Tuesday, 28 December 2010
Friday, 17 December 2010
Occulted Realities: Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 25
Occulted Realities
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 25
*
Time was running out. If the shaman prince couldn’t find ‘suitable employment’ he’d be called back to court, and possibly incarcerated. The magistrate had decreed he must return to live at his parents’ home or lose his freedom, but that particular condition of ongoing liberty was an untenable proposition for the teenage mage.
Thus far his luck had held true. When he’d left the hidden cottage of Great Thorne and moved into the Centraxian stronghold instead of returning to his family home, his parents hadn’t tried to intervene. They’d even covered his tracks, keeping the authorities at bay with ingrained subterfuge and canny misdirection. That he now had an apartment of his own on the far side of the deep harbour was a further affront to the orders of the court – a fact entirely irrelevant to the occulted realities of the young shaman’s magical life.
Both sides of his remnant family tree had survived generations of fateful experiences with the murderous habits and dire calumnies of straight jacketed beurocrats and uniformed authority figures - more than enough blood, sweat, tears and terrors to breed a healthy distrust of all burghers, commissars, officers, commandants, constables, judges and tyrannical hypocrites. Their bloodlines were thinned to tattered threads by endless pogroms and cyclic wars. Now family came first, friends were firmly fixed in second place and mainstream society ran a distant third in the human race. Despite his parents’ adherence to the generally useful and protective Rule of Law, authoritarian control freaks figured little in their estimation.
His choice of abode remained free and unimpaired, but the court insisted he find a full time job. The fact he was already engaged in plethora of part time work and various studies mattered not a whit; the court’s attention was entirely focused on endless paperwork. The machinery of the law would only be satisfied by legitimate full time employment. Not even a return to formal schooling could offer respite from this ironclad decree; the only alternative was genuine incapacitation.
When he was busted he counted himself fortunate that times had changed. He was too young to be drafted into the army and could no longer be sent off to the poisoned jungles and muddy paddies of ravaged Vietnam (a fate that previously befell many in his position), as that Great Patriotic War was finally over; officially, at least.
“It won’t hurt you to talk to him,” Ram’s mother had advised when his parents suggested he speak with his father’s employer. “He seems a very nice man.”
“He is,” her husband agreed with an earthquake rumble, “and you’re running out of time. Come into work with me tomorrow and I’ll introduce you. Just listen to what he has to say.”
“But it’s a drug company!” their son objected. “You don’t think the court would allow me to work there, do you?”
“They have no choice,” his father Genius had said, with features set into a stern mask of certainty. “It’s full time work.”
“And you’d be getting much better pay than you are now,” Bonnie pointed out with an encouraging smile.
“But how shall I finish the animation at the Film and TV school? And what can I tell the Culture Palace?” His parents knew nothing of his magical Work with The Dawn of Ra and little of his involvement with the Court of the Centrax, and he didn’t mention these other less mundane commitments.
“I spoke to Mr Townsend,” Bonnie confided. “The TV show may be coming up after all. He’s working on another pilot and wants to use your time lapse footage…”
“He wasn’t knocked back by the network this time,” Genius affirmed. “But even if it does go into production, it won’t happen for months.”
“So go in and talk to Mr Smothers with your father tomorrow. It can’t hurt.”
“It can, y’know.” The Lady Racheal’s entry was unexpected; her demurral even more so. Neither sound nor sign announced the girl’s presence before her contralto tones joined the discussion. Ram’s witchy bride strode into the carpeted lounge with a soft barefoot tread. She’d been sunning her pallid skin in the pocket wilderness of the unkempt suburban back yard. Dewdrops of perspiration beaded her brow and her lightly freckled cheeks were thoroughly flushed. “But only thy pride.”
“There’s nothing demeaning about honest work,” Genius insisted. “And sometimes we have to take whatever’s on offer.” He knew whereof he spoke. Ram’s father had only taken a manual job with a pharmaceutical company after all other preferences had been exhausted. Age had narrowed his options. Being cast back into the workforce at the age of forty-seven hadn’t proven a liberating experience for Genius, whose promising formal studies had been terminated by Stalin’s gulags. “I’ll take you into work the day after tomorrow,” he announced decisively; “If your probation officer is satisfied tomorrow,” he amended.
