken to the strongest thought or image thou dost project, be it goodly or ill.”
Her voice rose from a whisper to a deeply pitched tone of command to overcome the babble of laughter and converse that filled the establishment. “So beware and be aware of the nature of prayer; ’tis a trick that oft turns to eat thy dreams while hope smoulders away in cold ashes of fear. Be bold my princess, for thou art the best of us - worthy of grace and love and blessings and glory!”
Moonshine sniffled and spoke through the last of her tears as she slipped from her seat; “Oh, milady… High Priestess…” She fell to her knees on the coffee shop’s linoleum chessboard floor. Her forehead flopped into Racheal’s lap while pinball machines flashed and sang tinkling, ringing, thumping mechanical paeans to random chaos; invoking injections of more and more coin of the realm from an easily amused gaggle of lackadaisical patrons.
Moonshine’s fragrant breath erupted through the thin material of the Lady Racheal’s short skirt and bathed her already hypersensitised groin in torrid gusts of slowly receding sobs. Racheal found the sensation unnerving, excruciating and inordinately arousing. The clasp of the other girl’s dainty fingertips gripping her bared thigh electrified Racheal’s aroused senses and finally dislodged Ram’s questing hand. His palm slid around beneath the miniskirt to fondle the rim of a curvaceous cheek while Moonshine’s rapid breaths superheated her loins.
The pretty teen’s unexpectedly demonstrative mood mightily aroused the prince. He knew Racheal was aware of his undeniable response by the way she moved athwart the obvious evidence of his tumescence. Despite the emotive character of the young women’s discourse - and Racheal’s earlier chiding speech regarding masculine beastliness - he couldn’t repress a vision of the girls together, naked, both making love with him in the bed he shared with his entrancing priestess.
He had little reason to believe he was the father of Moonshine’s child and sighed with a feeling akin to relief. Fantasies of making love with his sometime past lover and his new best beloved rapidly flittered past Ram’s lusty mind’s eye. He watched, smitten, as his lady began stroking the younger girl’s hair, while Racheal pondered the shocking reality of a sudden and unexpected detour in her accustomed sexual orientation; I’m not a lezzo… she told herself, fully aware and faintly annoyed that her feelings echoed those of her libidinous prince.
“Ah! Methought to find ye here!” The seated trio turned to face the figure whose shadow fell upon their table. Streetlights flickered toward glowing brightness in the approaching twilight, announcing the newcomer’s arrival. “Awa Ken!”
“Awa Ken, Mon Ken,” Ram’yana and Racheal replied in unison while Wanderer downed his dregs and Moonshine’s face lifted from the priestess’s lap to regard their fellow Centraxian.
Vostra the Poet reached for the princess’s vacated chair. “I bear a message from thy liege,” he announced. “Lord Kha-Aan doth summon thee all to moot…” He perched on the hardwood edge of the chair, peering into a nebulous point above Racheal’s wheaten mane. When Moonshine sniffled the herald frowned down at the teary princess between a flanking framework of lank dark brown hair. “…and to rejoice in merriment thereafter.”
She quivers and shivers in wordless shock as their sexual circuit is interrupted. Strong hands grip her hips and her young man attempts to steer her back towards the summit of his unsated stave but she teeters astride him, rocking and roiling in an erratic orbit of trippy dizziness. Thou art all… the strangely familiar voice tells her while screaming music swirls through her veins and pounds her brains insensate.
The Lady Racheal’s dazed mind reels in vividly pellucid fields of massive mushrooms, mauve and teal that blow their tops in serried ranks when she waves an idle hand in thanks while they bow and sway on mossy banks that surround her temporary bed. Hoisted high and far atop, she rides on clouds that form and flop down ebon backs and dreadlocked mops of giant men with blind eyes fixed on forest glades that shine betwixt a rainbow tongue that mouths and licks high buxom mounts ahead.
She melts into a cushioned pile astride her mate who all the while attempts to fill her in a style accustomed to her flagrant way of loving him each night and day and keeps the hardened shaft at bay that ever keeps their lust well fed. She rides his silk lined palanquin and almost lets him glide within but halts to his surprised chagrin when waves of bliss and dancing flame pour through her formless shifting frame as catcalls yell out Racheal’s name and fill her with ecstatic dread.
Chaotic ranks of fleshy fires flower into plumes and pyres, congealing into wild desires pouring through her naked skin with fungal cannonades that sing her name while labia meet brim of treelike trunk and mushroom head. Ornate barrels burst in thunder, peeling back in Day-Glo wonder, curving shapes that peel asunder, hurling stunning rainbow shards that spin to coloured Tarot cards and songs of merrymaking bards whose words remain unsaid.
