Prince of Centraxis

Captivated - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 21

2009-12-15T16:16:00.003+11:00

Captivated

Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 21

His new probation officer could scarcely have been more different in appearance and manner than the tired old man he’d encountered months earlier. The previous occupant of the office - a smoke-stained, half drunk, grey haired, waistcoated aging queen - had allayed the underage shaman’s trepidation with an airy wave of a skinny wrist from the midst of a cloud of wine-mulled tobacco. Now the grimy old utilitarian wooden office door opened to reveal a youngish woman dressed in trendily slim designer jeans and a surprisingly revealing turtle necked sweater in a matching shade of blue: A civilian cop, the teenage mage decided while he stood in the doorway.

When she summoned the young offender through the wood-framed threshold, Ram’s new probation officer’s large brown eyes had orbited within a minimalist fantasia of makeup and mascara. The comely young woman had looked away, momentarily glancing back in his direction with a querulous doubletake as she introduced herself. She regarded him with a sly sidewise stare, betraying an ingrained cautious appraised of the unkempt long haired hippy. When he stepped into the office she automatically adjusted her face into a pleasantly formed study in thoughtfully pretty and proper concern; Smart… the prince decided, and dangerously good looking.

She was replacing a file atop a wall-high bookshelf and her fine long legs and womanly curves caught Ram’s eye as her gamine body stretched to tippee-toe limits. The young shaman kept his eyes on the perfectly rounded yet slender globes encased in her tubular blue denim jeans as he closed the door. He felt an untimely resurrection of his irrepressible lustiness stirring in mind and body, threatening to create an embarrassment of riches in his cotton drawstring pants. “Take a seat,” she said with her backside still facing him, and his irreverent mind considered the seat of her jeans as he reached for a plastic chair set before the broad wooden desk.

The building and room were the same as before; narrow nineteenth-century windows adorned with thin iron bars and a crisscross of wires provided insufficient light to the tall squarish chamber, which exuded an aura of gloomy resignation. On the way upstairs he’d been forced against the carven paint-chipped balustrade by a territorial procession of cops and robbers, glaring detectives and bored career criminals who all proclaimed any available turf as their own. The sombre building was only a block from the inner city Children’s Court where he’d been briefly incarcerated and subsequently sentenced to carefully leashed freedom several moons earlier.

The woman spoke into the shelving; “I’ll just be a moment.” He’d tried not to reveal the natural evidence of post-adolescent interest when she turned from the shelf and met his green eyes. “I must begin with an apology,” she said while her eyes flickered down and up along the length of his slender body, lingering at his knee-length bas-relief boots; he’d polished them to a bright sheen earlier that morning. She hesitated for a barely noticeable instant before proffering a slim ringless hand in a businesslike shake. “Your previous case officer left us with an untidy mess and it’s taken quite some time to catch up with you.”

Her accent was an apt example of what Ram’s immigrant father Genius referred to as ‘cultured Australian’; a pure enunciation of the English language with neither inflective slang nor regional dialect to mar its tidy crispness. The shaman had learned to speak in precisely this manner at his grandfather’s knee - not via his father’s father’s virtually impenetrable multilingual speech patterns, but from the government radio station the old Bundist listened to in any spare moment.

The boy had developed a perfectly enunciated quasi-English accent before reaching kindergarten, only to subsequently abandon that high-flying speech pattern when he realised hardly anyone really spoke in that way; not in the ‘real’ world of bully-filled playgrounds, populous public parks, immigrant’s shops, crowded cinemas or grass-verged suburban footpaths.

He altered the rough-and-tumble persona he’d defensively adopted on the way upstairs to provide the woman with that which she most desired; an intelligible series of florid grace notes that suited the well-trimmed garden of her own carefully grown syllables. “That’s quite all right,” he said with a glance at the piles of files in folders and folios that teetered and slid on the overcrowded desk. “I’m sure you’ve been quite busy.”

“As I said, I’ve just caught up with you.” Her tawny eyes narrowed when she spied his incipient smirk. “And I understand you’re no longer living at home with your parents.”

“Well,” he admitted by way of misdirection, “I am eighteen…”

“That’s true,” she agreed, “but the conditions of your bond clearly state that you need to be living in suitable accommodation approved by this office. You’re supposed to be living at home at present, unless this office makes other arrangements for you.” Ram’s plan had hatched and emerged fully blown in the moment she inclined her head and opened his file on the desktop. “I’m just moving back there this week,” he told her, secure in the narrow omissive truthfulness of his statement.

“You only have a few weeks before your bond is completed. You might as well stick it out – unless there’s some trouble at home you’d like to talk to me about?” Her eyes drifted up from the paperwork and fixed on the pentagram-scribed circular talisman hanging at his throat. She’s probably only about twenty-three, he surmised, twenty-five at the most…

He wanted to tell her the truth - “I’ve been squatting in various derelict houses for years, but I’ve just rented a flat on the North Shore with my girlfriend” – but the shaman’s wiser, more reticent self took change of his voice box and tongue. “No – nothing like that,” he declared. His air of sincerity was somewhat tainted by the squirming required to hide his erection beneath the officer’s desk.

His indomitable tumescence – which had been slowly subsiding in the withering onslaught of her beurocratic speech – resumed its upward climb when her eyes flashed up from the Silver Seal of the Dawn of Ra and held his soul on the lance of her gaze. He felt like a twisting fish speared by the unreadable currents of intent in the young woman’s lustrous eyes. The white pickets of her teeth bit into her upper lip; their tips became tinted with the carmine stain of her lipstick as her legs shifted beneath the desk. He crossed his legs in the uncomfortable chair while he watched a curious puzzlement turn and twist behind her brown irises. Does she recognise the Seal?

“Then we’ll arrange to meet at your parents’ house in… how does next Tuesday sound? I need to check on the suitability of your lodgings,” she explained with a dawning smile. “And unless you want to go back to school you need to get yourself a job.”

The shaman prince had been certain he could allay her concerns on this thorny point; “I teach photography, filmmaking, darkroom techniques, video production, film editing and a few other things at a youth centre and theatre in Darlinghurst,” he volunteered with a winning smile, certain this laudable list would place him firmly in her good graces. “I work as a lightning technician with Zapco Lightshows and I’m a standby projectionist at the Filmmaker’s Co-op – I’m a full member – and I’ve completed a tutor training course at the Film and Television School; I applied for the three year course but they said I was too young…”

When she saw his eyes shift to the open folio beneath her perky braless breasts the probation officer locked her fingers together, forming a clumpy twinned fist on his file. “That’s a very commendable series of approaches,” she told him. “But you need to find a full time job – or full time study. And universities - or film schools - won’t enrol you until next year.”

A juddering thud resounded through Ram’s being as doors giving egress to the young shaman’s most alluring potential futures clanged shut at the sound of her words. The smiling young woman held the ticket to Ram’s ongoing freedom in the slim folio that filled the officiously clear space on the cluttered desk between them. As the comely female regarded the teenager whose life rested in her manicured hands her mouth turned inward and her eyes widened with an expression he recognised as an unexpectedly flirtatious expectancy. He knew he had no real choice; he’d agree to whatever she suggested, but what he’d actually do remained a moot point.

His first priority was to stay with Racheal. They’d lived together so long that being apart was an amputation.

Racheal’s eyes flash widely open and twin candlelit reflections glitter through the obscuring thatch of the older man’s afro. Her nose periscopes from his bark-hued mantle, slowly preceding the rest of her flushed face. She rises through the funk of her languor to surface through his wavy underbrush while Daniel gently manhandles her fine derriere, incidentally presenting the girl’s delectable loins to her nearby mate.

“Ramses…” she breathes. She floats in Daniel’s loosening grasp and assays Ram’s frozen reaction with a candidly expectant smirk, waggling out of the older man’s grip and assuring herself of her lover’s attention. Daniel gives a slight shrug and a hirsute hand moves to allow the priestess freer rein, slipping around Racheal’s slick white skin to enfold a pale rotund breast. Viscous candlelit flickers in streaks on her thoroughly anointed skin and her other breast peels away from Daniel’s chest, trailing sticky black hairs. The stiff lumpen sausage of his manhood flops from her slim sleek thighs and bounces up against her hairless lips.

Ram’yana witnesses the scene with a blank expression, betraying no obvious sign of assent or denial as he waits to see what the high priestess of the Centrax will do next. The other man appears to fade from sight as the Lady Racheal’s magnetic nude presence is illumined in the narrowing beam of Ram’s attention. The rainbow towel forms a tent over Ram’s groin as he kneels by the low futon bed, staring into the sapphire glow of his injured lover’s gaze.

He can barely envision a threesome with his beautiful teenage bride and the older magician; the chemistry doesn’t seem catalytic enough for the young shaman’s taste and he’s not even slightly attracted to Daniel’s hirsute sweaty bulkiness. He can easily image why his lady would allow one of the band of neophyte healers such unfettered egress to her generous affections, but the plump older man seems an unpromising and uncharacteristic choice, considering the other available alternatives: Unless she’s really spun out after that nightmare ordeal...

Without Ram’s prompting Racheal had promised many moons earlier not to allow any other man’s seed inside her womb, though she ensured other treats remained available for select and sensitive lovers. And that damned rapist cop gave her no choice. He tries not to eye Daniel too suspiciously.

The prince takes refuge in the propriety of their relationship’s oft declared agreements and balks at this unexpected invitation. Racheal hadn’t arranged this ménage beforehand, nor heard any tactfully private assent from her young prince, or vice versa (as they’d supposedly agreed should such an eventuality arise). His egocentric pride rebels against this trifling dishonesty. She probably just went with the flow after her massage, he assuages himself as her fine body slowly unfolds from Daniel’s bulkier frame.

When her oily foot lifts from the other man’s hipbone and rubs up along Ram’s fuzzy thigh he watches windblown light shimmer upon the alluring length of her well oiled limb and his eyes fly to the place where her thighs close around Daniel’s springy erection. Racheal’s smirk transcends into a radiant smile while Ram wills his inconstant bride to reject this latest rival and welcome her true-hearted mate in the older man’s stead. He fairly years to be gifted with his beloved’s presence and craves to be where the other man presently is; closely jammed against her well oiled nubile heat on the silk-covered mattress, less than an inch from the mind-blasting brink of consummation.