“Do you think the house is clean enough?” Bonnie asked nervously.
“The parts she’ll need to see are,” Genius told her. “Everything will be all right. I’ll drive Racheal into town on the way to work and you’ll have plenty of time before she gets here.”
“Thanks for your help, dear,” Bonnie said to the younger woman. “It’s all been a bit overwhelming.”
“I think it looks great,” Racheal assured her. “It’s just a pity the piano doesn’t work – otherwise he could really impress her.”
“It’s a shame the mice got in…”
‘That sort of thing won’t matter to her,” Genius said, waving a sceptre-like stick of cabanossi with a dismissive air. “They just need to believe you’re living here and know you have a job lined up. So it’s decided; we’ll go see Mister Smothers.”
Bonnie stopped fussing with the ornaments that covered the top of the upright piano. She turned to face Racheal as she pulled a cloth cover all the way down to cover the brazen clawed feet of Genius’ hastily hidden steel safe. “You’re a vegetarian, too, aren’t you?” she enquired.
“Usually.”
“Then let’s start on dinner – do you mind?”
Racheal’s smile was wide and warm; “Not at all.”
“Your brother will be back soon and we can all watch the Sunday night movie before getting an early night,” Genius declared with a pointed glance at the teenage lovers. “When the probation officer is happy you can stay up as long as you like – and wherever you want.”
Ram’yana hadn’t wanted to tell his bride of his recent adventure for fear of alarming her and bringing horrendous memories back to the fore of her awareness. Yet she had to be told. Later that night as they lay close and warm, staring into each other’s eyes in the narrow confines of Ram’s childhood bed, he informed his ladylove about the police who’d knocked at the nailed-shut door of her tumbledown squat. “I had to climb over the brick wall at the back of the building while they were coming down the side passageway…”
Racheal’s brow flexed and knotted. “How many?”
“Two or three; I’m not sure. I was out of sight behind the wall…”
“How didst thou get over the wall?” Racheal asked as she began to caress his smooth flank. The high brick wall was an imposing obstacle. “I thought the back entrance was nigh impregnable.”
“Aye, it is from the other side; there was nothing there but a twenty foot drop so I hung over the edge and shimmied across to the empty building next door.”
“And they didn’t see thee?”
“Not even when that damned dog started barking. ’Tis just as well we’re staying here tonight,” he confided. His long nailed fingertips stroked tangles from the blonde tresses cascading over her shoulder and covering her fulsome breasts. “Mayhap we’ll avoid thy place - for a few days at least.” Her only reply had been a silent upwelling of tears, and Ram’yana kissed the salty flow from her cheeks while he held her as tenderly as possible. But we’ll certainly not be staying at Rendel’s again, he told himself.
He hadn’t wanted to speak of the police to her; not after what she’d experienced, but she had to know. He didn’t tell her everything. Unwilling to alarm his injured ladylove, he omitted most details of his adventure – how he’d barely managed to make it onto the wall and almost slipped from the crumbled broken bricks as he tottered atop them; the pair of metho-swilling derros whose shaggy heads had turned in his direction, espying him from an adjacent squat; the sudden realisation that their hidden perch provided a full view of Racheal’s shattered but barely functioning bathroom.
He’d attempted to crawl across the narrow wall only to slip and fall, barely grasping for purchase before he tumbled onto the shattered floor joists and broken metal pipes of the demolished dwelling on the other side; how he’d hung there, listening to the crunching approach of heavy footfalls while his bare feet scrabbled for a toehold in the crumbling brickwork; the smattering of conversation he’d overheard from within Racheal’s nest while he shimmied sideways, crablike, toward the roof of a broken outhouse.
“Looks like she’s staying here all right,” a strangely eager voice had said. “But we missed her this time.” Sounds of minor mayhem erupted from the decrepit interior while a tangled lock of Ram’s hair snagged in a crevice. An authoritative tone sliced through the clatter; “Watch yer step there. This place’s a deathtrap.”