Muscles roll and tendons shift in liquid skins that flex and lift her formless mind that tries to sift through night-dark males who stride and strive as one to bear her from the hive where screaming peacocks dance and dive as to her wonted fate she’s led. She feels a flare of inner heat respond to every bulge and beat from crowning top to bared pale feet and hesitates atop her mate in frozen poise commensurate with all the lust she longs to sate, a rampant raging beast unfed.
Her unstrung soul unreels and thrums to ever present beating drums as breath is stilled within her lungs when rhythmic chants become a song from witnesses that bang and bong, a watching, laughing, leering throng of rutting fauns and nymphs with horns as coloured lights transfuse false dawns while goatskin chalices are bled.
She feels the screaming needs and joys that swim through all the men and boys while with her mate’s bold lance she toys as currents pour in lightning storms and blissful ecstasy soon warms her frozen pose, eschewing norms to spread her wings instead.
She rides wild tides of rippling light and bursts with sexual delight, riptide needs that guide her flight as inward musculature roils and bloodstream seethes and races, boils when round her chosen groom she coils to bring him to the womb he’s wed. His manhood rears at her beck and call; she knows she holds him in her thrall and round the lovers in the hall the watchers all begin to grin when lingam starts to squeeze within the wanton girl whose eyes both spin as round his shaft her loins are spread.
Fey creatures dance with singing screams and pour through all her pores and seams to worship her strange primate dreams and glowing human shape - a statue shining at and as the summit of creation’s stair, halfway ’twixt god and shambling ape, and all creation there, a-stare…
…All one… the disembodied voice insists afresh, again; …all thee…
Enough! the Wiccan girl declares as harsh denial within her flares.
Stop! She tries to find her strangely unfamiliar self amidst the swimming, dancing, rhyming, spawning dreams of strange menageries; Spinning out, the tripping teenage priestess tells herself in breathless shorthand. Come back… come down… She tries to focus on the lyrics that pour down upon her in a rainbow rain, tries to concentrate on the rollicking, galloping beat that bleats from the overhead speakers - yet all words and rhythms twist and turn away before she can apprehend them.
‘I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever you’re around…’
As she twists and turns round the summit of her young man’s erection she ignores everything beyond the confines of their mattress and strives to regain the trustworthy visions that had assuaged the terrors of her lonely childhood, but they flee in kaleidoscopically fractured fragments that melt into formless coloured wax. She blinds herself to the onlooking partygoers and attempts to summon the familiar brazen images that populated her nightly adolescent fantasies in bygone times, but the dreamy visions twist and shift and slip into angelic faces and demonic masks.
She tries to reforge an image of bright little Crystal’s flawless nude form in the well practiced Amazon bondage fantasy that had earlier risen unbidden while she rode her captivated prince – imagery that had always led her to a predictably climactic denouement; the mind-dissolving rush she desperately craves, a familiar passage to an inviolable afterglow realm far beyond this chaotically uncontrollable dimension of phantasmagorical beings and incessant unnameable sensations.
Yet everything keeps spinning, morphing and twisting completely beyond her control. Ram’s blessedly familiar rigidity is the only constant in a shapeshifting miasma of psychedelic imagery and unfamiliar tastes and textures – a solid anchor that juts inside her entryway, still, stolid and unmoving as he reclines inside his tripping mind beneath her quivering body. His shuttered eyelids conceal the emerald beams of his gaze.
His crown throbs inside her, pulsing with life and heat, yet he doesn’t stir or move at all when she presses down around him. Her nipples slide against his chest and she tries to touch every inch of his skin at once with her nakedness she draws him all the way home - holding fast to the one thing she knows and trusts in all the world while multicoloured tendrils coil across his cheeks and encircle the glowing eye in the centre of his brow.
‘Oh baby, when I see your face, mellow as the month of May,
Oh darlin’, I can’t stand it when you look at me that way
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever you’re around…’
Crystal… Ram’s face transforms into the angelic red haired girl’s and Chrissie’s form flows before her, transfused by fluorescing veins and paisley-patterned corpuscles. I remember… I know thee… The younger teen’s features blossom into the delineaments of an apparently identical (but slightly older) female – a face Racheal recognises from long, long ago. She’s instantly convinced that the beautiful little redhead whom Arne Stook has brought into their lives is a reincarnation of her archetypal titian-skinned Wiccan sister – the beautiful witch who knelt beside the altar stone in fondly cherished memory; the one who prepared their captive male for her awaiting High Priestess. She recalls the girl’s adoration and witnesses her glorious wilfulness, in a vision she recognises as a genuine icon and eidolon of the phantasmal Wiccan coven who still whisper to her in nightly dreams.