He watches Daniel’s grin shine inside his wavy beard while outsized hands swirl Racheal’s oily cheeks and slippery legs round his thigh-sheathed manhood. The priestess’ smile suddenly disappears and her eyes burn into Ram’s with electric entreaty.

“Ramses…” A limp hand rises from Daniel’s shoulder and Racheal reaches for her beloved with a languid arm, twisting away from the older man until her palm meets Ram’s naked chest. His arms reach around to take her as she pulls herself upward into his embrace. The hot oily slipperiness of her naked flesh is utterly arousing as she slips and slides against his wind-cooled skin. She feels utterly relaxed, almost boneless in Ram’s grasp. Through golden strands of Racheal’s trailing hair he watches Daniel shake himself into a more wakeful state, and calms his ruffled would-be rival - or potential lovemaking partner - with a soothing smile bestowed over the alluring teenage priestess’s lightly freckled shoulder.

She shimmies against him and presses her eyes into Ram’s throat, laying a pattering pattern of soft oily kisses over his heart. The soft firm pillows of her slick-sticky breasts slide along his hairless torso. Daniel reassures the younger man with a murmurous tone; “She feels much better now.” His hands rise to caress Racheal’s shoulder blades and slide up and down over her vertebrae. “Thanks,” Racheal breathes into Ram’s chest.

“Aye,” her lover begins, but the priestess silences any further comment with a mouthful of slippery wet tongue. When Racheal draws him into the succour of her heatedness, her prince shifts all the way onto the bed and sinks into the familiar welcoming home of his beloved’s sweet body. Daniel’s hands continue roving her shoulders and ribcage while she wraps long slippery legs around her mate’s slim naked waist.

They kiss in a jumble of hair and limbs while Racheal’s smoothly shaved sex presses down against her young man’s towel-covered erection. Her irresistibly torrid heat sears into chest, ribs and belly while ankles lock tightly behind the small of his back. The prince is only dimly aware when the other man takes his leave of bed and chamber; the lovers busily twine amidst wreathing clouds of smoke and the insuperable bond of their love moulds formfitting frames into a timely conjunction of tender lust-fuelled loving.

The Lady Racheal’s young man is unutterably relieved to discover his beloved girl has survived the gross assault of her recent abuse, relatively intact in more ways than one. She shows gratifying signs of having risen above her ordeal unscarred, if not – temporarily, at least – unmarred. It seems the healing worked, he muses. His hands slide around her slippery body and the hippy lovers swiftly slip into their years-ingrained groove of hot horny fucking, quickly transforming into a pair of exultantly mating teenage primates on a handily vacant silk-covered bed in yet another permissive communal house.

Fuzzy male thighs slide against smoothly firm feminine flanks and tongues mate inside soft melding mouths. The towel slips away in a trice, a rough rainbow veil drawn between closely pressed eager young genitals by Racheal’s nimble paint-stained fingers. A gust of wind almost extinguishes the sole candle when the door swings widely open in the wake of Daniel’s departure. Racheal subsides against Ram’s chest and twiddles the engraved circular talisman at his throat while she asks with a jaunty jiggle; “How went the Rite of Pan?”

“Different,” he whispers, discarding a more detailed reply. His blood still sings in the aftermath of invigorating ritual and refreshing shower. “How went the healing flow?”

“Really fucking fantastic,” she whispers back into his throat. “Truly surprising - particularly coming from mere untrained magi.” She tilts her face upward and smiles into his aroused regard as oil-slicked thighs enfold his erection and squeeze tightly together. “But the massage was even better…”

“Uh… so eye saw.”

“They were all pretty good masseurs.; and Daniel’s nice…”

“So ’t’would seem.”

“Don’t be prissy. Thou shouldst be grateful - he warmed me up for thee, after all…”

“But art thou all right?” he asks, glancing pointedly at her bruised throat as he tenderly touches her inner thighs. “Recovered?” In answer she nips his nipple between shiny white teeth while soft fingertips and sharp nails tickle his ribcage and lightly torment his flank. “An’ anointed for thy pleasure, ’y love,” she manages while gripping his teat with her teeth. “Thou canst finish ’e off. Cung hither,” she orders, slowly falling back onto the bed without releasing his nipple, ensuring he topples atop her. Four grasping hands simultaneously reach for writhing flanks and bunching buttocks, pulling enflamed loins more closely together as utterly attuned and intimately familiar teenage animal bodies automatically strive for unendingly renewed ecstasy in an uplifting blaze of sexual union.

They roll and grapple, twisting together in a miasmic billow of incense, oils, beeswax and pheromones. He winds up halfway beneath his beloved’s slim yet sumptuous body while they kiss on the silken sheet, one furry leg squeezing up between the soft oiled surfaces and firmly lined sluices of her scissoring thighs; in almost the selfsame posture in which he’d found Daniel scant minutes earlier. I’d do the same in his place after all.

Chest and breasts roll together as tongues plunge and thrust in time with the press of undulating bodies. She twists around and balances atop his rigid pole, hesitating on the elastic rim of vivid consummation. Her velveteen heat is breathtaking, raging, unavoidable. “I want to feel you on top of me, pressing me down,” she gasps; “Down here.” He gasps when she reaches for his hardy pillar and twists aside, dragging his body around to slip and slide onto her taut white belly and the swollen pink hillocks of her breasts.

Encased in a slippery firm slimness of feminine softness and serpentine limbs, the tribal shaman presses his priestess down on the mattress. Their kiss is a succulent feast and he strokes the crescent-curved lengths of her sides, caressing his girl from strawberry gold crown to painted toenails while she anoints his familiar offering with lubricious hands. The candle struggles to survive for a few glowing moments before it appears to give up the ghost to the wet wind’s inconstant cold billowing; after many long seconds it surges back to illuminate the blazing passion in the lovers’ interlocked eyes.

A renewed gust of wind pours in through the door and rushes out the window, cleansing most of the lingering shroud of incense from the sandstone chamber. The cloying sweetness is replaced by an arousingly fresh rush of ozone-tinged atmosphere that washes across their entwined nakedness and recharges the enervated batteries of their overtaxed bodies, inciting the lovers into a furious fusion of petting and pashing.

As hips rock and roll and Racheal’s legs rise asplay to provide her man access, the entangling towel bunches up to become an insuperable chastity belt between the slowly thrusting loins of the inseparable lovers. Ram draws the towel through their softest declivities again and rips it from his body while Racheal smothers his face, throat and chest with a flurry of kisses. “Fuck me!” she pleads with unsubtle urgency. “I need to be held down and fucked by thee, hard!”

When he registers the fact that his gasping lover requires no further foreplay, the rugged forcefulness of Ram’s manly young lust thrusts aside his more decorous sensibilities and he decides to give her what she so pleadingly desires. He grasps her hips and holds her down on the mattress while their eyes lock through the tangle of dangling hair. Insistent hands manoeuvre his shaft into position, drawing him into the heat radiating from the open gate of Racheal’s unquenchable furnace; yet her next words serve to unsettle and delay him; “Not like that – hold my hands down… use me my prince, like a helpless vassal held down by thy might, held down and fucked by her lord and master, oh… yeah, mm…”

The bruises on her throat are vicious grape-dark stigmata that keep drawing his gaze from hers; he wills his sight back to her aquamarine eyes. “Let’s make long, strong, slow love,” he suggests, recalling the other bruises darkening the flawless vellum parchment of her inner thighs, hips and breast. “Art thou not in pain, love?”

“Just do it,” she insists, grasping her breasts with both hands, “You know what a woman’s for…” He frowns down at her. “…what we need. Just use my flesh for thy pleasure…” Her pelvis arches until her wet slippery heat encounters his hardness. “…and mine… mm… Make me thine again!” He can’t quite be sure whether her words are meant to be taken in jest or as a sarcastic feminist critique, but when his erection becomes an unendurably burning brand pressed against Racheal’s sleek girlish thigh and butted between her irresistible lips he decides to follow her advice regardless.

Her tongue darts in and out of his mouth and spry fingers grasp his shaft in position as she squirms around to accommodate him. “…Uh, use thy helpless subject, ohh…” She places the cushioning cap of his blood-hot rigidity against her smooth sex and bucks up and down, surrounding Ram’s crown and first inches in torrid elasticity while the teenage lovers gasp a duet of sighs. “…Uh, oh yess…” Her eyes snap open as she fucks for them both. Her heels press valleys into his tightly clenched buttocks and her nipples ripple against his smooth chest while he holds his weight above her. “…Subject me to thine knightly right, mm, and nightly loving, uh… by might…”

At first he allows the strangely warped medieval thoughts to unravel while his wanton young woman attempts to draw him all the way inside her. The idea that she’s dealing with her attack by an act of psychodrama flashes through his mind, yet her words seem an unseemly spell reeling from the oracular priestess’s kissable lips while her thighs squeeze tautly around her mate and eyes squeeze tightly shut; “…Thine to fuck, oh, and use as ye will, mm, oh fuck me lord, to the very hilt…” One slippery pair of lips slide up and down around his crown and clamp tautly into place about his girth while the other babble uncharacteristically seamy sweet nothings; “Oh, fuck yes, uhuh… thy willing vessel to use, uhh, and abuse, uhh…”

He squeezes his raging erection inside her, hoping to silence the unseemly prattle with honest gasps and heartfelt sexual shrieks, but her diatribe merely escalates. “Uhmm, ohh, oh yeah I, mm, submit, uh, like all the others, oh man, uhuh, do it, oh, rape me…” He freezes partway inside her. “Ohh, rape me by divine right of Seigneury, uh…” She squirms around his rigidity, pleading; “Don’t stop!”

He stops.