“But there might be some…”
“Don’ worry ’bout that shit, constable. Yer sure this is the one?”
“Sure – look at this photo album. That’s her for sure.”
“Which one?”
“The blonde hippy slut – hey, have a gander at this one! Starkers!”
“Hand it over.” Ram’s toes curled onto a narrow ledge. He carefully tore his hair loose from the crevice and edged further away as the sounds retreated into Racheal’s squat. “Less come back later ’en,” he heard as the voices became more indistinct. “If yer reckon it’s worth it. She’s a looker all right.”
“Too right she is…” Their converse was drowned out when a dog suddenly started barking so closely to hand that Ram’yana almost lost his grip. He turned to see the blood-rimmed eyes and flashing yellow fangs of a familiar black hound almost directly below him. He glared at the noisesome beast, fervently hoping the unseen cops would believe it was barking at them and that the animal’s owner wasn’t somewhere nearby.
The rear exit wasn’t anywhere near as easy an escape route as the last wall he’d vaulted to escape pursuing police – but that time his flight had been fuelled by a purple barrel of LSD and an enormous boost of adrenaline. That wall had been a much wider and more solid sandstone edifice; the Cold Wanderer and he had been able to tightrope walk to freedom along its levelled top under cover of darkness.
This time he hung from damaged brickwork in broad sunny daylight and barely managed to scrabble into a hidden declivity where two half-toppled rooves joined at an angle. He huddled there, nodding to the rheumy gazes of the derros who watched him hide from the cops while the hound barked its lungs out directly below. He’d managed to elude the canine by scrabbling across cracked roof tiles until he was three condemned houses distant, and dropped into a cluttered laneway between shattered buildings.
“We can stay at my place,” he suggested as Racheal buried her face in his mane and draped a long silken leg over his thigh, pressing closer. Yet the next stormy night found the young Centraxian Hierophant and High Priestess comfortably ensconced in the sandstock manse of The Dawn of Ra.
An alpha male portion of Ram’s personality longs to continue pinning the Centraxian High Priestess’s athletic little body down on the bed while they mate in the magic group’s healing chamber. An insistent, insatiable part of him wants to fuck her all through the long stormy night, lancing the boiling heat of her roiling innards with the lengthy sceptre of his rock-hard young cock – to listen to her unsullied screams as he reams her through and through with the uncontrollably delightful and endlessly rock-hard goad of his rampant teenage erection.
Yet even as he strives to prod and push and lure his lover into the abyssal depths of blinding ecstasy he examines his motives; Is this really what I want? What she wants? The ancestral archetype of a prime mate warrior within craves to brand the girl’s womb with his emblazoning semen – to make her his own private ever-loving sex partner, enslaved by her love and her need for his cock, his tongue, his tender phrases and loving caress, and, most of all, his endless loving need for her.
A prepossessing part of the young shaman prince undeniably wants to hold his personal, private, gloriously pleasurable womanimal down and make her come over and again in a gratifying series of mindlessly gut-wrenching climaxes, all through the timeless hours of darkness – not just to experience and demonstrate the power of his unbridled maleness, but to show her his undying love through unending desire, and to reconfirm his ability to satisfy her.
She wants what you want… the inner voice assures him. What I want? he wonders. He yearns to stare into her wide open eyes as she loses it again, completely and willingly; wilfully ravaged by the wild, mind-ripping ecstasies that surge through their fine young bodies and pleasure their finer old souls. Feeling her come… the look on her face, the way her heart races as she screams my name… the feel of her love, naked, complete… what I live for… He stares into the glittering pits of her gaze.
“Love me my love!” she demands between gasps. “Mine…”
“Aye, oh aye,” he agrees, “…oh, Rache…” Yet he restrains his rampant charge and slows his galloping ride, lingering only partway inside each time he re-enters the irresistible heat of her longing. He exults in the pleadingly needful desire that shines from the glaze-smeared patina of salty water in her beautiful slitted blue eyes. “Rache…” He holds her well oiled body down on the bed while the soft velvet bulb of his rigid stamen penetrates the sex-slicked heat of her florid bud.