‘Ooh darlin’, when you’re near me and you tenderly call my name
I know that my emotions are something I just can’t tame…’
Then, without warning, an amazingly vivid hot wet tongue laves the throbbing plexus of Racheal’s loins in direct echo of her fantasy-memory, playing an intimate glissando along her tightly strung labia before encircling the flaming bulb of her clitoris - rendering all attempts to embellish the moment or regain control entirely redundant and stupidly futile.
…All of them are ye… The repetitive voice becomes part of the multiplex soundtrack of the Lady Racheal’s mindblowing trip. The message fades into hypnogogic wallpaper in her awareness as she succumbs to the bliss of uncannily smooth feminine lips and a soft probing tongue that whisper sweet wet nothings to her achingly tender clitoris.
‘I just a-lose control down to my very soul
I get a common cold all over, all over…
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky a’tumbling down…’ +
As she succumbs to an incredible rush of unadulterated pleasure the Lady Racheal feels the younger girl’s hand close on her man’s slippery pole and steer it deeper inside her thrumming sex. Ram’yana gasps when Crystal pulls him partway out and rubs his crown around inside the tripping teenage priestess’s flushed inner membranes. A slippery tongue laps at Racheal’s clitoris and laves the head of her man’s cock as she swoons atop him. Her senses scream and she yearns to feel him all the way inside her again as an unendurable ripple of tormented angst passes through her.
She’s utterly attuned to the feel of Ram’s cock, circling her clitoris and sliding against Chrissie’s tongue – feels his lustiness swelling, preparing to re-enter her at Chrissie’s behest; feels the other girl’s knuckles tickle her trimmed pubic hair when she guides him back closer - but flaring emotions dispel remnant vestiges of flagrant fantasias from bygone times of her lonely pubescence. Twining flares of lust and anger fling the playful enticements of orgiastic bliss into the psychedelic night, hurling her desires away alongside the now tainted image of wee naked Crystal helping milk their immobile captive on a stony, sun-bleached altar.
Racheal is thoroughly disquieted and bitterly disappointed by the blossoming flower of her unbidden jealousy – the blooming spume of toxic envy that sours and scours her soul; the useless baggage of stupid programs that so swiftly spoil and congeal a secret incipient wish to make love with another girl – a really beautiful girl, just like Crystal. But he’s mine…
He’s you… the inner voice tells her, and she dispels the unwanted interruption by concentrating on the familiar fantasy imagery that had earlier transfixed her awareness. No… that’s just recreating the same reality, she tells herself. Get away… leave them… no… As she pauses, wracked with indecision, the wondrous sensations of Crystal’s hot breath and Ram’s slippery whetted crown break her impending resolution to run from the hall and render all mentation redundant.
She focuses on fleeing images of them both sharing a captive male on the windswept outcrop of a native stone altar; yet the spry younger redhead’s questing tongue and facile hands quickly twist her fantasies’ usually unfailing incitements – that have always bridged the gap to inevitable orgasm - into mere nymphomaniac satires of satyric bemusement. Rapine images echo and fade inside the expanded confines of Racheal’s tripping mind while she squirms athwart her rousing boyfriend, slowly but surely succumbing to livid reality. Laughter assails her from all sides and she tries to cover his nakedness with her own, slipping a little closer while the soft hot cap of Ram’s hard throbbing cock rubs round and around her flaming clitoris and a limber tongue licks her freshly shorn labia.
The other girl’s head keeps plunging down and up between her spreading thighs - a delectable sensation as Racheal shivers with shock and ecstasy; far more resplendently tactile than any dim fantasy image or memory, she swiftly realises. She quivers when a lithe slippery tongue replaces Ram’s fleshy knob and rotates around her swollen clitoris in its stead as his hardness thrusts up inside her. Oh, Chrissie... Her secret dream resurges and singing flesh and screaming nerves begin to thrill to the consummation of her longed for wish. She luxuriates in the gently smooth caress of the younger girl’s deliciously soft and stubble-free feminine lips; Chrissie’s mouth, mmm... and her prince’s cock glides halfway inside her.
A stunning jolt bolts up her spine when a much larger nude body suddenly bumps against her shoulder blade. By the time she realises whose heavy sweaty flesh has almost dislodged her from Ram’s shaft, the solid mass of masculine muscle has already bounced away. She glances over one shoulder and sees Arne Stook pleasuring his newfound redhead waif with customarily boyish enthusiasm, riding his crouching, partly clad filly from behind while he grasps the reins of her russet mane.
The priestess eases down around her prince’s bobbing erection, pushing Crystal’s face away from his sex with the spreading globes of her derriere. On this night of nights and after the peak of her Centraxian initiation ceremony, Ram’s swollen crown is the key to all mysteries – a familiar touchstone she knows can fulfil all her needs, and the only thing that can surely distract her from all the morphing shapes that move through the populous hall and the raucous voices that lend wry encouragements to their public disporting.