“Don’t stop, not now!” she pleads. “Is that what thou wilt?” he asks in a whisper. She covers her eyes with her hands and nods. Her words are a breathless gasp; “Hold me down.” The prince rises from the pillows of his Lady Racheal’s breasts and grasps her wrists, raising her arms above her head. “As ye wish.” She hasn’t been like this for a while… not since… he cuts off his musings with an inward shrug, scenting a whiff of treacherously sadistic arousal in the shadow-dappled landscape of his intertwined motivations.

Her eyes remain closed and supine arms remain above her blond mop, hands dangling from the headboard when he grips her slim ankles and hoists her legs upward, pinning them between his chest and her breasts while she quivers in a posture of total submission – a position he knows from long experience that his ladylove sometimes enjoys. Ever since… When he presses her down heels grip his shoulders and talented feminine loins squeeze more tightly, mercifully breaking his chain of thought.

Sleek feminine thighs and calves are silken oiled pillars gliding against his belly and chest while his hands slide around the slippery ripe breasts squeezing upward between her pinioned limbs. His shaft is pressed in the vice of her muscular vulva, riding and ridden as Racheal’s hips rock up and down at a rapid pace. Her heartbeat is virtually audible, pounding against his sensitive fingertips in a death-defying race toward deeper impalement. “Io,” she gasps as his hair cascades around her angelic face, “Ohh, Io Pan!”

Ram’s erection is a rampant rod that he barely restrains as he plummets down deeper inside her. “Oh! Io…” Racheal’s uptilted face betrays a rapturous yet disquieting blend of expectancy, ecstasy, torment and terror as she writhes around the locus of her desire. “Ohh…Pan!” The rhythm of their bodies moves into a voracious harmony as their fingers entwine; he knows what’s coming next. But it’s too much like rape… and it’s not good to enjoy this… The motion of Ram’s hips belies his nobler sentiments.

Racheal takes the initiative and squeezes her arms between her calves, stretching their hands out beside her - pressing calves and ankles downward as her arms lock behind slightly bent knees. He gasps and she moans as her vulva slides up round his girth. It’s not making love… He smooths long strands from her face with his brow, and slides his lips across the viscous skin of her cheek while he holds her down in a contortionist posture of utterly vulnerable helplessness. The question rises anew; Is she getting it out of her system or cutting a deeper wound? “Uhhuh, Io Pan!”

He pulls Racheal’s hands to the corners of the mattress, as far as they’ll go, and her breasts and loins thrust upward against him as he locks her into the yogic knot that the commandingly wilful priestess sometimes paradoxically craves; a helpless bundle of utterly exposed and vulnerable orifices and enflamed horny membranes, ripe for plucking and ready for fucking. He moans her name when she squeezes more tightly and deeply around him; Racheal suddenly relaxes into a supine mound of immobilised gasping receptivity and whispers his name in return, then, “Do it! Use me like they do…”

The Centraxian High Priestess rarely makes such direct demands, yet despite the almost unstoppable urge to completely and immediately impale his delightfully wanton vixen and hear her cry out in agonising ecstasy, the shaman prince hesitates and rises away from her heaving flesh. “Use me,” she hisses, eyes unreadably sealed. Her slippery heat is intolerably alluring as she slithers and shivers around and beneath him. “This flesh is thy willing vessel,” she murmurs. “My offering for thine my lord, my sovereign master. Don’t tease me like this!” Use thy horny woman creature now!” she demands. “Just do it – hold me down and rape me!”

The prince dives down upon her, balancing almost all of his weight on the rigid fulcrum of his erection and cramming his way inside his girl’s pulsating flesh until she emits a drawn out groan. She tries to rise with him and her lips find his tongue when he partly pulls away, belatedly alarmed by her malefic command.

Despite a few lividly recalled precedents of similar submissive demands that he ruthlessly dominate her, Racheal has never before used the benighted ‘r’ word – never actually asked to be raped while he held her down and fucked her; And this night she’s used it more than once, he recalls, despite his impassioned fixation on the livid sensation of being relentlessly fucked by the masticating labia of the supposedly submissive girl. He can’t bring himself to withdraw from her and settles for half measures, holding his body a few inches above his pinioned girlfriend while her pelvis rolls around and her muscles flex and grip the first handful of his cock.

“Use me!” she cries. Her voice threatens to carry into the rest of the communal mansion, but she’s too far gone to notice or care. “Ram’s innards twist with a cold uncertainty as his mind circles the unwonted assumption that Racheal’s recent misadventures have somehow unhinged her. Is she just playing or getting it all off her chest? Or is this something worse? A sign of real damage? I don’t want to get off on it… She squeezes more tightly around him, goading him onward and inward with eyes squeezed tight shut. “Oh fuck, uhhuh, use me now love, before someone else does.”

He’s unsure whether to take his girl’s suggestion at face value, but his body presses down on hers and his cock squeezes up inside the taut elastic rings of her hot silky vagina. As he decides to fuck her until she has what she wants, he tries to ignore the way an atavistic portion of him craves to take advantage of the situation. Give her what she asks for… He begins pistoning through her velvet grip, diving a little deeper with every plunge. His bride is always excruciatingly pleasurable, but watching her face as he fucks her helplessly pinioned body is amazingly arousing.

“Oh, yeah,” she sighs, “do it fast… hold me down!” He sees his bride’s widening leer and hears her gasp, and knows he’s guessed her will correctly. He crosses her wrists over her ankles and grips all four slim extremities in one of his large pianist’s hands, shifting his grip to fondle Racheal’s taut swollen breasts and rigid little nipples as his cock burrows deep into her oil-slick, hairless, lust-soaked puckering seam. The young prince holds his lover’s wrists down on the bed just above her blond mane and her head bends upward toward him. He kisses her, grasping slim bones and shifting tendons within the tightly clamped fingers of one hand while he caresses slick swathes of sleek soft skin and firm rippling ridges of muscle with the other. Her slippery breast is a perfect fits inside his formfitting clasp, as fitting as the lover’s well acquainted loins. “Oh,” she gasps as she comes up for breath, “more rapid!”

Rapid, he muses, as in rapine or rape… Despite randomly intermittent success with meditation, the young shaman’s thoughts are never still for long. He slows his advance and Racheal moans an objection as he pauses with the first few rotund inches of his ramrod squeezed up between her closely trimmed lips. The limber girl squirms beneath him, sliding around her suddenly withheld impalement as she groans from the depths of her core. Her pelvis thrusts upward and she forces him inside, all the flesh in her fine young body blazing with amazing heat and resonating with the arousing vibration of her cry as she squeezes Ram’s cock into her girlishly tight and extraordinarily sheer vagina. “Fuck me!”

The memory of another rivalrous male’s recently spoken misogynistic words flows through Ram’s chattering mind, infecting him with a contagious recollection of malign intent. As Racheal moans and squirms beneath him he relives the fresh memory of the recent violent interruption to their lovemaking. Disquieting images fill the inner field of Ram’s vision even as Racheal’s needy body grapples with his partly withheld flesh and remotely circling mind; a shadow play of vile violent actions performed by the corrupt authoritarian cop who had split the lovers asunder and thoroughly plundered Racheal’s helplessly drugged body.

The playwright’s earlier words had been starkly unsubtle; “Her pussy’s so fucking tight,” the entrepreneur had commented to the utterly intoxicated and paralytically immobilised prince while he he’d stroked an unknowing Racheal’s nude body in another unfamiliar bed, in preparation for fucking the drugged sleeping girl one more time, “As tight as the arsehole of a youngish boy; maybe tighter.”

Later the musclebound cop had later dragged her from that selfsame unmade bed and locked her uncoordinated teenage lover in Rendel’s room while he extracted foul pleasures from Racheal’s helpless young body. Just like I’m doing now… almost, he reminds himself, staring at the bruises on her throat.

The highly charged memories sully even the starkly amoral reality of their current semi-rapine interlude. The prince pauses inside the threshold of his moaning mate, pulling up and away as he ponders the roots of this quasi-violent playful domination that his Lady Racheal appears to require with such determined wanton craving. She’s been like this on and off ever since she asked me to make her forget…

“Io Pan!” she moans, “Take all of me! Give me all of you!” He hears sounds of nearby movement in the hall but ignores everything beyond the bed, including the fact that the door is as wide open as his young woman’s fully exposed hairless vulva, roundly stretched to accommodate his swollen shaft while she moans pinioned beneath him. Let Daniel see what she can be like…

She cries, “Go on! Make me thine!” with an angry-sounding dare that’s definitely loud enough to be clearly heard downstairs in the more populous parts of the manse. A long suppressed mesmerising need draws him back to the present and he groans as he plunges right up inside her, dropping downward to compress the helpless smaller body locked down beneath him - holding all her limbs down while he starts fucking her with deep and rapid strokes. “Oohh!” She screams aloud when the weight of Ram’s hips piledrives the thick roundness of his throbbing pillar through the grasping tight-lipped mouth of her sex.

He sinks right up into her belly one more time and stops, pulsating inside the clamping vice of her slippery loins while she shudders beneath him. “Let’s make love,” he whispers into her ear while her shriek dies away in the blustery rain-swept night. He hears a quiet gasp from the doorway and is suddenly cognizant of how his dominating posture must appear to a stranger; the screaming Lady Racheal’s ankles and wrists pinned to the bed, her contorted young body held down in bondage to his overmassing strength as he squeezes his manhood inside her while she screams.

Let them watch, he decides, fully aware of the potential ramifications inherent in this foolishly prideful display. Even though the incredible clasp of her glorious vulva is an ongoing invitation to explode a timebomb inside her womb, Ram knows he can last as long as it takes to see her scream with a mindblowing orgasm (preferably two, three or four while they’re being observed).

“Ooh!” Racheal cries as she struggles to thrust constrained loins upward. The door swings wider in his peripheral vision the candle wavers as he feels eyesight burning a trail across the juncture of their sopping loins. Racheal’s body is a perspiring pile of slippery flesh and tangled bones, her face a rapturous mask of untrammelled lust. He pounds his long hard cock longer, harder, deeper inside the jack-knifed beauty, ensuring he acquits himself with impressive zeal while an unknown someone watches from the threshold; a common enough happening in the lovers’ communal life, but this time the anonymous presence adds an electrifying edge to their bizarre consummation. “Ohh god, fuck, oh yes!” The priestess’s aquamarine eyes blink open and spin toward the door as she cries out, “Kiss me!”