He throbs inside the tenacious grasp of her sensitive pink petals and longs to see his ladylove’s wondrous blue eyes more clearly as he suspends his weight above her. Then he bears down and rears upward, rolling his hips to pierce his uncharacteristically submissive young bride to the pink steaming quick of her core. Her eyelids burst open and an unfettered groan surges from her spittle-wet darkly blushed lips.
“I want to make love with you…” he whispers into her hair while he fills her completely. The young shaman pauses, buried to the hilt inside his inebriated witch girl, throbbing closer than close as he holds her undivided attention. And all the while he subjects his animal self to an endless critique; Getting off on this… sick fantasy… makes me no better than… The thoughts come sluggishly, stuttering through the sex-numbed anaesthesia of his arousal; …the guy… the guys... who raped her…
But it’s what she wants… a slightly different inner voice cajoles. Ram’yana is certain he tastes the flavour of another’s mind in its unfamiliar timbre. Not hers, he’s certain. Our voyeur? he wonders, belatedly recalling the lurker who stands in the room some short distance behind them. He tries to divine the identity of the watching other without taking his eyes from his beloved’s enraptured expression. Is it Daniel, returned for another taste of her?
Make her come… It’s obvious the authoritative young High Priestess can easily break free of his one handed grasp if she wishes, but she seems to relish playing the role of a helpless sex slave. The Centraxian High Priestess has made love so many times in the two dozen moons since she first met her Hierophant that her body and mind are now thoroughly entrained to endless fucking and ongoing orgasms; she pines, bereft and lost without nightly sex.
Ram’s feverish lingam pulsates against the soft billows of her cervix. He revels in his lover’s beauty as he pins her pallid butterfly form to the silk. His free hand caresses her slim slippery torso and slides across the slick surface of her sleek curvaceous flank. Go on, the unspoken voice cajoles while Racheal’s body squirms beneath his rigid frame, attempting to pleasure her self and them both. Give her what she wants… what you want…
Is this what I want? The teenage mage knows his damaged young bride can’t be allowed to fall into the trap of enjoying this form of abusive sex play too much, or often. I don’t want her to get addicted to this… Yet his Lady Racheal shimmies and moans and squirms beneath him, wordlessly begging for even deeper contact while he holds her down and impales her completely. I don’t want to get used to it, either… All articulate thought begins to dissolve when he feels a familiar electric pressure pass between them as Racheal’s next climax begins to rear through their interjoined bodies and mingling souls.
Every time Racheal’s breasts rise and fall his hairless chest makes glancing contact with the hard nubbins of her swollen nipples, rubbing against their rubbery protuberances and the unspeakable softness of her puckering aureoles. He tingles with the electrifying thrill of spark-gap contact when each gasping breath judders through the spreading ribcage of his shuddering bride. The softly padded firmness of her bountiful teats quivers and pulses with each rapid heartbeat while her eyes pan and tilt in random directions in the electrified lightning-shot dark.
The wanton priestess has already come thrice and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold himself back. He longs to blast gouts of thick sticky cream inside his bride as he rides the wild tide of her next oncoming orgasm alongside and inside her. But he wants even more; the Prince of Centraxis wants to make this bliss last forever and ever - to feel his beloved come over and again, all through the night and next dawning morn; and time slows to fulfil his magical will. “Love…” he purrs.
“Uh… love…” Racheal gasps as her hips rock away, glacially slow and volcanically hot. She sucks his full length through the vice of her sex and inexorable tremors pound in Ram’s depths. After an aeon her pelvis begins to roll all the way back until her buttocks press against his thighs and she can take no more; his crown juts up against her womb. “Uhh… nhh… love you uhh…” Words and acts are hers and his, combined.
The entire world fades and each glorious instant stretches toward eternity as a blast of light bursts through the open window. Unforgettable intensity engraves an immortalising vision of Racheal’s gorgeous enraptured face, shining within the corona of her spreading mane - her irrepressible wordless entreaties - the engorging, lubricious, sensational feel of her - the inimitable scent of her bodily essences beneath an aromatic cloak of floral oils – into Ram’s random access memory.
