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From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Journey to Sxtlan - Synapse Ept (purple, ped)
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Date: Sun, 04 Nov 2007 08:10:03 -0500
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  To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
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  Now offering over 180,000 words of pure prurience!

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                            Journey to Sxtlan

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   As I felt the six hands, the thirty fingers flowing and caressing
   the lines of my naked skin, the warm soothing tingles of the
   loving touch swept over my consciousness, overwhelmed by the
   miasmally bitter acrid scent of the lotion.

   "What kind of massage oil is this?" I queried, sinking into
   relaxation as the pulsating waves of sensation washed over me.

   Sherry smiled devilishly. "Since you were sooooooo wonderfully
   excellent in fulfilling your task with my young ladies, I have
   decided to reward you with our extra-special psychotropic shaman-
   ointment treatment."

   "What's in it?" I persisted.

   "Oh, nothing special. Medicine."

   "Of what sort?" I persisted.

   "Nothing much. Just a little pinch of belladonna, a sprig of
   henbane, a touch of mandrake, and a dash of datura."

   I pondered this recipe for a minute or so. "Isn't belladonna the
   same thing as deadly nightshade?" I asked.

   "Oh, but that's such a harsh word for it," she cooed. "Think of
   it as . . . medicine."

   The hands lovingly danced over my skin. The pulsation grew more
   pronounced, like a strobe-light effect. Concentration became more
   difficult.

   "In fact," I continued, "Aren't all of those herbs horrifically
   poisonous?" Now I was half-attempting to sit up. The little girls
   rubbed the cream carefully along the crevices of my hardened
   penis.

   "One man's poison is another's healing. It is precisely because
   they are indeed, openers of the mind, that all of these herbs are
   so terribly maligned. Go with the flow, man. Psychic medicine."

   "Are you completely sure?" I persisted, more faintly now,
   "Because I'm starting to feel awfully funny."

   "Just relax and enjoy," I heard her voice, echoing weirdly like
   from bizarre distorted rock-and-roll sound effects, as if
   receding into some distant future, or maybe one of the tracks on
   Electric Ladyland.

   Now the bright part of the strobe cycle began to resemble a
   mosaic. Fractured squares danced like fragments of an image, like
   dots on a poorly tuned television. Like madly dancing fragments
   of stained glass. The image blurred and resolved. I saw clouds,
   and people standing all around.

   It was just like the mosaic from the night of the Miskatonic quad
   with my beloved hummingbird, an observation which led me to
   believe that perhaps the legand might be true! As set out in in
   that horrible infamous tome, The Sexronomicon, in which one will
   find the crazed ravings of the mad Arab, Haz-al-Otto Harems!

   Indeed, perhaps that seemingly random combinations of the
   sinister mosaic had triggered an algorithmic chain of reaction
   within my mind, a mental resonance established as in the
   whirrings of the cables in some monstrous electric guitar
   strummed by giant tentacle beings from the distant dimensions of
   the planet Sxtlan.

   Still I felt the thirty fingers, and the maddening pulse of blood
   in stiffened sexual member, as the strobelight flashing grew
   quicker and began to blend together. I realized that the very
   pattern of the mosaic, whilst appearing innocently random, was
   indeed diabolically designed to bring about this effect. Yes,
   that must be what it was. Deep in the historical charter of the
   NSA were dark Masonic rituals woven to lead astray the
   mathematical quadrants of the entombed synapses, flashing, sparks
   converging and merging in insane coteries.

   And now the mosaic blended and merged, and the flash of the
   illusory strobe had become my vision, and the world inside the
   mosaic had become my world. I was looking up at an different sky.
   The sky of a different time. A sky overladen with ponderous,
   ominous billowing clouds. Though the sun now shone, it was clear
   from the humidity and the moisture in the air, that a heavy rain
   had recently fallen. I looked down at my body, now firm,
   dark-skinned, decorated a manner characteristic of civilizations
   long ago, before the advent of such things as factory sewing
   machines. My garments consisted of a very skimpy loincloth. With
   a panic surge of self-consciousness, I glanced all around at the
   other people. All dark-skinned as was I, they were clad in manner
   befitting the most erudite of National Geographic magazines.

   Bare, beautiful naked breasts protruded on all sides. Glancing to
   one side, I saw the princess, the one of the night in the quad
   with my hummingbird, my little lovemaker. And indeed, there was
   she too, standing by my side. Distinctly, she bore the same
   facial features, only translated into this ancient time and the
   dark skin and race of long ago.

   Colorful hieroglyphs adorned the walls, and all was rough and
   natural. Nowhere were there straight lines, square corners or any
   other signs of modern technology.

   I felt the intensity of anger directed my way -- directed not at
   me, but towards the one who ordinarily inhabited the body I now
   found myself trapped in. Looking all around, I saw the tragic
   effects of massive flooding. The ruins of formerly grand houses,
   now filled with rancid mud. All over were strewn possessions,
   toys and tools of all varieties, sculptures and furniture,
   clay-smeared pillows and rotting fruit.

   "This is your doing!" hissed the Princess angrily, her beautiful
   feather headdress quivering as she spoke. "It was you who
   counseled the king to waste precious resources on your ridiculous
   war, rather than strengthening the levees!"

   "Child, wait."

   I turned to see the medicine woman of the night in the woods,
   looking exactly as she had then.

   "Appearances are deceiving," she said. The princess' anger would
   not be consoled.

   "Come with me," the older woman beckoned, as she led us away from
   the grumbling crowd into a still quiet clearing.

   "Can you see how his eyes have changed?" the old woman gestured
   to me. My little six-year-old hummingbird was tagging along,
   hanging on to my hands with her soft fingers caressing.

   The princess studied my face. She was very beautiful, with long
   dark curly locks and dainty freckles like pepper across her dark
   skin. Her breasts stood smartly rounded beneath. She smiled
   faintly. "Yes, I can see."

   "I have brought him to here from far away through the synaptic
   corridors. He is a follower of the sacred path of the shaman, and
   has come to rescue Sxtlan from the scourge of ridiculous
   tyranny."

   "I see," ventured the princess cautiously, reaching out and
   grasping my penis with both hands.

   "Careful," said the old matron. "He must return soon to his
   world, and the decayed soul of the corrupt shaman will come back
   into this body. But one day, if Clatlque be willing, our hero
   will return to save Sxtlan. It is written in the prophecy."

   "Do I have time to give him reason to return?" asked the
   Princess.

   "Yes, certainly," replied the old woman.

   Apparently, this body-swap phenomenon was a commonplace
   occurrence around these parts. And the princess was steady in her
   gentle grip around my parts. She knelt down and kissed.

   The little girl was tickling underneath now with her little
   fingers, driving me nuts.

   Soon we were lying on the soft ground, and my firm,
   forward-directed solo finger was comfortably between the breasts
   of the Princess. In front of me, the young girl spread her legs
   to thrust the smooth, soft skin of her tiny lower mouth towards
   mine. She supplemented my tongue-teasing with her own tiny
   probing finger. My sex making love with the heart of the Incan
   maiden, I kissed the little girl into giggles and sighs, again
   and again, tasting, biting, pulling and prodding the soft
   gummy-wormlike orifice.

   Soon I felt my thrusts grow stronger and more deliberate, taking
   on a life of their own. The princess triumphantly waited, and the
   gusher soon flowed wonderful abundance, spouting creamy thick
   whiteness all over her sweet, waiting face, onto her lips, up her
   nose and over her eyebrows and into her hair.

   My little six-year-old was diving over to eagerly lap up the
   drops.

  _______________________________________________________


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