So he does, and her tongue thrusts between his lips in time with his thrusts, guiding him to her preferred tempo. The obvious evidence of the Lady Racheal’s squirming arousal thrills through Ram’s body and erases his worrisome mindfulness. At least they’ll know I’m not really raping her… and she obviously doesn’t care someone’s watching… “Oh, Rache!” he moans as he plunders her cervix and she releases a deafening shriek. He grasps her limbs above her upraised head and kisses his moaning lover as he matches his breaths and motions to hers. Let them see how amazing she is, and know how thoroughly we love each other... “Ohh, Ramses,” she moans, “Unghh, like that, don’t stop!” Now let them see how she comes for me…

He hears footfalls enter the room as a gust extinguishes the candle, plunging them into the anonymity of night. Life’s full of surprises…

A true story

Continues…

- R.A.

Images – author’s

Further True Tales from the Prince of Centraxis -

Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents

Nesting Urge – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 2

See White Bird Must Fly – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 3

Which Craft – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 4

Black Dog – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 5

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

The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14 Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15 Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16

Rogue Phantoms - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 17

Dreaming Entities - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 18

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 -

http://newilluminati.blog-city.com

http://hermetic.blog.com

(These sites have been frozen and cut off from this author by Today.com: More Images - http://imagine.today.com

http://enlightenment.today.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. 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…

The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com

Pole Sitting Priestess, Animated Rocker, Centrax Priestess

2009-12-12T15:13:00.000+11:00

Pole Sitting Priestess

Animated Rocker

Centrax Priestess

Wee Folk - Wild Life 6

2009-12-07T16:37:00.003+11:00

Wee Folk

Wild Life 6

The lovers trail the rest of the group of environmentalists along the narrow gravel bed of Little Wonder Creek, arms automatically folding round each other when an afternoon breeze insinuates its way down the narrow valley, drying perspiration from their overheated bodies. Hands clasp and fingers twine as they slosh through pools or wander along the forest floor, dwarfed by tumbled boulders and ancient old growth trees while they stroll beneath the unseen upper canopy.

The only other couple in the expedition have little time for them or, apparently, each other. Mister and Ms Pergola and the other older conservationists walk a few paces apart with eyes scanning the canopy, occasionally exchanging binoculars with the elongated figures of Jim or Fig as they pick their way downstream through the deep rainforest-bedecked gorge.

Seheal stops every couple of dozen splashing paces to examine the solarised corpse of a variegated leaf, the unnameable blue-black sheen of a water-smoothed stone, the tentative twitch of a secretive yabby disappearing beneath a submerged boulder. Slanting rays of mid-afternoon sunshine finger though encyclopaedic arrays of branches and leaves, penetrating the canopy with miniature spotlights that fall on this particular rock or that especial seedling; Seheal’s attention is perpetually riveted to a succession of momentary bright revelations.

“Do you think these are safe to eat?” she asks as the sauntering couple straggles behind the others, pausing at a half-circle spray of tiny red mushrooms. “They look tasty.” She kneels on a mossy green rug to examine her find, breaking their handclasp to get down on all fours and marvel at the miniaturised wonder. “According to the textbooks no mushroom or fungus in Oz can kill you outright,” Ram replies. “But some can make you feel ill…”

“…Or trip out.” Joel’s voice laughs from somewhere close by and Ram glances upward to see the young teen balancing above them on a low-slung branch. “They say red is nature’s danger signal,” he declares with more solemnity. As usual, his eyes remain glued to Seheal – whose body is perfectly outlined within the damp second skin of her thin floral dress. When her face turns toward him and the topmost curves of her breasts spill into view he teeters and wobbles in an attempt to gain better vantage. “Like watermelons, you mean?” she asks through a widening smile that reveals a slight fetching gap between her upper front teeth. “Or strawberries? Tomatoes?”

“Redheads?” Ram suggests through a widening grin.

“Uhh… N… no… like blood,” Joel half-stammers as the barefoot feral hippy grrl bends down on all fours and extends the tip of her tongue to taste one of the tiny scarlet fungi. “Or, um… like…” Ram watches the boy’s wide blue eyes traverse his ladylove’s slim curvaceous form and fix on her pale legs while he flounders for words. When Seheal’s head tilts back she reveals a cluster of tiny mushrooms clenched between her teeth and Joel’s flustered stare flashes back to her face.

Her tongue swirls between rows of glistening pearlescent teeth, corralling the mushrooms and harvesting them within pinkly succulent lips. She emulates Joel’s voyeuristic regard with fluttering lashes and candidly theatrical vamping. Her eyes slide along his well-tanned young body (so thoroughly displayed in brief shorts and t-shirt on the branch above) and the shaman watches the young lad’s face redden as he feels the unsubtle caress of Seheal’s meaningful stare. She swallows the mushrooms with obvious relish. “Tastes like old spirits,” she says to the boy, “in fresh new bodies, ripe and ready for plucking. Want some?”

“Uh… Maybe later…” Joel tries to conceal the front of his shorts as he turns away and tightrope-walks back along the stout epiphyte-covered limb. A brief shower of leaves and mosses cascades onto the hippies, brushing the amusement from their blinking upturned faces and festooning their long hair with debris. Joel reaches the fissured trunk and begins to climb down just as the echo of a mildly impatient voice bounces round a rocky bend; his uncle Mac calling his name. “Maybe after lunch,” he says as his untied white sandshoes disappear into a deceptively deep rock pool.

They watch the boy jump from boulder to boulder, shedding sprays of spectral droplets as he hurriedly retreats from their disarming presence. Seheal stands and leans into the jigsaw cleft of Ram’s side, locking against him with formfitting surety. She speaks into his hair as her lips find his throat. “So redheads are dangerous?” Her teeth nip at the skin over his jugular and hold tight until he replies; “Naturally.”

Her tongue jams inside his mouth and a quartet of hands explore the familiar terrain of closely pressed bodies until she pulls away, bending to her knees and speaking again; “Have some of the mushies with me; they taste of nothing at all.” So he does, lifting a single miniature red cap to his lips. “Do we have time for a joint?” she asks.

He drops to his haunches beside her and reaches into his trouser pocket. “Already rolled,” he declares as she fishes in the side pocket of his pack for a box of waterproofed matches. “Do you think they’re hallucinogenic?” she asks. Nestled within its usual cargo of loving assurance, the look she gives him contains vague trepidation. “Probably not,” he says, nibbling at the tiny ’shroom. “I’ve had them before and didn’t notice anything unusual; otherwise I might have mentioned it. Or stopped you.”

“Tried to, you mean.” Her elbow digs into his side. “Are you sure they were the same ones?”

“Probably.” He inserts the spliff between her lips and takes the matches from her hand to light her up. “But maybe not. There are a lot of unclassified lifeforms around here.” As she puffs the joint into life Seheal reaches for a thimbleful of the remaining red mushrooms. “Time to find out,” she announces through a billowing blue-grey cloud while she stuffs the fungi into his mouth. Ram chews the tiny meal, cautiously tasting the meat of the mushrooms and testing their effect on his membranes before swallowing. “You’re right,” he agrees; “They taste of nothing and they’re probably okay to eat.” He shades his eyes and peers up into the canopy. “Spring’s the wrong time of year for most of the native tucker around here to bear fruit. It’s the dry season…”

“There’s certainly nothing else around here for vegetarians to eat, far as I can see…” Seheal’s intensely provocative gaze slides downward along Ram’s slim torso. “Except…” He lifts the hem of the swaying girl’s dress and strokes her smooth flank with a lightly callused palm. Their lips meet in the glow of a slanting sunbeam and she breathes fragrant smoke deep into his lungs while tickling fingers glide under his shirt. Taking a deep breath, Seheal pulls away and places the joint between his off-white tetracycline teeth. Their eyes simultaneously dart downstream. “Do we have enough time to…” she begins.

“Coo-ee!” The piercing cry arrives in timely answer to the insatiable grrl’s incomplete question. “Maybe not,” Ram declares through teeth clenched round the joint and reluctantly draws away from her mesmerising warmth.

“Just as well it’s not raining,” she says, fashioning a small cup from her hands, dipping them into the small flowing stream. “Otherwise this would all be a big swollen river and we’d never get to see...” She offers the dripping chalice to Ram’s lips and his hands slip inside the pocketless seams of her dress; “…uh, anything…” The rallying call comes again, more insistently this time; “Coo-eee!” He swallows pristine Seheal-flavoured water and pierces her to the marrow with his gaze, working his fingers further around her skin beneath the tight straps of the bandolier that hold the string bag and water bottle to her hourglass side.

“Oh well,” she says, jerking slightly while his fingertips tickle bare belly and sensitive ribs inside her clothing. “I guess we’d best be going…” Ram’s hands delve deeper into the warm recesses of Seheal’s damp dress until she gasps with surprise and splashes the last of the water into his face. He can’t extricate his hands from the strapped-down material and she literally tears away from him, ripping a slash in the side of her garment as she leaps onto a huge flat-topped boulder. She hops from menhir to rock like a fleet red-haired feminine satyr. “Damn!” she cries through the flaming pennants of her swaying curls. “This is my favourite dress! COO-EE!” She frowns at her lover as an answering cry returns from downstream.

He follows in her foaming wake as she furrows through a frigid thigh-high pool and makes for the bend in the river, tucking the soaked extremities of her dress into the bandolier. She easily outpaces Ram’s more cautious stride and he catches up with her a few hundred paces ahead, where she sits with her toes dangling into a wide crystal pool, sunning the droplet-covered white lengths of her legs on a dark basalt slab studded with twinkling facets of orangey garnet.

“Sorry,” he declares while Seheal tries to fasten the gaping rent closed with a piece of string gleaned from her fraying bag of fruit. The shaman spies young Joel and his friend Mark disappearing around a nearby stand of vine-covered trees. “That’s all right,” she says through a flashing white grin. “I’ll tell everyone it was your fault.”