She pants the fragrant exhaust of a soundless scream up into his face. He watches and feels the orgasm blossom inside them while her smooth oily buttocks bounce up into his tightening balls. He rises almost all the way out of her clasping embrace, lingering just within the threshold of her dreamy elasticity, and feels a cool breeze waft across his hypersensitised cunt-whetted cock as he tries to hold back his surging seed. They shiver on the edge of separation like a pair of conjoined twins awaiting the surgeon’s blade.
“Love…” he breathes, and holds her hips down while she quivers with unsated need.
“Mmm…” she moans as her tongue fills his mouth. The teenage lovers quiver to an eternal beat in a timeless fugue. Their lips meet and tremble together as they share breath and struggle for stillness. Heart pounds against heart through close-pressed chests. Both sets of Racheal’s lips endeavour to pull her mate closer while her breasts cushion his slow descent onto and into her tautly strung frame. Minds meld and bodies throb with anciently primal pulsations of freshly meeting meaty flesh. Her uncannily glowing titian body automatically tries to draw her mate all the way back down inside the magic rabbit hole of being and becoming.
“Ramses…” The priestess’s sex-addicted flesh automatically struggles to draw him closer, further, deeper. “Hold me, hold me down… fuck me!” she moans while he shifts his grip to grasp a wrist in each encircling hand. Racheal’s ankles spring free and his elbows jab into the slippery backs of her knees, pinning them to the oil-stained silk sheet and spreading her wider. Her eyelids slam shut. “Don’t stop,” she pleads with plosive gasps as she wriggles and writhes around the summit of his cock, trying to rekindle her fading fantasy with determinedly futile attempts at complete self-impalement. “Keep using me, ohh… mm loving me… uhh… want me my love, uh… as I want thee…
“Fuck me…”
So he does.
Yet the prince is determined not to fuck his willing girlfriend in a mindless frenetic rush toward rapid release. He restrains his body’s intoxicated thrall to the Lady Racheal’s delectable charms and reins in his freewheeling imagination. He doesn’t want to screw his way through his ladylove’s receptive little body and get carried away too quickly, lest he prematurely shoot jets of soul-tearing semen inside her fertile womb - thereby finishing (no matter how temporarily) their gloriously extending and endlessly arousing encounter.
Besides, after he’s come inside a girl the prince often finds making love less satisfyingly tactile and immediate. There’s less sheer untrammelled contact and the experience is far more lubricious - less gripping. The well endowed shaman usually stays solidly large enough to satisfy his lovers’ ongoing lust after he comes, even before his next resurgence to full rigidity; but making love feels nowhere near as intense until he’s completely hard for her again. Now, after a blissfully interminable time moving to the addictive rhythms of his intemperate bride, he’s finally about to come inside her whether he wants to or not.
He shifts his grip, holding the flaring flange of her womanly hips down on the mattress. He balances his mass atop the stony pillar of his lust and hesitates above her before allowing gravity to slowly ram his cock down into his young woman’s tautly resistant interior. “Slower,” he tells her as he sinks back inside, riding her almost all the way home in one stroke; Racheal’s unmistakeable answer is a deeply gratified groan.
He holds her quivering body down with carefully judged applications of his slightly overmassing weight and begins to pull all the way out of her tightly sucking heat while ineluctably strong female muscles bunch and grip, straining to hold him inside. He stops and pushes halfway back through the drenched clenching ring of Racheal’s tight inner lips before withdrawing almost all the way out, over and again, inducing more gasps and deep-throated moans from his wide eyed priestess bride.
He tickles his witch girl’s familiar fancy with experienced fingertips. Each time he withdraws his whetted shaft from the clutching hutch of her smoothly shaved, unguent-slicked loins he feels a cool breath of wind pour down through the window. It blows against his juice-slicked cock and he knows its cool breathy touch sends thrilling tingles through Racheal as well. The wind comes in gusts, to and fro, back and forth; the breath of an approaching god or an onlooking goddess as big as the storm that encircles the city. The shaman matches his billowing breaths to the cycle of the wind and feels his mate do the same – feels the wind inducing them both to unite into a single, interpenetrating, hermaphroditic being or beast. He plunges more deeply in a long, slow thrust toward absolute union.
