To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML, please visit our website at: /~vivian Now offering over 140,000 words of pure prurience! -------------------------------------------------------- Journey to Sxtlan by Vivian Darkbloom Synapse Dix I awoke the next morning with a glorious hardon, the kind that just wouldn't subside no matter how hard I tried. My little angel stirred beside me, then her eyes popped wide open looking up at me, then her hand blundered across my blunderbuss, causing it to surge impossibly even further, and a wicked little grin crept across her cute tiny face. I say `my little angel,' but who I saw was different from the girl I remembered. Darker skinned, and with a rounder nose, thicker eyebrows. Definitely the same girl, though. Before I knew it, she had spread her legs wide, arched over me, and she sat down hard in just the right spot, just the right direction. The hot little mouth burned coals of satisfaction like a deluge of fresh clean rainwater over parched soil. An oasis in the desert. The opening took some time to widen sufficiently, but she persisted devotedly, panting, puffing, and grunting most sweetly the entire time. The morning was bright, though all around me unfamiliar shapes lurked and haunted. Shapes of an ancient time, no sign of the advances of modern technology. Or what might have been something I had only dreamed. Through a doorway, I imagined I could see a swath of yellow sunlight, from a window beyond, no doubt. The cloth upon which we lay was coarse but soft and luxurious, in warm and rich shades of red and orange. Though barely could I spare the attention for such things with the determined moaning of my sweet princess above me, aligned on that sacred center point between us, the line of unspoken great meanings. I could feel what she felt, in our private connection, our own quiet telegraph. "Telegraph," the word seemed odd and unfamiliar. As if I had made it up. In a different tongue that that of this realm. Speaking of tongues, she bent over and kissed me on the mouth, sloppy and hard as she was wont to do, then arose back up in her arching journey to release. It turned me on to watch her thin dark body and young aureola, flat and undeveloped, the smooth flesh of her thin arms and legs as they rocked so earnestly, with such determination and loving spirit. How young and little, yet her desires and movements were the same as those of an adult woman, only in miniature. It was only a matter of minutes before this hot little pinata exploded, spraying her candied spittle of ecstasy across my hairy chest as the bursts of orgasm swept down her spine and across her whole body. There was a brief interlude of disconnection while we clumsily traded places, shuffling unfamiliar but luxurious fabrics aside where they had been laid on top of us. Now I became her sex machine, rowing and stroking on top of her, as she now gazed calmly up into my face, a complacent, satisfied vacancy on her face, a curiosity while she watched me reach my climax inside of her. As the wave rose in the tidal pool, she too reached the point of tremors around me, though not as extreme as the first time. And then, from the center of my abdomen, the flood surged forward, higher and higher towards the brink of the dam, until just a tiny feather stroke triggered my sweet release, and I shoved myself hard and deep into her. She responded in kind, with a tremulous amorosity, intense wails fading into smiles as she sensed the hot drops I was squirting into her sacred cavities. Then she clucked in that gentle manner of one who knows she possesses something she had been seeking. We fell back into a light slumber, which ended a few minutes later with the entrance of a mysterious persona into the antechamber. ____________________________________________________________ When I awoke next, the bed was cold beside me. My princess had gone. I got up, and strode towards the source of light in the next room. I looked down at my body, now firm, dark-skinned, decorated a manner characteristic of civilizations long ago. I looked at my two open hands, unfamiliar yet the same. Down at my feet. The stone floor was coarse and smooth against the soles. When I entered the next room, I could see my princess seated at a low table. The Indian woman from the episode by the lake was stirring a mixture in a pot, over an open flame in a fireplace built into the clay walls. She smiled when she saw me. "So, you are here. Eat." Unlike myself and my princess, her appearance had not changed. I longed for, yet feared, a mirror in which to view my countenance. Was this a dream? It seemed so real. I did not bother trying to pinch myself. I knew it would only hurt. "What. . ." I started to ask. "You have found your spirit guide, and she has brought you back home to us," replied the old Indian woman. "It will take some time for you to regain your bearings. Relax." Sounded reasonable enough. A trio of musicians stood in the corner, playing for us. Pan-flutes accompanied by singing and strumming on metal charango strings, and a large bass-like stringed instrument. The music stirred up strange memories -- or were they dreams? Of a device which had plugged both my ears, and from which music came from the plugs. I shook my head in dismay. What an awful thing. Who would ever dream of listening to music in such a terrible manner? What was even more bizarre, was that I pictured a thin strip of brown tape, and felt somehow that the music was in the tape. Now I laughed heartily at such a silly idea. My hummingbird looked up at me curiously, spoon in her mouth. I felt myself wanting to dance, and memories came into my mind, of times when I had danced to this music. Now these felt more like memories than dreams, but it can be so difficult to tell them apart. I tapped in time on the table, humming along softly. There was something else, I was thinking, as the woman ladled the porridge into a bowl, setting it before me. Something else impossible to describe. But yet, which I had to describe. A state of disarray, concepts and things and emotions and sensations all blended together into a maddening mixture of unlabeled substance. But of urgent importance. Dreams of another place. A place with many clever inventions not present in the real world, a school, yes, a Universe study place it had been called. What a strange word, University. And a mosaic. I tried to separate the