Seheal forgoes the futile attempt to hide the swathe of flesh shining whitely through the left side of her floral print dress. She springs to her feet, throwing her arms around Ram’s neck and climbing his body until their lips meet, meld and suckle. She splashes to her feet in a spontaneous rush and races off beside the silent still water of the transparent pool, leading the way to the rest of the group.

“Yo!” When they negotiate their way around another sharp boulder-strewn bend and emerge hand in hand in a small sunny clearing, Mac calls and waves from the bole of a huge tree. “There you are!” The trunk of the giant is completely encased with a webbing of crisscrossing tendrils, climbing shoots and descending roots. The various woody strands have grown together to form a uniform shrouding net that almost entirely surrounds the host tree’s massive girth.

When the lovers catch up with the rear guard of the expedition Joel and Mark are already twenty feet up the natural ladder, climbing amongst an accretion of staghorn ferns and epiphytes. The boys race each other up the diamond-shaped rungs of a wooden lattice ladder. “Come down!” orders Mac as his nephew disappears into a mass of overhead foliage. “Don’t teach him crazy habits; Mark would stick his head in the oven if you did…”

“What happened to you?” Ms Pergola appears from the shadows with clipboard in hand, suspiciously eyeing Seheal’s naked ribcage and the lower curve of her left breast. “Are you all right?” Her dark gaze slips sideways to interrogate Ram’s smile.

“You look like someone’s been putting the hard word on you,” her husband says. An uncertain smirk splits his bearded face as he reaches his wife’s side. Seheal glances at her beau and her voice pipes up before Ram can reply. “He’d have no need to do that. It’s my fault,” she declares as she tries to stuff her breast all the way back into her dress, strapping the material down with the looping rope handle of the string bag tied round her slim buxom torso. “An accident.”

They all turn when Mac clears his throat. “That’s a superb example of a Strangler fig,” opines John as his greying mantle appears from the gloomy cathedral floor beneath the overarching canopy. Mac cuts through the older man’s reverential comment; “Joel! You come down from there this instant!”

“What’s that tree it’s strangling?” asks Mister Pergola. “Looks like another type of fig…”

“Joel!”

“It’s a Yellow Carrabbean,” Fig states with a warranted air of authority. “See?” he says, holding a small white burr up to the light. “Almost as rare as Red cedar these days,” John announces.

“Is that the seed?” Ms Pergola inquires. “The seed case,” Fig replies, sticking the burr to the front of his flannelette shirt. “The seeds are tiny and black with a small orange streak.” The group of greenies leans close for a better view. “They’re unmistakeable, really; and seeds and leaves are a far more obvious and definitive means of identification than looking at the trunk, which is just about all you can see from down here.”

“And what are these?” Everyone turns at the sound of Seheal’s voice. She kneels on the bank by a curious assemblage of pink and brown shapes. As Ram adjusts to the unusual sight he realises she’s discovered a pile of monstrous shells, a stack almost two feet high and just as wide, sitting right beside the deep crystal pool. “It’s a midden!” John exclaims, bending down to examine her find more closely. “Big river oysters – mussels, really. And they’re pretty fresh, too.”

Everyone present approaches the unusual pile of split-open shells. They survey the remnants of the wild feast in silence while a breeze ruffles leaves and sways the hippies’ long hair. The insides of the large shells are a smooth pinkish-white and bereft of any vestige of meat; they range between two and eight inches long, and their outer carapaces are mottled in brown, mauve and purple. Some are splayed open like a butterfly’s wings but most have been pulled into separate halves.

John and Fig glance at each other and shake their heads. “Could be a platypus midden, I guess,” Fig says as he stares at the rock-walled surrounds of the pool. “But I didn’t think there were any, this far up the Wonder. And it all looks like pretty solid rock around here – no good for their burrows.”

“What else could it be?” Ms Pergola asks as she makes a note on one of the photocopied maps clamped to her clipboard. “It must be a platypus.”

“Maybe,” Fig says, sounding particularly unconvinced. “Let’s keep going. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“They’re ginormous!” Mark declares as he drops from the tree. “Are they good eating?”

“You bet,” Mac tells the lad. “If you see any more in the creek let me know!” The expedition wends its way downstream, some taking notes as they go. Seheal reluctantly rises from the bank and slips a particularly beautiful shell into the side pocket of Ram’s small pack. “What do you think left them here?” she asks as they stroll off with fingers entwined.

“Could be a platypus; but I don’t think so.”

“What, then?” she presses and he lowers his voice. “Guboo told me the Brownjacks like river oysters, and that they sometimes leave middens – just like that one.”

“Brownjacks?”

“Little hairy fellas,” he murmurs under his breath. “Some of the local native wee folk.” Seheal stares into the deep forest shadows. “Round here?” she asks with a grin. “Probably,” he replies with a serious expression.

“What do they look like?”

“About four feet tall, pointy-topped heads, covered with fur – the ones around here, anyway…”

“Like little yowies, huh?” She slips under his arm and hugs him while she stares into the receding darknesses of the forest floor. Ram’yana begins to sing a familiar song which Seheal swiftly recognises and her sweet voice joins in after the first introductory words;

“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone

“As she wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets dark and narrow singing ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!’”

Bare feet splash through surprisingly cold liquid crystal, stirring up sludge that precedes the walkers as they pass through the streaming flow. The swift currents of the small rainforest-canopied river soon dispel this sullying touch of human intrusion.

Seheal and Ram proceed arm in arm through knee-high water, following traces left by the rest of the expedition; small scuff marks amid weedy gravel at the edge of the creek, a banana skin discarded on a basalt boulder, the barely discernible scent of tobacco that lingers beneath interlacing boughs. The shaman’s fingers entirely encircle the younger woman’s bicep and his hipbone slots into her tiny waistline like a bony hand slipping into the lightly padded glove of her rounded softness.

“A new armband,” Ram observes as his fingertips catch in a woven bracelet of twine; twisted threads braided into a scarlet ring that circles Seheal’s arm just above the elbow. When she glances at his face her turquoise eyes are half-hid by lush curvy lashes. Kissable pink lips press together and whiten as she turns away without replying, watching her footing on the smooth gravel track.

The creek bed widens and narrows repeatedly, sometimes tightly slotted between massive rock walls and tumbledown boulders that they’re forced to cautiously clamber through or over. They walk through the water most of the way, splashing between huge buttressed boles of magnificent rainforest trees that they’re hard pressed to identify. Sometimes they wander through a gloomy umbra on softly floored stretches of leaf-covered ground, taking shortcuts between bends in the circuitous stream. As the afternoon progresses they pause to peer into widening spaces that extend beneath canopies completely enshrouding the earth, pondering dark green profusions of palm-fronded mystery. They long to linger longer amidst the remarkably flat swatches of ground to be found beneath the vanishingly tall trees, but are already far to the rear of the rest of the party. “We can always come back when we’re alone.”

“Any time you like,” Ram agrees with a squeeze. Seheal precedes him as they pick their way along the bank single file to speed their laggard progress. A profusion of lifeforms grow and crawl, rise and fall, slither and fly all around, dizzying in extent and complexity. Their curious eyes dart through vines and leaves in attempts to fix on a further horizon, a more distant view than the occasionally claustrophobic rock walls and foliage afforded by the shadowy gorge, but the sky is visible only in glimpses and they can’t catch sight of a single hilltop. The atmosphere is cool – positively cold in places where the sun never shines – and they walk side by side in a cuddlesome huddle whenever the pathway permits.

“Is there anything here we could eat if we had to?” Seheal’s practical question resounds in Ram’s mind. He peers through the greenness, trying to see some plant or vine that will provide answer with its presence. “It’s too early for berries on the Walking-stick palms…”

“I know…”

“Or for passionfruit…”

“Oh – do they grow around here, too?” A profusion of passionfruit vines threads through the downstream forest, where the lovers subsist on a meagre income (with plenty of home-grown vegetables and fruits) in their comfortable little love nest. “Sure – but spring tucker’s pretty thin around here for us vegos. There’ll be some yams here and there that are probably ready, and – see over there? – plenty of wild ginger. And maybe a couple of other things…”

“Is it just like normal ginger?”

“Similar – different flowers, but they’re easier to eat raw if you strip off the skin. Burnum Burnum told me his mob originally brought it to Oz about fifty thousand years ago, and it spread all the way here from the far west of the country, travelling along the trade routes. They’re usually found in women’s places. You can chew the seedy berries and they’ll keep you going if you’re short of water…”

Seheal jumps from the track and splashes him with a hand-flung spray from an ice-cold pool. “Sure…” she says as she leans down to inspect the bulging base of a clumped stand of broad-leaved ginger plants. “Well, if it’s women’s business then I’d best be the one to do it. Come on - let’s have a root.” She peers at her lover upside-down, red coils flopping over the gleaming twinkles of her pearlescent grin and the sapphire gems of her eyes while her delectable cotton-sheathed bum waggles in his direction. He watches tendons flex along the alluring pale lengths of his girlfriend’s slender legs as her dress rides upward, snagged by the leather bandolier which straps the meagre travelling kit to her curvaceous body. One perfect breast flops from the jagged rent in her dress, occluding most of her face. “Unless you’d prefer me to nibble on your seedy berries?”

Before he can reply a strident ‘Coo-ee!’ resounds right on cue. The cry comes from surprisingly nearby, apparently just past a particularly large slab of grey fallen basalt. Seheal shrugs and grasps the base of a thick green ginger stem, wrestling it from the nest of its fellows, pulling and twirling the stalk with widely set stance. Muscular contractions of her swaying derriere rivet her man’s attention. The plant pulls away suddenly and she falls backward to plop onto the ground with a shouted “Gotcha!” She grasps Ram’s wrist and jerks back onto her feet, and laughs as she runs downstream with a ginger-leaf flag waving overhead.