The inner voice returns, unbidden; Plant your seed inside her womb…
The Lady Racheal moans into the coal dark windswept night while rain beats at the roof of the old sandstone manse. Her wordless contralto oration almost smothers a kneecap’s loud crack as a silent someone moves on the floorboards nearby. The priestess is far gone in lust and desire; her prince hears the noise but remains unconcerned.
He relegates the barely obtrusive presence to a throwaway file of meaningless distractions – a list that includes almost all of the cosmos near and far, past present and future - and becomes completely immersed in the sensational bliss of complete tantric union. He cares not what another may see or think as they watch him possessed by Racheal’s charms - whether they perceive a naked teenage savage pleasuring himself inside his wanton nubile girlfriend as he holds her down and fucks her into slathering submission, or a monstrous act of genuine rape in the healing chamber of the Dawn of Ra.
Racheal squirms and shifts and moans beneath him as she ripples around his rigid radiant lance. Her entire sleek body is wracked with spasms and she writhes with unexpected power and fury, adding incredible twists and twirls to her repertoire of inward tantric moves. She makes her young man gasp with pleasured surprise as he tries to withhold his orgasm. “Oh, Rache…” Ram’s eyes roll upward, following the trajectory of the extraordinary sensation that makes hackles rise along his spine. Racheal manages to free one leg from his slipping grip and swivels partway out from beneath his slightly overmassing body. “Rache…”
She smiles when she hears this endearment. Her eyes squeeze shut and she opens herself wider for her conqueror’s inexorable advance. “Ramses...” She raises a delicate foot through a wavy sheet of lustrous hair while she twists her hips upward, squirming so tightly around the unwithheld half of her lover’s long lingam that he groans with astounded delight. She wraps her slippery limb round Ram’s thigh and locks wriggling toes behind his bent knee, squeezing his leg upward and inward and using this leverage to jam her young man’s long, stout, oil-smooth cock almost all the way inside. The needily grasping muscles of her taut young belly grasp him tightly as she vibrates beneath him, trembling with pleasure.
Ram’yana balances on elbows and knees above Racheal’s half-immobilised body. He gasps with visceral shock as his curly pubic hair tickles the incredibly smooth shaven loins of his stunningly beautiful beloved. Their inevitable kiss is an enduring capstone surmounting the slippery close pressed walls of their oil-anointed skins. An uplifting tenderness rears above the desperate sensuous strivings of their perpetually eager and ever ready teenaged bodies. Ram’yana allows gravity’s tug to piledrive his shaft right up inside his loving bride. He revels in her resonant groan when he refills her completely and stretches her steamy seams to their fullest extent.
When their lips finally part the Centraxian High Priestess quivers around the magical wand of her princely mage; grasping, kneading, completely embracing the sleek hard length of her chosen young male. She breathes a carefully stored-up evocation between her consort’s parted lips; “Pan…” The word coincides with a salacious inward grasp. “Pan…” she repeats in a deepening tone, gripping him even more tightly.
The shaman’s shaft is sunk deep inside her, battering at the womb of his slender wanton woman - throbbing and pulsing inside the blazing core of her very marrow. He holds back the tide that impels him to move, to thrust downward, to glide inward and upward inside the familiar hearth of her heatedness - to ride his alluring, athletic, responsive girlfriend into the oblivion of another orgasm and far, far beyond.
“Io Pan…” she calls. A grand force begins to swell in the pit of Ram’s sacrum, firing his blood with pulsating strength as the High Priestess’s sibilant whisper drains into the rumbling night. He releases her limbs and they spring forth to enfold him at once, arms locking round his neck and legs wrapped behind his back as she pulls herself upward around him.
“Take me, oh make me, my God!”
*
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Further True Tales from the Prince of Centraxis –
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
And
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Illuminati/320674219559
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
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