strands, like a woman brushing through long thick hair. Were these memories or only dreams? Memories of something that had been or would be? Or simply random images of the sort that come to one while sleeping? So difficult to tell sometimes. When they seem so similar. A woman walked in, stately and dignified, but young. With dark curly hair. I knew that she was the princess. Not my princess, but the princess, and for that reason also my princess, but not in the same sense. . . She eyed me curiously, inquiring of the old Indian woman. "Has it come to pass?" The Indian woman smiled, clearly delighted to respond. "Did I not say? One day, if Clatlque be willing, our hero would return to save Sxtlan. It is written in the prophecy. And now he has returned." An image tugged at me, was it a memory or a dream? Of an urgent need to sit in a room with others wearing lots of clothing. A room filled with desks, at which we all sat writing. It was a fearful feeling, one of needing to meet a particular challenge, to overcome an obstacle. I saw the paper before me, covered with symbols, and knew that they pertained somehow to the composition of tiny particles that made up everything in the universe. At this I had to laugh. How absurd it was, to feel fear over such a room with no spears, and no archers with arrows to pierce the skin and no clubs to break bones. Only a paper (whatever that was, a thin sheet from trees somehow). But the funniest thing about it was the idea of tiny particles. How ridiculous! Tiny particles creating the things around us. Everyone know that Giant Tortoise had created all things around us when it created the universe. Thin brown strips with music in them. Thin white sheets from trees with chemical symbols on them. What strange dreams I had been having. Perhaps it was something I had eaten. "So it is true then," murmured the Incan Princess. "In pursuit of the laughing coyote wind and the golden threads of power uniting all things, he has attained the fifth ring of singularity." I nodded in agreement. At the same time, another dream memory entered my mind, of a time when I had seen her face in a dancing storm of black and white tiles, and then in a cloud. How very strange. I had heard tell that on occasion, the Ayahuasca could bring about such sensations. I spooned the porridge into my mouth. The princess sat down across from me on the ground at the low table. "You will counsel my father wisely then? The king? Tell him to abandon this foolish war, and to rebuild the levees." "Of course," I replied. "Why would I counsel him otherwise?" She smiled understandingly. "I'm glad to hear that. So it is true what Madhyashca says, that your soul has been purified?" Her question puzzled me. "He is still confused," called over the Indian woman. "It will get better with time." After eating, I got up and wandered over to a doorway from which bright sunlight was streaming in. The musicians were still playing. Nobody had commented on my complete nudity, but then again, others around were also naked. I don't know why I found it so odd. I guess it was the dreams with all those people wearing lots of clothes. Strange clothes, of smooth alien fabrics and straight edges. Perhaps brought by travelers from the sky we had been hearing about so often nowadays. Walking outside, I found I was in the middle of a grassy meadow, and when I strode over to the half-wall surrounding it, I found myself gazing over a sheer drop, into a mountainscape of misty green grass-covered steep peaks. Lazily, the shrouds of white fog crept, swirling, through the valley. Around me on adjacent Andean mountaintops were the rugged trapezoidal shapes of castillos in basalt and limestone, angular squared-off stone figures perched on pinnacles above flourishing terraced farmlands. ____________________________________________________________ As I sat with the King, I could tell that he would revere as sacred holy truth every word I said. How could he? After all, the king himself was regarded as descended from the Gods. But as the priest, my calling was one to speak directly to the Gods every day. How could any reasonable person buy into all this drivel? Here I was, so obviously a fallable human. And after all, wasn't it the previous words they had heard from my tongue (albeit from another spirit, though they had no idea, and I myself was having difficulty comprehending; but nonetheless. . .) words from my tongue that had led to the dreadful collapse of the levees that had killed so many, the devastating floods, the war based on lies that had drained the economy and brought so many thousands soldiers home dead or wounded, permanently scarred psychologically if not physically. A debt that would take its toll on our civilization for decades if not centuries. And here I sat, a new soul in this same body, atop the mighty pyramid, hearing the terrifying thunder of drums as we lazily watched the powerful armada, listened to the dense clomping of boots on the stone road below. The sultry peal of the battle horns called and answered as the soldiers marched endlessly by in their dreadful columns. The king leaned over. "If it's time to end the war, as you said, then what is to become of them?" I could sense his amusement. I was betting that he had been waiting a long time to hear that the war should be ended. But nobody would defy the high priest. "Them?" I murmured, following his gesture to the section of well-dressed fat courtiers chortling lasciviously and slapping each other on the butts. Colorfully dressed pleasure-maidens carrying parasols mingled among them. "The merchants of death," he explained. "The men who manufacture the arms with which I have furnished my armies. They have made a killing, literally, and now they wallow in treasure." I shrugged. "Gold is of the kingdom, is it not? So take it back. Such men should meet the end they deserve." "Death?" again I sensed the amusement on his face. Images of these evil, wicked men being torn to shreds by wild tigers and boars were quite satisfying. "No," I replied. "One does not kill in order to prove that murder is wrong. Sentence them to hard labor. Tie them together with chains and put them to work rebuilding the roads and bridges their engines of war have destroyed." "Ah yes," mused the King. "Truly, you are the wise priest." FIN _______________________________________________________ For more stories, please visit our site: /~vivian