Racheal grips her prize in a tightly clenched fist and spreads her fleshy wings about her pet cock’s bulging summit, but just as she begins to fly down her mate’s whetted pillar Arne’s rough fingertips tentatively begin stroking the base of her spine. Her gasp is lost amidst booming sounds of riotous revelry and a pounding crescendo of gathering drumbeats.
Occasional flashes of blinding light leave flickering afterimages of her prince’s naked face and unclothed body in Racheal’s electrified mindscape; light-cast life masks that endure and transform in her vision instead of rapidly dissolving away like the swiftly fading wet dream deathmasks of her old bold fantasies. The surreal feel of another female licking the place where her roundly stretched labia and the sex-juiced pillar of her lover join is a far more visceral reality than the memorised images of prettified seduction and rapine surrender that had ignited her solitary climaxes in bygone years.
Arne’s lightly stubbled chin alights on Racheal’s shoulder and his rocking frame leans closer. A slippery tongue swirls around Ram’s shaft and licks her silky inner lips as she glides back up along his length. The sensations of a sweaty male chest moving against her shoulder and a sandpaper cheekbone sliding against her jawline - as Arne leans forward and his frame looms around her - are every bit as arousing as the tongue-lashing the overgrown boy’s girlfriend bestows. Crystal’s lips and tongue are scintillating filigrees that adorn the searing pleasure of fucking fulfilment as her young man finally begins to respond and completely fills her with rock-hard young cock.
Ye are all of them…
Let me be… she tells the intrusive silent voice. Waves of unnameable emotions pour through the priestess’s plasm, accompanied by fleeing encyclopaedias of foreign words and indecipherable images. The longhall twists through convoluted dimensions, twinkling candles and dim dancing bodies all retreating away along a bright swirling tunnel. She drives all the way down around her steely erection and all cares instantly dissolve when she starts to fuck herself with every last inch of the thick, ever ready, utterly satisfying length of rock hard young cock she knows so well - lost in furious ecstatic abandon while Crystal attempts to regain contact with her plunging, rising, plummeting loins.
A brilliant flash of light reveal’s Ram’s features in graven detail and she suddenly realises his paroxysmic thrusts and unselfconscious leer faithfully mirror the expressive mask of her own hell-bent ferocity. The vision of his manic expression bleeds away into a vein-shot mantle of flickering darkness that swiftly reins over the hall. The unflattering reflection of her furious self-satisfied lust serves to slow Racheal’s rushing advance more surely than any inward admonishment.
…Dreaming them all… and all of them are in thee, dreaming…
She struggles amidst the sheer addictive pleasure of mindless feral fucking and gradually slows the frantic bucking of her hips until every skidding millimetre of slick meeting flesh is a mind-blowing experience of rapturous swelling eternity; far more arousing, extraordinary, and rivetingly time-defeating than her earlier full-length self impalements. Crystal’s hot breath adds a frisson of novel sensation as the tiny redhead shivers and grunts beneath Arne’s accelerating pounding. Racheal gasps when his meaty hand reaches around her body to squeeze each of her breasts in turn while he fucks the other girl. She almost stops moving when his lips start suckling at the base of her neck and slide along her shoulder.
Spiralling vortices of violet and purple light surround interlocked mammalian bodies and swirl about the crowded aerie of their squeaky spring mattress. Beyond their minute islet a pool of lava extends to the rim of the world, pouring from the maw of the open fireplace to lap at the shore of their bower, scant inches from Racheal’s widely splayed bare toes. White-winged amber monkeys circle their disporting flesh and a miniature pod of breaching blue whales furrow the dance floor’s magma carpet with curling turquoise waves, all following a heading that curves toward the magnetic locus of her flaring sexuality.
…All is one…
The Lady Racheal notices she can see in all directions at once - wholly, seamlessly, simultaneously - as her synthesising senses interpenetrate the illusions of matter and mind. The material world and potential worlds of other plenums grow transparent to her expanding awareness as she ascends beyond the confines of coiling mortality. A swarming hive of unforseen scenes, unheralded ideas and undreamt imaginings arise from somewhere or someone else, or from a great many others - the colourful interweaving presences of a vast tribe of people, all strung together like iridescent pearls in a Gordian necklace of blown-away minds.
As her awareness vibrates into an encircling torus around the vibrant lingam that utterly fills her, the very High Priestess of Centraxis ascends into a blissful nirvana of timeless exaltation. Her body sways atop her mate and her mind orbits a rimming ring around an unseen zenith of sheer undemanding nothingness, the annihilating meeting point of every cause and complement; life and love, loving and lover, body and mind, sleep and waking, death and immortality, inarticulate deafness and illusion-dispelling awareness all meld into a fountaining fusion of rainbow light that...
A True Story
Images – Author’s
+ Tapestry lyrics copyright by Carol King
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com/
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From The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com