The rest of the trekkers are seated on the edge of a broad pellucid pool. Joel and Paul glance up and smile at their approach and Mark jumps to his feet beside them and waves when he catches sight of Seheal. His uncle glares at the boy and he resumes his seat, adopting a semblance of attentiveness to the elder’s words. Birdsong and plashes obscure the conversation of the older environmentalists until the lovers have almost joined the semicircle of bodies arrayed around the tall figure of Fig and the even lankier frame of the elder Jim. “Still alive, I see.” Fig nods at the lovers and resumes his spiel, speaking directly to Jim while the others observe and listen.

“Cockles and mussels,” Seheal sings as she grips Ram’s bicep, “alive, alive oh!” Her enthusiasm proves infectious to the trio of youths. All three laugh through wide smiles, drinking in the sight of the wild young teen in the half-torn dress, peering at her with even wider-eyed stares than usual.

“When will we get to see a Ringwood?” Ms Pergola’s voice cuts through the boys’ gleeful reverie. “A Bachausa anisata?” John replies with a smile that doesn’t quite extend to his eyes. “A what?” Seheal asks. “A Bacchus Satan?” Fig’s glance connects with the older men’s. “A Ringwood tree,” he explains. “One of the main reasons we’re here.”

“The best excuse, anyway,” John agrees. “We want the government to proclaim a reserve for Ringwood trees here in Little Wonder; it’s one of only two valleys where the trees still exist in the wild, and the ones around here are threatened by logging…”

“In the whole world?” Joel asks his uncle. “I said ‘in the wild’, John tells him, “but in the whole world, too, for that matter. It’s hard to be certain after all the river flats were cleared for logging, but right here and Kalang may be the only places they ever grew; for the last few million years, anyway.”

“They want to log here?” Seheal asks aghast, her arms sweeping up to indicate the splendidly healthy forest that fills the entire isolated gorge. “Why? Isn’t this all rainforest? Isn’t rainforest all protected?”

“Why? For money, of course,” Jim opines. “And in the opinion of the Forestry Commission of New South Wales, none of this is rainforest. Well, very, very little. They don’t care a damn that it’s a pristine catchment…”

“And the source of our drinking water,” adds Fig with a nod to Seheal and Ram.

“They call it ‘dry sclerophyll’,” John elaborates, “and under that definition it’s legal to cut it all down.

“But ‘sclerophyll’ means ‘wet-loving’, doesn’t it?” insists Ms Pergola. “How can you have ‘dry wet-loving’ forest?”

“It doesn’t matter what they call it,” says Fig. “They want to sell all of this to the lowest bidder…”

“But they can’t.” Seheal’s voice peals through the rainforest as she grips her man’s arm. “We shan’t let them, shall we?” She stares up into Ram’s face. Will we? he wonders. He’s completely absorbed in the hitherto unseen surge of anger hidden within the wilful gleam that shines in his lover’s eyes even as his mouth forms the word; “Never.”

He’d awoken in a comfortable bedroom overlooking the beautiful sunshine-bathed harbour, trawling a net of shiny flapping imagery through waves of subsiding awareness. Visions and memories of worlds and words slipped from his grasp, tugged back down into the collective consensual dreaming of night-time dimensions.

He towed his net of fading recollections behind his vaporous form and floated toward the bright amber haze of the day, holding fast to the inspiring image of the beautiful redhead’s smile; her wonderful pixyish features were framed by a lush palette of rich forest greens. As he gradually drifted onto the shore of wakefulness the shaman became convinced that the prepossessing young woman who burned so brightly in his waking awareness might indeed be a heaven-sent angel, or as likely a tantric Daikini. If Seheal was truly as attracted to him as she seemed, the bedazzling feral grrl’s interest – and, he dared hope, love – might even be construed as a reward of some kind, after years of relatively honourable and selfless efforts to heal his fellow beings and the wider wild planet.

He broke the surface tension of the intricately detailed and portentous dream, rolling from one world to another to fetch up on the silk-covered shore of a queen-sized bed, where his furry frame slid against the warm smooth surfaces of a slim feminine body.

He’d lived without female company for many months. Left in sole charge of a magazine that was beginning to grow into an unwieldy international publication, Ram’yana had endured a gruellingly itinerant and solitary existence, oft strung out on highways between endless urban excitements and glimpses of rural paradise. He’d spent many nights atop cardboard crates of magazines in the back of the Nexusmobile van, parked in lonely spots far from his new forest home.

Every three months, when it was time to distribute the freshly minted latest issue, he’d travel to every newsagency, health food store, bookshop and head shop on his meandering route through cities, towns and countryside. With the help of a couple of other travelling distribution teams they ensured the mag managed to cover most of the nation and their distribution network had become a vehicle for other, less mature alternative publications that they took along for the ride. Other countries and continents were serviced by mail and the number of outlets and subscriptions rose steeply with every issue.

The shaman prince travelled with a new offsider on most seasonal distribution runs, and whenever possible he ensured he had a chance to mix business with pleasure by taking an interesting and interested female companion along on the far ranging road trips. Living with someone on the road had proven to be an unparalleled method of learning whether he could truly love a new lover, or was simply fated to make love with another invariably beautiful young woman as they travelled all over the glorious varied countryside of Oz.

Spreading enlightening information and healing techniques, newly discovered world-changing facts and long-suppressed truths was otherwise a relatively thankless task. He regularly sojourned far and widely amidst contrary brashness, rank superstition, compulsive forgetfulness and supine acquiescence, passing through a continent whose fringes were filled with tribes of tumultuous and apparently hell-bent, self destructive, poorly dressed naked apes.

He’d recently joined the Pegasus Network – one of the first handful to use the company’s servers in the first stirrings of a non-military internet on the planet – but electronic transfer was still in its infancy and there was still no viable replacement for hard copy paper publication. No matter how relatively advanced and aware the notional nation of Ram’s birth, the data he plied was most often met with disdain, disbelief, dismissal or outright opprobrium. He kept his long mane of hair (slowly regrowing after the only trim in his adult life, a mullet-like cut he’d agreed to for sake of the publication’s acceptance by retailers) in a bushman’s hat and dressed to suit his workaday part - though his travelling partner was usually barefoot and sparsely clad in little more than shorts and a NEXUS t-shirt.

Each night the travelling duo would park the van on an uninhabited beach or in an unsullied forest, taking brief snatches of deadline-hurried time to get to know each other more intimately overnight. Thus they sailed through most of the travails presented by bumpkin villages whose logger and miner residents often greeted the alternative magazine’s arrival with dagger stares, or worse. From his family’s long experience with the acceptance – or otherwise – of minor differences and his life amidst the counterculture, he was well aware that travelling through redneck regions could easily become deathly dangerous; in less enlightened times or nations he would have doubtless been incarcerated, exiled or exterminated as a pest.

On his previous distribution run he’d travelled with a wild young Frenchwoman by the name of Isabo. She was a fine cartoonist and artist who had contributed material to the previous few issues of the magazine, but she could never quite wait to find a camping spot; she’d insist on fucking her boyfriend boss while they were cruising along freeway, highway or country byway. He certainly hadn’t objected when the comely blonde had shimmied up and down on his lap, her fingers grasping his hands on the steering wheel.

At one point on the return journey, when they’d offloaded most of the stock, they’d semi-reluctantly allowed a pair of hitchhikers to take turns driving (and photographing them) while they made love on the back seat. After he’d returned Isabo to the Emerald City it transpired the wild French girl had outstayed her visa in the freewheeling Land of Oz, and now Ram’yana had to find another travelling partner for the next distribution run.

Continuing to publish Nexus from a two-room tumbledown shack in a remote rainforest hadn’t been easy. His original partners – including his most recent common law wife of two years’ standing, Jenni Elf - had all been scared off by threats from the Federal Police, Social Security and the Tax Office, but of late Ram’yana had finally found new business partners to join the burgeoning endeavour. Much of the day-to-day burden of running the sole remaining alternative magazine on the continent had been lifted from his shoulders, but he still found little time for romance.

As he awoke the taste and texture of Seheal’s kiss lingered on his lips…

A true story

Continues…

- R.A.

Images – author’s

For More True Tales of a Wild Life See

Springs Eternal – Wild Life Part 1

Little Wonder – Wild Life 2

Matched – Wild Life 3

Juggling Boulders – Wild Life 4

Alive, Alive, Oh – Wild Life 5

AND

Shaman of Centraxis Part 1

Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1

Psychedelic Water Part 1

Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra Part 1

Latest – http://centraxis.blogspot.com

And for further enlightenment see

The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com

The New Illuminati

Enlightenment Today

Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images

From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com

Flush, Red Head Too, Venusian

2009-11-30T15:50:00.008+11:00

Flush

Red Head Too

Venusian

Proposals and Propositions - Shaman of Centraxis 20

2009-11-27T14:37:00.003+11:00

Proposals and Propositions

Shaman of Centraxis 20

“Oh wow!” The loud exclamation resounds between spaces as he swims toward the stormy surface of waking consciousness. White-hot streams pulse from his utterly engorged erection, spraying continual gouts of spurting teenage jism into the enclosed unprivate atmosphere. The strangely familiar female voice quavers through crashing waves that pound inside Ram’s ears like a cacophonous prelude to the crack of doom. “Excuse me!” the woman cries. “What embarrassing timing!”

The shaman’s eyelids flash open and he flounders in a preliminary attempt to identify his surrounds – and the identity of the woman who witnesses his embarrassingly rude awakening – as he peers through a swathe of his long dark hair. Bright daylight dazzles his eyes and drink-heavy lids swiftly clamp shut as he rolls onto the outstanding evidence of his arousal. A blanket snags around his jutting member as he pulls it around his nakedness and twists onto his belly, finding himself in a makeshift bed of comfortably thick cushions. A stinging hand unexpectedly slaps at his buttock through the thin woollen material.

“Naughty boy! Do you usually sleep in the altogether? That’s Dot’s blanket, you know,” the female voice declares as the sting of her swipe tingles through Ram’s throbbing loins. “She probably wouldn’t mind – maybe - seeing as it’s you, but now I’ll have to wash it before she gets back.” A slight hand falls onto Ram’s clenching cheek and remains there while she speaks; “It probably needed it anyway, but it’ll take ages to dry…”

Ram’yana turns about to peer through cloying strands of chestnut hair. He can barely make out the smiling face of the woman whose voice he finally recognises; Loren leers down upon him as her lithe long fingers caress the muscular mound of his bum. “The rest of you had better get up soon,” she suggests in a low murmur as sharp nails dive between his cheeks. “Wanderer’ll be back soon.” Ram gasps as long-nailed fingertips encounter his roots and tickle his scrotum. “There’s something I need to talk to you about before he gets back…”

The slender equine student rises from a low crouch and rears to her full lanky height above the soporific young shaman. “Mm,” she purrs. “What a sweet yeasty smell…” She turns on a black booted heel and strides from the laundry while Ram’yana rubs sleep from his eyes. “…Like nothing else…” Loren? he wonders as his painfully hard erection finally begins to subside. When he turns from the wet spot and rolls onto his back the extraordinarily lucid dream instantly returns to him, unreeling in brief illuminating flashes that ferry presentiments of fulfilled hopes, sated longings and curious conjectures into his dazed semi-wakefulness.

“Coffee, tea, or me?” Loren laughs from the kitchen door, barely succeeding in conveying an impression she’s simply speaking in jest. When Ram’s reply fails to appear with alacrity she returns to the laundry and the expression on her face belies her disingenuous display of aloof disinterest. “Dost… do you have anything herbal?” he asks, drawing the blanket around his smooth pallid body.

“What d’you think this is, an Amsterdam coffee shop? I might have some Afghani hash left…” Her brown eyes crinkle as she smiles down at his sleepy face, her sight tilting downward along his slender frame as she takes another good look at his semi-naked young body. Loren is an older woman – probable twenty-two or three, Ram’yana estimates as his indomitable young erection begins to resurrect itself – and there’s little doubt she’s Wanderer’s lady.

The teenage mage is uncertain of the depth of his friend’s feelings for the tall young woman, and equally uncertain of the Cold Wanderer’s true attitude to the hippy ethos of sexual sharing and free love, whatever sentiments the Centraxian logician may publicly profess or claim between them in private. “Uh… no… I mean, that’d be great,” he stammers, “but… I meant herbal tea.”

“Might have some spearmint. Or some yerba mate…”

“Spearmint would be grand, thanks.”

“No wuckins. Do you eat porridge, baby bear?”

“I guess I’m no Goldilocks,” the teenager quickly replies with a forced smile before his affronted pride becomes obvious. “Yes, please mumma bear…”

“Oh, no,” Loren smiles through thinning lips. “That’d be Penny – she’s the one who keeps us all in line around here. I’m no-one’s mother, man – nor ever likely to be.” She laughs a little too loudly. As her expression quavers through a montage of emotions Ram’yana wonders exactly what the lanky woman may mean. I know she digs men… does she mean she can’t… He decides that discretion is the better part of remaining in his hostess’s good graces and keeps uncommonly quiet and still.

“Give me that,” she says, tugging the stained blanket from his body with surprising insistence until he rolls onto his belly and hurriedly draws a sheet around his nakedness. “Back in a jiff,” she says over one shoulder as she turns away into the narrow hallway.

He collects his clothes from various nooks and slides into his well-worn cotton drawstring pants before donning a transparently thin and egregiously torn embroidered Indian cotton shirt. The thin material rips a little more as his elbow parts a backyard sweatshop’s hastily sewn gusset, and he removes a safety pin from one of the tears in the garment’s side to seal the worst of the newly gaping hole.

Resurgent visions of his lovely and loving Natasha keep distracting him from the task at hand. Nasher… Memories of their pubescent semi-couplings mingle with his more recent exposure to the now slightly older and bolder girl’s delectably wanton charms. By the time he’s worked out how to fold and stack the rest of the bedding back into the closet where he found it, a kettle is screaming a high vibrant note in the kitchen and his need for a piss becomes impossible to deny.

When he leaves the small toilet – once an outdoor affair that’s long been incorporated into the refurbished suburban house - traffic noise assails his ears as he approaches the front of the house. He recalls that one of Bleak City’s main thoroughfares is only a few short paces from Loren’s front door. “Good morning,” she says with a gleam in her eye. “I guess you had a pleasant night.” She indicates a pocked old aluminium chair by a small round wooden table, its native grain desecrated by an artless slathering of hot pink chipped paint. “Wanderer said he’ll be back in a couple of hours; he went to uni to check out a few things.”

Ram’yana perches on the wobbly chair and glances out the kitchen window while Loren drops a dollop of instant coffee into a china cup. A pair of dogs begins a duet of preliminary growls, sizing each other up outside the white-painted fence beyond the narrow window. The student anarchist drops four cubes of white sugar into the black stew and places a small silver teapot on the table beside an assortment of mugs and cups. “So you’re still going to Mont Salvat?” he asks, noting the revealing way the elastic tautness of her black jeans and matching polo neck jumper hug her slim mannish body, blatantly revealing her surprisingly large nipples.

“Later this arvo, probably. Sugar, honey?” He smiles at the timeworn jape and replies with an affirmative echo and a brazen wink; “Honey, sugar.” She attempts to pierce his jocularity with a disarming gunsight stare. “So you’re not coming?”

“No… not right now…”

“Ha ha,” she deadpans. “Very droll. I didn’t mean to walk in on you, y’know – not like that, I mean…” He almost says ‘It wasn’t your fault’ but manages to bite back the words before they can escape his lips. He toys with the question, stoppering it up in his mouth; ‘Do you mean you wanted to walk in a little sooner?’ The unvoiced phrase is mercifully aborted by Loren’s next statement. “I don’t think Wanderer needs to know about that, though.” Her glare intensifies as the dogs begin barking in earnest. “And I won’t tell Dot if you like. I don’t think Penny’d be amused, either.”

Loren’s mention of her absent housemates acts as a spur to the young shaman’s memory; Dorothy… He’d almost forgotten all about his encounter with the engaging young woman after his pubescent obsession with Natasha had finally manifested into a full-blown encounter with the astounding freckle-faced girl of his dreams. “Do you think Dot’d be upset?” he asks, recalling the excruciating bliss he’d experienced in the hands and mouth of the pretty bisexual uni student.

“I know Penny would be, and they’re as thick as thieves,” Loren assures him. “Well, Dot isn’t quite as thick as Penny, but at least her skin is. Best not upset the apple cart.” Despite the imagery that leaps into is forebrain Ram’yana decides it would be a good idea to halt any further discussion regarding the qualities of Dot’s skin. He pours a steaming cup of fragrant tea from the scalding metal pot.

A shrill voice screeches at the dogs and the barking subsides apace as their territorial quarrel retreats down the footpath and out of clear sight of the window. “But that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about while I have you here all alone,” Loren says into the sudden silence. He waits for her to continue, wondering what she can possibly be alluding to while she stares into his eyes with a seriously worrisome expression. A welter of improbable possibilities swirls through his mind. When she finally summons her next sentence the resultant question boggles his mind for a moment or three; “Do you still have access to all that sixteen mill equipment?”

“Uh… back home I do, aye.”

“Well,” she says, leaning toward him across the tabletop and cupping her high cheekbones in elongated hands as she rests angular elbows on the glossy flush of painted wood. “In that case I have a proposal for you. Sort of a proposition, really…”

Even as Loren begins to outline her ideas, Ram’s mind keeps slipping back to that midsummer night three years earlier, when he’d come absurdly close to fully and completely making love with gorgeous young Natasha. Was that the year the voices first came to me while I lay in the tent, unable to sleep? He puzzles at the chronology of his past, recalling the invisible presence that had shown him how to train his powers of visualisation, and escorted him to the thresholds of other realms with an unseen guiding hand.

No, he decides while Loren dithers through a roundabout introduction to her proposal. Not much time for that when Nasher was around, he decides while nodding dumbly at the wordy student’s barely perceived rave. He sips at the overhot tea. It must have been a year or two earlier, when I was twelve or thirteen.

“You know it’s probably illegal,” the young shaman points out when Loren has finished her introductory spiel. “I’m not sure what the deal is in this state, but as far as I know censorship’s as draconian in these parts as everywhere else in Oz - and the name ‘Victoria’ doesn’t exactly bode well for trying it on down here.” Loren merely bestows a pointed stare and a raised eyebrow upon her teenage guest, who is busily rolling a hash joint on her kitchen table.

He finds her ideas to be definitely intriguing. The young filmmaker has occasionally considered using his talents and equipment for such a purpose, but the cost of sixteen millimetre film and the uncertainty of processing such contraband footage in a commercial lab had always appeared precipitous obstacles; perhaps insurmountable. A lack of available actors possessed of suitable talent and qualifications had also rendered the idea unfeasible, but the fact of its presumed illegality was another, albeit relatively minor, consideration.

“Just think about it for a day or two,” Loren says with a smile. When she’d first broached the subject (which her lover the Cold Wanderer had earlier alluded to while the Centraxian blood bothers were wending their way down the coast to Bleak City), Ram’yana had thought Loren intended to be working in front of the camera. He’d tried to picture the handsomely mannish young woman in that role, but the failure of his imagination indicated she probably wasn’t suited to the task.

“I’d have to meet the… actors before I can decide,” Ram’yana tells her as he crumbles lightly scorched brown resin into a bed of green leaves. “And it might be good if we had the skeleton of a script.”

“To drape all that flesh around, eh?” says Loren. You’ve already met one of the prospective actresses. In fact, she’s already been through something of an audition, hasn’t she?” For an instant he thinks she’s referring to precocious young Natasha, but soon realises Loren is discussing her comely flatmate, Dot. And she isn’t a minor, he reminds himself to dispel all thought of Natasha taking a role. “It has to be done tastefully,” the uni student announces, “something that women will dig watching, too – not just ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’m,’ but really erotic.”

Staring at Loren’s intent expression across the table, he recalls Dorothy’s undeniable beauty and considers the possibilities while he licks the gum on the elongated liquorice-flavoured papers her anarchist flatmate left out in a handy bowl. Almost tastes like liquorice, except for the chemical bite… “And actually,” Loren says, “we were thinking of shooting up north, in the rainforest.”

“Sounds better than some dark hotel room,” he says with a preliminary surge of enthusiasm for the prospective project. He passes her the unlit joint. “You’ll have to puff softly,” he advises as he strikes a light on a handy matchbox. Loren inserts the dark brown tube between unpainted lips and inhales as he touches the flame to the twisted fuse. She sucks slowly and holds the smoke deep in her lungs, closing her eyes against slanting beams of bright morning daylight. An unintelligible yell sounds in the distance, rising and submerging through the throbbing hum of urban traffic.

Ram’yana leans back on the wobbly metal chair and begins to work through the logistics of the project while he watches the older woman take another drag. “Some of the newer shorts made by people in the Filmmaker’s Co-op are pretty raunchy,” he divulges in a low voice. “Full frontal nudity and totally revealing close-ups – so I guess times must be changing…”

“Nah,” she rejoins through the cloud of smoke that’s swiftly filling the small kitchen. “The cops are probably just too busy – or maybe they’ve been warned off hassling any more artists.” The lanky woman’s nut-brown eyes open half way as she passes him the number and smiles down indulgently from her lofty vantage. “Did you hear about the guy who was busted for shooting a porno film?” she asks. Ram’yana shakes his head. “While they slapped on the cuffs he told the cop, ‘But officer – I don’t even own a pornograph!” Ram’s smile widens to match hers as he fills his lungs with imported smoke.

“It’s just not the same without the ’baccie,” Loren sighs. A cascade of flaming embers lands in Ram’s lap, and she makes a grab for the joint with a whinnying laugh while he bats at his smouldering pants. “Getting the hots for the idea, huh?” He brushes the last of the ash away, revealing a series of small holes burned through the cotton drawstrings around the front of his upper thigh. “Like I said,” he reminds her with a smiling frown, trying to imagine how Dot might appear without clothing; “it depends on the actress. Or actresses.”

“Not on the actor?” she asks. “How sexist. But then again… maybe you’d like to be the male lead - or one of them, anyway?”

“That’s a role I hadn’t really considered,” Ram says, deciding it might be diplomatic not to mention how old – or young – he actually is to the perceptive uni student. “It depends…” Ever since he ran away to join the hippy subculture, the teenage mage has usually been surrounded by people a few years his senior. He’s made a cautiously consistent point of encouraging everyone he knows or meets to think he’s a year or two older than his actual age.

Loren’s eyes twinkle over the rim of her coffee cup. “From what I saw earlier, it deep ends, all right.” He ignores the vaguely embarrassing jibe. “Do you know any other good cameramen – or women?” he asks.

“I could give it a go,” Loren suggests. “And I know a couple of filmmakers who might like to give it a shot. They don’t have access to much equipment, but I’ve seen some of their natural wildlife footage and it looks pretty good. Maybe we could shoot some of it on a beach…” She passes the remaining third of the smoke across the silver teapot. “There are plenty of cool nude beaches up north, I hear, and the light’s always good.”

The beach… The notion alerts him to a similar suggestion Natasha had made sometime during their drunken revelries, a few hours before he’d so precipitously left her bedchamber in the wee hours of the previous night – an assignation he’d failed to remember until this moment. For an overnight camp-out… I need to give her a call…

The sudden juxtaposition of concepts gives the artistically minded youth cause to remember the 35mm single lens reflex camera in the base of his backpack, which is hopefully still stashed in Natasha’s room. I can always process any of those shots myself; I wonder if Nasher would be interested… Unlike the delineaments of Dot’s unrevealed body, he already knows what his reunited young girlfriend looks like almost completely unclothed.

He pictures that fine young body spread out on a strand of sand, or floating in her family’s swimming pool in dazzling daylight, or decked out in body paint in the privacy of her bedchamber, and attempts to envisage how he might broach the subject with the reticent girl. She didn’t seem to worry about being seen naked at the camp, he recalls, momentarily flustered by her sudden recent reluctance to appear in the altogether before him. And she’s still a virgin – sort of, technically… A recollected vision of the beautiful teen servicing her needs with her absurdly long artificial plastic phallus rears into his mind. How can I ask her whether she’d mind if…

“Are you going to smoke that or let it burn another hole in your pants?” Loren’s words make the teenager aware of the bulge in his drawstrings and he shifts forward to hide his crotch beneath the table as he takes a long slow pull on the joint. His head begins to spin and he notices that Loren’s limpid brown eyes are rimmed in a pink corona. “Anyway, you don’t have to make up your mind right now. You can always tell me when we get back from Mont Salvat in a few days. Just one thing,” she says with a sterner glance. “Like you said, it’s probably illegal. It might be better if we don’t tell anyone else for now – including Wanderer.”

“A little late for that…”

“Maybe, but he doesn’t have to hear anything more about it.” Her smile thins a little. “Unless I can talk him into being one of the actors, anyway.”

“Fat chance.”

“You never know.”

“I guess not. Maybe if you ply him with alcohol and mandies…”

“Now that might do the trick!” The conspiratorial joke prods a cackle out of them both, and Loren pours the shaman another cup of cooling spearmint tea. “Not such a bad idea,” she says. “That always loosens him up. Oh, and another thing; I already contacted a cop I know and told him about those gun-toting rednecks who almost kidnapped you guys. He’s only a constable but he said he’d pass it on to someone higher up. Hey, man,” she says when she sees Ram’s slightly shocked expression. “He’s cool – we score together sometimes. Pot,” she clarifies.

“Uhuh…”

“Rhymes with Dot,” Loren reminds him as her eyes crinkle within their pink rims. “So what do you reckon? Is she hot or what? Wow, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it! Take it from me, she has a really fantastic bod; you probably haven’t quite had a chance to find out yet. And from what I saw in the laundry the only thing wrong with you is that appendix scar.” Her eyes drift toward Ram’s belly, clearly visible through his ragged transparent cotton shirt. “Hey, man, you’ve already had a taste of her – actually, she’s the one who’s had a taste, I guess. But wouldn’t you like to fuck her in front of the whole wide world? If you’re shy you can always wear a mask.”

But the stoned shaman’s thoughts have wandered far from Dorothy and he barely hears Loren’s challenging proposition. He leans back on the hind legs of his chair, staring beyond the cracked paintwork of the ceiling and recalls a scene from his earlier existence as a harried schoolboy, before his recent brush with death and his return to this mortal plane.

“You know what our families went through in the war and all.” Nasher reminded him as they strolled hand in hand through the shadows of billowing clouds, sighing with momentary relief as cooling umbrae flowed across the hot antipodean eucalypt forest. The temperature waxed toward overwhelmingly hot in the mountainous highlands and their sandalled feet were swiftly becoming caked in a dry layer of fine dust.

The young lovers had managed to snatch a rare hour or two of privacy, sandwiched between lunch and the afternoon’s scheduled war game (a survival and intelligence gathering training exercise, to be held between competing friendly groups of kids when the day became a little less hot). They seized whatever time they could to be alone together in the unusual month long summer camp.

Their refugee parents had deemed the relaxed semi-survivalist regime appropriate to instil a watchful caution and ready response into their bright young urbane offspring, whose days and nights were overseen by young adults only a little older and marginally more responsible than the kids themselves. This permissive arrangement seemed to suit everyone involved just a scant few years after the Summer of Love, and the kids didn’t suffer at all from the unusual release from habitual regimes of suburban domestic discipline; far from it.

The dazzling sunlight seemed far too bright and gay for the sardonic topic of the young lovers’ conversation. Nasher kicked a fluorescent green lemonade can along the track while she spoke; “Anyone’s bound to be a little strange after watching all their relatives tortured, raped, murdered and burned for three thousand years.”

She looked up to gauge Ram’s reaction and watched his eyes following her postpubescent breasts, jostling roundly inside the undersized bikini top in counterpoint to her rolling gait. “And their kids are bound to be a little, uh, twisted, too; so don’t worry about my brother, okay?” Ram’s eyes flashed to hers and she glanced away. The can flew into a thicket of spiky branchlets while Natasha watched a dust cloud envelop her diminutive pink-nailed feet, so small and dainty beside his boyishly chip-nailed masculine extremities. “There’s never a dull moment when you’re always expecting an attack out of the nowhere because of your ancestry.” Her fingers twiddled inside the cup of his hand.

“That’s been happening for thousands of years,” Ram’yana declared. “You’d think we’d be used to it by now.”

“Ah,” she said, “but you never get used to being culled. You ought to know; your people are Kohanim. Most of the rest of us have always tried to keep our heads down and fit in all this time, you know. Your bunch has been particularly visible – always the first to get your heads taken off by Haman or Hitler or Rome.”

“Risibly visible,” he’d agreed. “Probably far wiser and easier to take off the yarmulke and leave one’s head in place.”

“Might as well try and regrow your foreskin, for all the good that’ll do you if they come after us again. At least we women don’t have to worry about circumcision,” she said, smiling at his discomfited expression. “Hiding your light under a bushel would be just as silly as not learning Hebrew or not have a Bar Mitzvah; you wouldn’t be a Jew at all.”

She doubtless mistook his momentary silence for a shiver of terror at a painful echo of babyhood memory, but Ram’s angst stemmed from another source; Should I tell her I never had a Bar Mitzvah? That I’m not really a Jew at all? I’d probably never be accepted by her family. And how would she react?

He squeezed the beautiful girl’s hand inside his palm and leant down to kiss her, determined to change the subject - and found he didn’t need to when she pulled him down into the dirt and shared almost all her fine young body with him in a lusty tangle of gangly teenage limbs, slippery tongues and naked sweat-soaked skin. She stripped his body entirely bare but grasped both his wrists in her hands when he drew open the drawstring of her skimpy bikini pants…

A true story

Continues…

- R.A.

Images – author’s

Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -

Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater

Shaman of Centraxis Part 2 - Surfing the Cosm

Shaman of Centraxis ३ - Turning Tides, Breaking Waves

Shaman of Centraxis Part 4 - To Infinity and Beyond Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer