Debbie Hooper: Flower Power

Debbie Hooper: Flower Power

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Before the Summer of Love Debbie Hooper, Miss August 1969, has many adventures in the world of hippies, the Democratic National Convention, Greenwich Village, and angry cops. With her luscious 36-24-34 figure, the petite 5’3’ doe-eyed beauty seduces her way across the country spreading her philosophy of free love and finding her way into the pages of Playboy.


Before the Summer of Love Debbie Hooper, Miss August 1969, has many adventures in the world of hippies, the Democratic National Convention, Greenwich Village, and angry cops. With her luscious 36-24-34 figure, the petite 5’3’ doe-eyed beauty seduces her way across the country spreading her philosophy of free love and finding her way into the pages of Playboy.


Submitted: August 19, 2017

A A A | A A A


Submitted: August 19, 2017



Peter looked at the three paisley ties spread out on the bed and shrugged. They looked ridiculous and he had no intention of wearing any of them. He shoved them back into the Brooks Brothers bag and tossed the bag into a wastebasket behind him. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt ridiculous. He was a young man, already incredibly wealthy because of his skills as an investor; but while he would gladly have voted for Eugene McCarthy if he had won the nomination, nothing was going to make Peter into a hipster or a hippy. His clothes were expensive only because he respected quality, but they were not hip. The style of clothes he wore in 1968 would be the same style as the clothes he wore fifty years later.

This would not have been a problem except that the publisher of Playboy had asked him a favor.  Peter had already delivered one favor; he had successfully seduced the buxom and luscious Cynthia Myer and convinced her to be Miss December 1968. Now he was asked to do a similar favor by finding and seducing the lovely and enigmatic Debbie Hooper who the publisher hoped to make one of the Playmates of 1969.

The publisher had seen her in a newscast during the infamous chaos of the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. She was not part of the crowd rioting and being teargased in Lincoln Park but she had come to the city as part of the youth movement and counterculture protests. She would have been there in the park; she had intended to be there but instead she had spent the night before in the Lincoln Hotel getting balled by the members of MC5. The band, energized by their political commitment and charged up after a delicious night with Debbie, had gone to the park and played for eight hours and after that came the riots. When the rioting had started Debbie was still back at the hotel sleeping peacefully and dreaming pleasant dreams. After all there were five members in the band and Debbie hadn’t wanted to disappoint any of them.  

When she finally did leave the hotel room the lobby was crowded with reporters desperate to interview real live hippies. As soon as she stepped off the elevator she was swamped with lights and cameras; microphones thrust themselves into her face. That’s when the publisher saw her in her nearly transparent white peasant blouse; she looked directly into the cameras and espoused the simple philosophy of love, explaining that if all the girls in the park only offered to make love with the police there would have been no need for tear gas or violence.

The publisher was immediately inspired to make her a Playmate but she had disappeared into the exodus of hippies leaving the city. That’s when he turned to Peter for the favor. Locating her no trouble; the detective agency actually enjoyed re-tracing her trek back to California. She wasn’t too hard to find; she had started to follow the band Creedence Clearwater Revival and she could be seen gyrating in the front row of all their concerts and balling in the hotels with them after the shows. She was with them in San Francisco in late summer, flew with them to Hawaii, then back to San Francisco and then, in October, New York.

New York is where Peter caught up with her. The paisley ties were the publisher’s ideas; Peter found them waiting for him in his suite at the Plaza. They were supposed to make him more appealing to the girl. Peter, after tossing the ties away checked himself in the mirror. He wore casual tan trousers and a white shirt with a classic navy blue sports coat. His shoes were custom made; his watch was quiet but clearly elegant. He skipped the tie and headed down town.

The detectives traced Debbie to a small protest in Washington Square Park.  Peter intended to approach her there and discuss the possibilities of becoming a Playmate but, stepping out the cab, he was just in time to see her being hustled into a police car, which departed with a roar.

In the police car, the two officers were wide-eyed at Debbie’s half-nakedness, as she proudly carried her pants in a dripping ball.  When they had arrested her one of the leaders of the protest was balling her, banging her in an upright position right near the famous fountain and just before the arrest they had tumbled in, causing a public disturbance and giving the police cause to run them in.

As the police car shot through traffic the cops tried to get control of the situation. “Okay sister, cover it up!” said one of them brusquely.
“What?” said Debbie, “my things are soaking wet! How can I put these on?”

The protest leader, who had been securely pinioned in the corner of the back seat, suddenly lunged forward.

“Perfect!” he cried. “Perfect! Her breasts are perfect!”

“You’ve got a screw loose, buddy!” said one of the cops, giving the hippie a terrific blow on the head with his nightstick.

The car was plummeting down MacDougal Street, sirens wailing, so that Debbie had to shout to make herself heard.

“Stop that! You can’t hit him like that. Let me see your credentials.... I don’t believe you’re even police officers!”

“Here’s a credential for you, tootsie!” said the officer in the back seat with her, and he tore open his fly and forced her hand inside. Debbie flailed at him wildly with her free hand, half rising and falling against the driver in her desperation to escape the obscenity.

“Look out!” yelled the driver, for the girl had half obscured his view and interfered with his control of the machine--but it was too late, for at that moment a truck pulled out of a side street directly into their path.

“Christ! Christ!” shouted the driver, swerving the patrol car sharply, and with an agonizing scream of brakes the car careened hopelessly sideways past the truck, righted itself momentarily and then crashed headlong into the Café Reggio.

In the confusion that followed, Debbie found herself being pulled away from the scene by an unknown man.

“Quickly, quickly,” he kept saying in an urgent whisper, and it was apparent he was helping her escape from the authorities. They were soon to Third Street, rushing down it toward Sixth Avenue.

“Whow, this is groovy!” Debbie was saying as she ran along beside him, modestly trying to conceal her sweet nakedness. Then they were at the avenue and the strange man assisted her into a cab after gallantly covering her with his sports coat.

“The Plaza,” he said to the driver, “and hurry!”

“Right!” said the driver, craning forward over the back seat for a moment, trying to see through the half-light of the cab into Debbie’s little honeypot.

“I’m putting on my things,” exclaimed the girl, “wet or not! What a drag!” And she began to get into them, the man beside her helping with the pants.

“Thanks,” said Debbie, feeling a good deal more secure once she had them on again, “and thanks for the rescue! Good Gosh, I thought we were going to jail!”

“So you were, my dear,” said the man. “Now let’s introduce ourselves,” he went on, extending his hand, “My name is Peter.”

“My name is Debbie Hooper,” said the girl, “How do you do?” She looked at his face then glanced away, feeling his eyes burning into her as if studying her soul.

“Glad to be acquainted with you,” said Peter. “Yes, you were going to the jail all right, that much is certain. Now we’ve got to get you out of this town. Tonight.”  He was formulating his plan as he spoke: get her on a plane to Chicago, hide her in the Playboy Mansion, sell her on the Playboy lifestyle.

“Out of town?” said Debbie, “Bummer, what have I done?”

“Well,” said Peter, putting one hand on her wet knee, “Who can say? The point is this, that these authorities, would have put you in jail. That much is certain.”

There was something in Peter’s manner that reminded Debbie of Steve McQueen, and she felt a confidence and rapport warming inside her.
“Yes, they certainly weren’t very friendly,” she agreed.

“Certainly not,” said Peter. “They have no understanding of the youth movement whatever!”

“I’ll say,” said Debbie. She began trying to smooth out her blouse, which was wrinkled and still quite wet. “Ugh, these things are all icky,” she said. “I don’t know whether to keep them on or not!”

“No matter,” said Peter, “We’re almost to the hotel.” The cab pulled up in front of a large elegant building and stopped. He got out and paid the driver and helped Debbie out.

“What a bummer, I hate to go in like this,” she said, “I must look a sight.”

“No, you’re fine,” said Peter, “I can take care of this. Come.” He led the way up the steps and into a large foyer; she felt oddly comfortable with the flat of his hand on her back, guiding her, taking command. A receptionist snapped to attention and he went directly to her.

“This girl is with me,” he said, “She’s been in a slight accident and obviously needs some fresh clothes. Will you send them up to my suite?” He was already writing instructions down on some  hotel stationary.  He was a connoisseur of the feminine form and already judged her measurements quite accurately: a delicious 36-24-36 figure on a petite 5’3” frame. He jotted down her size, listed the items he wanted, and handed the slip back to the girl. “Bergdof’s will be fine. Have this charged to my suite.”

“Yes, of course,” said the receptionist, looking into his eyes. “I will arrange for this immediately.” Debbie felt another strange emotion: jealousy; she sensed that if Peter and the receptionist hadn’t already made it, the receptionist was going to make a point of making that happen. She could picture Peter and the receptionist balling right there on the desk and she could feel herself becoming possessive of Peter and angry with the other girl. The luscious hippie shoved away that uncool feeling but she took Peter’s arm possessively and made sure the receptionist saw it.
In the elevator the operator was gracious enough to look away from the soaked girl. She snuggled against Peter for warmth, getting his shirt and slacks wet in the process. Peter put a paternal arm around her shoulder and she felt enveloped in security.  They exited on one of the upper floors and Debbie liked the way he kept his arm around her as the elevator operator escorted them to their suite.

Debbie, on her rock and roll tour, had been in a lot of hotels but she was still awed by the opulence that greeted her as the door swung open.

“Groovy,” she gasped, her brown eyes wide with wonder.

“This is where the Beatles stayed,” the operator added helpfully before disappearing.

“The Beatles! Groov--vey!” she squealed before embracing Peter in a wet hug.  She decided that balling in this suite would be like balling the Beatles.

Exhilarated, all thoughts of the police gone from her mind, she turned and took in the room. And a great mass of feeling rose in her throat at the blessings she felt; she put her arms around her delightful body and hugged herself, so glad at being alive, really alive, and her eyes brimmed with shimmering gratitude.

Once more she spun around to embrace Peter; her dark brown hair, still damp from the fall into the fountain, whipped across his face and she kissed his check to make amends.

“We need to get both of us out of these wet things,” he said, squeezing her breast while she felt the sweet little nipple reaching out like a tiny mushroom.

“Groovy,” she purred once more and stepped away from him. In front of them was a huge gilt-edged mirror and Debbie was drawn to it as if by magic; her reflection seemed to command her to take off her clothes, to lose the confining trap of material things, to be naked where the Beatles had stood. Standing before the glass, Debbie finished undressing--unbuttoning the sports coat Peter had given her, slowly, carefully, a lamb eager and compelled to the slaughter, dropping the coat to the floor, and taking off her peasant blouse, gradually revealing her nakedness to herself, with a little sigh, almost of wistful regret, at how very lovely she was, and at how her nipples grew and stood out like cherrystones, as they always did when she watched herself undress. How he wants me! she thought. Well, right on! And, as she touched her curls lightly she tried to imagine the raging lust that Peter felt for her. Then she cast a last glimpse at herself in the glass, blushing at her own loveliness, and trembling slightly at the very secret notion of this cosmic union, she turned back to him.

Peter was already naked, gazing at her with bold, demanding eyes, when Debbie appeared before him, standing for a moment in full lush radiance, a naked angel bearing the supreme gift. Then, embraced him quickly, almost soundlessly, breathing “Darling, darling” and cuddling him to her at once, while he filled his head with the most lustful thoughts imaginable--all about the deep and dark things he’d be doing to her body, but his thoughts were invaded by a single reminder: get her to agree to be a playmate!

“Do you want to kiss me some more, darling?” asked the girl with deadly soft seriousness, her eyes wide, searching his own as a child would a parent’s. She glided to the couch and languidly stretched herself out, lifting one of her bare breasts in offering to him.

Peter had only one thought, his head thrusting forward to cover the breast with his mouth. Debbie sobbed, “Oh darling, yes,” and allowed her head to recline gently against the couch. “Do you want to make it with me? I want you to,” she pleaded. “Baby, let’s make it.” And she let him kiss and suck her breast, until the nipple became terribly taut and she began to tingle all down through her precious tummy, then she pulled his head away, cradling it in her arms, her own eyes shimmering with tears behind a radiant smile. Then he swiftly glided his hand across the moist sheen of her rounded tummy and down into the sweet damp.

“Oh, darling, yes!” cried the girl, but he didn’t need encouragement; his expert fingers were already rolling the little clitoris like a marble in oil. Debbie leaned back in submission, her heart soaring. With her head closed-eyed, resting again on the couch, she would sustain this forever if she could. But, before she reached the saturation point, he had nuzzled his face down from her breast across her bare stomach and into her lap, bending his arm forward to force legs apart, “Yes, yes, darling!” she sighed, and he soon had his head below her knees and replaced his fingers with his tongue. This is cosmic, Debbie kept thinking, so much, as he meanwhile shifted her body, tugging one slender ankle as he adjusted her legs and was at last on the floor himself in front of her, with her legs around his neck, and his mouth very deep inside the fabulous honeypot.

“Cosmic,” Debbie kept repeating to herself, until she didn’t think she could bear it another second, and she wrenched herself free, saying “Darling, oh darling,” and seized his head in her hands with a great show of passion.
“Do me, baby,” she begged, holding his face in her hands, looking at him hungrily. “Please.”

“I need to fuck you!” he said huskily. He put his face against the upper softness of her marvelous bare leg. Small, dark sounds came from his throat.

“Oh, darling, darling,” the girl keened joyfully, “I can’t bear waiting.” She sighed, and smiled tenderly, stroking his head. “I think we’d better go into the bedroom,” she said then, her manner suddenly wise and capable.

Debbie knew from hotel suites; confidently walking backwards holding his hands, she guided him along and they floated to the nirvana of the bedroom. Without needing to look, she backed to the edge of the bed, then she sighed and lay back, slowly spreading her arms to make him the gift of all her wet, throbbing treasures, as he, fire-eyed and growling, slipped down beside her.

“I want you to fuck me, darling,” she murmured, as in a dream, while he parted the exquisitely warm round thighs with his great head, his mouth opening the slick lips all sugar and glue, and his quick tongue finding her pink candy clit at once.

“Oh, darling, darling,” she said, stroking his head gently, watching him, a tender smile on her face.

Peter put his hands under her, gripping the lush flesh of her buttocks, and sucked and nibbled her tiny clit with increasing vigor. Debbie closed her eyes and gradually raised her legs, straining gently upward now, dropping her arms back by her head, one to each side, pretending they were pinioned there, writhing slowly, sobbing--until she felt she was no longer giving, but was on the verge of taking, and, as with an effort, she broke her hands from above her and grasped
Peter’s head and lifted it to her mouth, coming forward to meet him, kissing him deeply. “Come inside me, darling,” she whispered urgently, “I want you inside me!”

Peter, his brain seething with pure lust, hardly heard her. He had forgotten about talking her into posing, and his head was about to burst in trying to control his lust. Inside his mind was like a gigantic landslide of lava surging forward. While his eyes grew wilder and burned until only black covetousness showed, Debbie, sensing that he was beside himself with desire for her, covered his face with sweet wet kisses, until he suddenly went stiff in her arms as his racing look stopped abruptly on her glistening eyes, and Peter flung himself forward, clutching her to him feverishly. Then, as in a fit of hungry triumph, he twisted his cock savagely into her coiled sheath, and her pussy gripped it so tightly that his entire body shook for a moment, he lunged headlong, his cock plunging deep, one of her nipples locked between his teeth.

Debbie had started up, his velocity almost lifting her, one hand instinctively to her pert, pulsating breast. “Darling, is this good?” she cried. “Darling, you aren’t going to . . .”

Peter slowly rose, as one recovered from a seizure of apoplexy, seeming to take account of his surroundings anew, and, he studied her face; his cockhead poised at her gate, ready to lunge again.

“Yes, darling” murmured Debbie, curling her lovely legs around Peter’s waist slowly drawing him into her sweetness. “Yes! YES!” she cried.

And as he began to thrust into her, she sobbed, “Oh, yes, darling, yes.” her long round limbs twisting, as she turned and writhed, her arms back beside her head as before, moving too, except at the wrist where they were as stiff as though clamped there with steel, and she was saying: “Yes! Fuck me! Yes, yes! Fuck me!” and now her ankles as well seemed secured, shackled behind his back, as she lay, spread-eagled, sobbing, straining against her invisible bonds, her lithe round body arching upward, hips circling slowly, mouth wet, nipples taut, her teeny piping clitoris distended and throbbing, and her eyes shimmering fire, as she devoured all the lust in the world; and as it continued she slowly opened her eyes, that all the world might see the jubilant tears there--but instead she herself saw, through the rise and fall of his hips--Peter’s gleaming cock! The cock, the thick, hard forever, tree-trunk of cock, and it struck her, more sharply than a cosmic blast, as something to worship--the naked, jutting buttocks, upraised in a sexual thrust, not a thrust of taking, but of giving, for it had been an image of the universe, of her own precious treasures, naked and upraised, gleaming white, and thrusting upwards, giving herself to the universe! His cock was the key to the universe.

With a wild impulsive cry, she shrieked: “Give me your cock!”

Peter was startled for a moment, not comprehending.

“Your cock, your cock!” cried the girl, “GIVE ME YOUR COCK!”

Peter hesitated, and then lunged headlong toward her, burying his cock deeper between Debbie’s legs as she hunched wildly, pulling open her little labias in an absurd effort to get it in deeper. “Your cock! Your cock!” she kept crying, scratching and clawing his back now.

“Fuck! Shit! Piss!”  she  screamed.  “Cunt! Cock! Crap! Prick! Kike! Nigger! Wop! Pig! War! Cock! COCK!” and she teetered on the blazing peak of pure madness for an instant ...and then dropped down, slowly, through blue and green clouds of psychedelia, into a deep, soft, black, night.

Peter woke hours later to an empty bed. He slipped on a robe and padded with bare feet out to the other room.  Debbie was sitting on the couch, her lovely legs curled under her. She was wearing a multi-color silk print dress with long streaming sleeves pleated folds flowing down to highlight the arc and lift of her firm young breasts and the allure of her luscious curves. Peter recognized it as a Zandra Rhodes from Bergdorf’s.

“Like it?” she said happily, smoothing out the sheen of the silk. The receptionist delivered it about an hour ago.” Debbie then giggled wickedly. “I don’t think she liked seeing me naked when she opened the door.”

Speaking of naked, Peter noticed his luscious guest was studying the current issue of Playboy; Majken Haugedal’s graceful centerfold was spread across her lap.

He gestured to the magazine. “Like it?” He was about to pursue her own appearance in her own centerfold but Debbie opened her pretty mouth and made a speech.

“Oh, she’s pretty, but this magazine is nowhere. She began flipping pages. “She’s living the Man’s dream and not her own. Better to live for yourself, ‘cause self-love is love for everybody. You can ball whoever you want now and sex should be totally spontaneous and chicks should be allowed to do whatever they want. Good sex is when you get zapped immediately by someone’s charisma and you ball him; it’s groovy to ball, but groovier to make love. This is so fake like she’s a doll for sale. The whole thing’s a lie. You try to tell people what to think and you end up a little Madison Avenue mind fascist.” She was now pondering some of the advertisements. Her brow furrowed, irked by middle-aged advertising copywriters. “It’s these squares who make egg rolls look erotic but worry about what sex is doing to their children,” Debbie looked askance at the ‘what sort of man reads Playboy’ ad; her eyes seemed to abhor the conformity. Part of Peter thought she had a point.

With a disdainful snort she tossed the magazine away but she picked up another with a cover showing the Beatles in India with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. “Now this is out of sight. Imagine the chance to get some real spiritual enlightenment.”

Peter closed his eyes, recalibrating his plans. As if drawing from some infinite well of wisdom he repeated something he saw on a brochure recently. “He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.”

“Far out,” she squealed happily, “That’s what I’m saying, right? I’d love to study with a guru.”

Peter opened his robe as his plans clicked in his head. “I think I know a place. We still have to get you out of town anyway.” The brochure was for some mediation center out in Southern California wheren the high priest had tried to get Peter to invest. He could picture the place now. Some barns and trailers. As his mind worked he idly wrapped some of Debbie’s long lustrous hair around his fingers and drew her head forward.

“Far out,” she gushed but at the last “ow” sound her lips were pressed over his cockhead and the shaft pushed down her luscious throat.

“We’ll fly you out first thing in the morning,” he said dreamily, rocking his hips while guiding her pretty head.

“Far out,” she tried to mumble; her mouth full of him, she slurped and sucked happily knowing she was one with the universe.

The estate was large; just two hours drive from the Los Angeles airport, it seemed worlds away from the hurly-burly of the big city. The perfect place for spiritual enlightenment Debbie decided as the taxi rolled up the long drive to the main compound. Lazy cows glanced at her indifferently as they munched grass. A cloud of dust rose higher and higher as the cab bumped along the dirt road. When they stopped they were at a trailer set across from a large red barn. Debbie suddenly realized that she had no money; all she was wearing was the silk print dress Peter had given her yesterday. She tried to explain to the driver but he just waved her off. “All paid for already Miss, and the tip too.” He gestured to the trailer. “You just go in there and you’ll be fine.”

Debbie clapped her hands, a gleeful child; she could feel spiritual enlightenment flowing to her already.

Inside the trailer she was greeted by a friendly but impassive girl with blonde hair that came to her waist; she seemed to be expecting Debbie and tapped on the enthusiastic girl’s name on a clipboard. “I see you’re scheduled for a session with the master himself.” She looked at Debbie a little less impassively, “You must be a very spiritual person.”

Debbie did a little pirouette of joy, twirling the skirt just above her sweet knees. “Oh I hope so,” she gushed; then she remembered to be humble. “But I know I have a lot to learn.”

“Do you know Sanskrit?”

The question dampened Debbie’s enthusiasm for a moment as she shook her head no. “Bummer,” she said, “I guess I DO have a lot to learn.”

The blonde nodded, indifferent once more. She stepped from around her desk and led Debbie to the door and pointed across to the barn. “In there,” she pointed.

Debbie, suddenly hesitant, shuffled across the dirt road. She paused at the latch to the small door to the barn.

“Just go right in,” the blonde called out.

“OK,” said Debbie. She pushed open the door, and was on her way in, waving back at the blonde-haired girl who watched her disappear into the dark space from the steps of the trailer.

The space was dark but Debbie could smell the familiar scent of newly harvested hay through the absolute blackness. It was plenty exciting for the young girl and made her dear young tummy tingle.

Finally her eyes adjusted and she started walking. The space was cavernous and quite dark; the hay was stacked in rows to form a sweet smelling maze to guide her way but from one bend to another she could always just make out the faint glow of light ahead. At last she came to a long, unbroken stretch of pathway and she could see the soft light glowing at the end. As she got nearer, she could also make out the figure of a man there. He was sitting in a chair reading a book by the lamp overhead.
When Debbie reached him he acknowledged her with a nod.

“Hi,” said Debbie, a bit breathless but more keen for her work to begin. She waited for a response, noticing the lurid paperback in his hands, Mickey Spillane’s I, the Jury. She pondered the woman on the cover opening her blouse defiantly and the brutal man with a gun. Her brow furrowed cutely and she wondered about the complexities of spiritual enlightenment when it came to books like that. She nervously cleared her throat, anxious for a response to her greeting.

He looked annoyed but didn’t look up from the book. He gestured towards another pile of books on the floor.

She bent down and picked up a massive tome of Sanskrit, the characters wriggling on the page like snakes. She tried another one and it was more Sanskrit in even smaller characters. Finally she found a book that was illustrated. The pages were brilliant with color, men and women in ancient Indian garb engaged in all sorts of carnal activities in positions that only the greatest of contortionist could dare. Debbie shrugged and began to study zealously. After thirty minutes or so she felt eyes burning into her.

The man watched her curiously.

“So, you have come,” he said at last.

Debbie wondered why he wasn’t helping with her studying instead of sitting there reading, and she decided that he might be on a spiritual plane too high for her.

“Yes, and I better get cracking on this work!” she said without looking at him.

The man nodded. “I have been expecting you,” he said.

There was something in his odd tone that caused Debbie to turn and look at him carefully, though as she scrutinized his face for a clue to age she felt she had never seen anyone whose age was so indeterminate. Anyway, she thought, with an urgent flutter somewhere behind her precious labia, he was not a boy but a man. Large, with a great bald head, and huge black mustache, his eyes blazed at her in the half-light; and if Peter had been impressive with his penetrating eyes, this man was a veritable Svengali. She knew at once that he was the man Peter had spoken of, and she knew too somehow that he was to be very important in her life.

“Are you . . .” she faltered.

“I,” he said with soft drama, “Am ...Marlon.”

Debbie was confused and embarrassed by his piercing look, which seemed to her to be undoing the soft ribbon on the neckline of her shift and moving across her bare breast where the nipples now began slowly distending and throbbed painfully. She turned her eyes back to the book and turned some more pages, and the man looked down at his novel again. Debbie was sure that he was the most spiritually advanced person she had met and she wondered what she should say to him. She tried to lose herself for the moment in her work and began a furious hunt and flurry through the books until she found a volume of Sanskrit grammar.

She opened to a random page and began to read out loud, “The vowel ‘a’ is especially significant in the Sanskrit tradition, as this verse from the Bhagavad Gita shows: Of letters I am a. Of compounds I am the dual. I alone am unending time, the Founder facing every side.” She gasped in awe. “Far out,” she intoned reverently.

She continued to read furiously, determined to become more spiritual. From time to time she would stop to get her breath and flip to another part of the book. About the fourth time she stopped to do this, the man on the chair raised his eyes from Mickey Spillane.

“That is enough study,” he said. His voice, like Peter’s, was very strong, though not at all unpleasant. In fact it seemed to add a certain poetic seriousness and drama to his words. Debbie had no doubt that he was very superior, so she was quite ready to obey; also she was tired of studying now.

“OK,” she said, and placed the book into the little pile she had begun.

“You have studied well,” said the big man watching her.

“Thanks,” said Debbie, brushing her hair with her fingers; she felt the warm sustaining glow of accomplishment within her. “We could use some lunch after that work,” she said.

The big man put the novel in his pocket.
“I do not care to eat,” he said, standing up. “However, we must have another lesson now.”

“Right,” said Debbie, “...but I haven’t learned Sanskrit yet.” She was looking at the pile of books.

“No, this will come later. Now we must let the lights study you.”

He took her hand and led her through another maze of stacked hay. Debbie quickly lost all sense of direction then suddenly they were at a door and he led them inside a large room with spotlights focused on one corner. A stack of silk pillows gleamed under the lights. Debbie did not realize that it was a simple photography studio.

“Remove your clothes and stand there.” He pointed to the pillows. Debbie hesitated wondering if the bright lights signified enlightenment. She was about to raise the question when he waved away her concerns. “You must be naked and let the light cleanse your body and radiate into your soul. I will of course withdraw. I can guide you through your journey with my voice alone.”

Before she could respond he was gone, disappearing behind some screen beyond the lights.

Debbie moved into the bright flood of warm light, nudging the silk pillows with her toes. She turned and faced the screen and felt doubtful but a firm voice boomed from a speaker. “Remove your dress; feel the light cleanse you.”

“Yes, of course,” said the girl. She was confused by this, yet it was not wholly an unpleasant sensation.

She slithered out of the silk shift and the lights did feel pleasant on her bare skin. The voice commanded her to kneel on the pillows and pose herself by lifting her breasts toward the lights. Then she had to lie on her back with her legs straight in the air. The voice guided her through a series of alluring poses and Debbie, while not feeling any more enlightened, certainly felt breathless and aroused under the all-seeing lights. Suddenly the lights dimmed and she was told to put on her dress again.

 The man appeared once more, as if he had never left the room. “Good,” said the big man. “Now we go on.”

It seemed to Debbie that he was in a jovial mood now, and she decided to risk a question.

“Did Peter write to you about me?” she asked, not realizing for the moment that of course there had hardly been time for a letter.

The big man looked at her a few seconds without speaking. Then he said: “I am in communication with Peter, from time to time during the night and day. I knew that you were coming. Yes. And that you are ripe for spiritual advancement.”

“Far out,” said Debbie, “He said that?”

“You have come, seeking truth, have you not?”

“Oh yes,” the girl was quick to assure him.

“Then you have come to the right place--we will begin at once. Tonight.”

The attention of the great man, denied her up to this moment, was now like a luxurious bath to the young girl.

“I ...I hardly know what to say,” she began with gratitude.

“He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.”

“That’s what Peter says!” cried Debbie with the delight she always derived from knowledge. “He got that from me,” said the big man. “He is my student.”

He stated it factually, as a child would, without pride or embarrassment; but it was a fact quite impressive to Debbie even so, because of her strong memory of Peter and the day behind her, so much of which was connected with warmth of her own joyous heart.

He led her through another maze and into what appeared to be a lounge. Debbie and Marlon sat talking--he on the edge of the couch, and she at his feet.

“What stage of spiritual advancement are you in at present?” he asked the girl.

“Whoa! I have no idea,” she said. She thought about Peter’s cock connecting her to the universe. Was that enlightenment?

“Ah yes, the heart knows,” he said. “And the heart knows best.”

“I think I’m in an early stage of some sort,” said the girl with perfect candor. She was about to explain about the cosmic power of fucking Peter when he started to expound on his lesson.

“There are six stages along the mystic path,” said Marlon, “and you are in one of them or another, at all times. Now your first stage is this: to have read a large number of books on the various religions and philosophies, and to have listened to many learned doctors profess the different doctrines--and then to experiment seriously yourself with a number of doctrines.”

“That’s only the first stage?” asked Debbie, hardly able to believe it.

“Yes. The path is arduous, you see--many take it; few arrive.”

“What is the second stage?”

“The second stage is to choose one doctrine from among the many one has studied and discard the others.”

“Gosh,” said Debbie.

“Then does the path become truly arduous. The third stage is to remain in a lowly condition, humble in one’s demeanor, not seeking to be conspicuous or important in the eyes of the world--but behind apparent insignificance, to let one’s mind soar above all worldly power and glory.”

“And then?”

“Then you must attain the fourth stage: indifference to all. Accepting with equal indifference whatever comes: riches or poverty, praise or contempt. Giving up the distinction between virtue and vice, honorable and shameful, good and evil ...neither repenting nor rejoicing over what one may have done in the past.”

Debbie was enjoying it immensely. She settled herself more comfortably.

“Then what?” she asked, wide-eyed and lovely.

“Then do you attain to your fifth stage,” said Marlon, “There to consider with perfect equanimity and detachment the conflicting opinions and the various manifestations of the activity of beings. To understand that such is the nature of things, the inevitable mode of action of each.”

“Deep, man,” said Debbie.

“Yes, the mystic path is an arduous path, you see; many depart, few arrive.”

“What on earth is the sixth stage?” the girl wanted to know.

“The sixth stage cannot be described in words, unfortunately. It corresponds to the realization of the void, which, in Lamaist terminology, means the Inexpressible Reality.”

“I don’t get it,” said Debbie.

“Well,” said Marlon, “one must understand here the realization of the non-existence of a permanent ego. This is your great Tibetan formula: ‘The person is devoid of self; all things are devoid of self.’”

“And that’s the end?” said Debbie after a moment.

“Yes, for all  practical  purposes  it  is.  There is a seventh stage, physically, of suspended animation. But that need not concern us here.”

“Suspended animation!” cried Debbie, as though that pleased her more than the rest.

Marlon nodded, and the girl gave him a searching look, wondering indeed if he were not capable of this feat himself.

“Gosh, I’d love to be able to do that,” she admitted at last. “The path is arduous,” said Marlon.

“Right on!” said Debbie.
“Well, what do you say? Will you walk the mystic path? Already you have good spiritual potential.”

“Well, I would like to try,” she said, “What do we do first?”

“First you must have a good guru, a spiritual teacher, to train you.”

“And you . . .” Debbie began.

“I shall be your guru.”

“Oh that’s wonderful,” said the girl; she was doubly pleased and stood up as though to kiss Marlon, but he was quick to reassert a more formal tone.

“First,” he said, “there is the problem of mental discipline and the basic yoga exercises.”

He drew out a bead necklace from his pocket, not unlike a rosary chain, with the beads arranged along it in varying groups, and he placed this around Debbie’s neck, the girl arching her slender throat graciously to receive it. Then he explained how she was to practice her yoga breathing patterns by feeling the different groupings of beads along the necklace.

Next came instruction in the famous exercise of “opposing thumbs,” then the secret of “standing sleep,”  whereby  the  successful  practitioner  can  receive  the  physical  benefit  of  14  hours’ uninterrupted sleep in only two or three minutes.

“Now, perhaps your most  important  yoga  exercise,”  said Marlon,  with  extreme seriousness, “For it is the true key to Infinite Oneness--I speak, of course, of the Cosmic Rhythm, which you must achieve to be in harmony with all things, and to find Nirvana. Now, relax your body, and let it follow movements which the pressure of my hands on it suggests.”

So saying, he placed his hands on Debbie’s lush, rounded hips and began to rotate them slowly, back and forth, in a smooth undulating motion.

“Just so,” he said, stepping back to watch her performance, “yes, very good.”

The movement, in any other than a mystical context, would have seemed suggestively sexual, and perhaps even obscene; Debbie was aware of this and her lovely face went crimson for an instant, but she crossly blamed herself for making the association and attributed it to her own impure and undeveloped spirit.

While she was practicing the Cosmic Rhythm, Marlon was directing her, causing her by command to vary the tempo of her gyrations. Debbie, so intent on mastering the exercise, had not noticed that he was standing so close, and was slightly taken aback by the sudden sound of his breath on her throat, as indeed was Marlon himself, completely absorbed in seeing that the execution was correct. She felt his wet lips on her skin and let out an involuntary yelp of “Hey man, cool it.”

At the girl’s words, he gave a bellow of rage, wheeled and rushed against her with clenched fists, as she, in turn, fled hurriedly to the other side of the room.

“This doesn’t seem enlightening,” she cried in retreat, but her voice trailed away as she saw the distain in his eyes.

“You silly child!” said Marlon in genuine annoyance as he came back to Debbie. “What you need is a horsewhipping!”
Debbie was impressed by his show of heat and impatience at the interruption, and was pleasingly flattered that he had such an interest in her progress with the exercises. Certainly too she was keen to get on with her mastery of them and to achieve some real advancement along the mystical path. She tried to divert his annoyance by doubling her zeal in practicing.

“Yes!” said Marlon. “Excellent! Now then, our next. . .” But he stopped short and put his great head sideways in an attitude of listening. “Hear that?” he said,

Then Debbie heard it too, a faint whistling, very near another door opposite from where they had entered.

“Wait here,” said Marlon as he went to the sound. “That is your next exercise: wait here and think of nothing.” He turned the knob and swung the door open. It led outside where the sun was long gone.

“Right!” said Debbie.

Marlon went out the door into the night, and Debbie tried to make her mind a blank, but she was too excited for the moment to do so. She thought if she went to the door and looked up into the dark sky, she would be able to do it. “Unless there are stars!” she said half aloud, and she walked to the door and looked out at the sky. As she did, however, she could not help but catch a glimpse of Marlon, standing in the shadows beyond the door. He was talking in a low voice to two men there, and one of them seemed to be giving him something--money, it appeared to be, from the deliberate way he was handing it over, little by little, as though counting it out, and rather furtively too. He then handed what was clearly rolls of film to the men. She could hear him whisper, “She posed completely nude and she is spectacular. These shots will prove she is great Playmate material.” All three men chuckled the way men did when talking about naked women. Then the two strangers faded quietly into more shadows and away. Evidently Marlon had just sold photos he had taken in the bright lights without her knowledge.

This realization came as a shock to Debbie, and she drew away from the door and lowered her head to pout prettily, not raising it when Marlon reentered the room seconds later. He was rubbing his hands together briskly--in a manner actually suggesting the accomplishment Debbie knew of already, to her repulsion and horror.

“Well!” said Marlon with great gusto. “Now then! Where was I?”

“You were,” said the girl with cutting hauteur, “At the point of selling nude pictures of me!” And she burst into tears, covering her face and rushing to one corner of the room. “I didn’t mind being naked but not for the capitalist pigs to exploit my feminist spirit!”

He looked at her blankly.

“How could you?” she cried, really brokenhearted. “How could you?”

Surprisingly, Marlon did not seem taken aback by this accusation, but only slightly annoyed at her outburst, and the sound of her crying, which he seemed to find unpleasant.

“That!” he said, waving his hand and frowning with impatience. “That was nothing--a mere material transaction. Of no significance whatever.”
“But why did you take the money?” the girl demanded, raising her lovely tear-glittering face for a moment to show the hurt and betrayal she felt.

“Peter wouldn’t have taken it!” she cried. “He said I was here for spiritual learning, and so did you! He wouldn’t have taken it, and he’s only your student! I think it’s awful!” And she hid her face again, sobbing terribly.

“What did he say?” asked Marlon, coming near her.

“Enlightenment!” whimpered the girl in a child’s voice. “He said I would be enlightened, and so did you!”

“Of course you will be enlightened,” said Marlon, placing a hand on Debbie’s shoulder, “All reality ...” his hand described an arc, searching for the word, “…Is mere appearance, illusion. A dream, certainly.”

“But why do you have to have money in a dream?” the girl wanted to know, tearful as ever.

“Ah!” said Marlon, his fingers toying the back of her sweet left ear, “It is a dream, yes--but we make it a pleasant dream, not a ...a nightmare!”

“But you’re making it a nightmare,” said Debbie, “Selling those pictures to the capitalists like that-- it’s’s like stealing!” The last word, and the host of implications it held, caused her to sob anew, oblivious, it seemed, to the lavish caresses along her neck and spine, with which Marlon was trying to soothe her.

“Let me ask you this . . .” said Marlon, “Who are the happiest people in our world? Who besides, of course, those well advanced on the mystical path are happiest? Is it not those who create? Of course! It is the artist. It is the artist who is self-sufficient and happiest in our world. Yes! But the great art comes from those who have suffered--history will bear me out!” In his discourse, he had abandoned the girl for the moment and was pacing about the room; this may have been what caused her now to raise her eyes like two saucers and stare after him, somewhat longingly it seemed.

“History will bear me out,” he repeated, “it is the deprived cultures who have produced the greatest number of artists; thus have we, here tonight, struck a blow for all that is fine and good in the dream world! Art!” Debbie was watching him wide-eyed and he returned to where she was standing in the corner of the room. This had the effect of relieving her anxiety in one way, but made her renew her tears just the same.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, hiding her face, “it just seems so shoddy, taking the money like that.”

“Shoddy!” said Marlon. “I suffer for my art!” He looked fierce, disgusted with her. “You are not enlightened,” he said.

“No, no,” said Debbie, shaking her head blindly.

“You deny it with words,” said Marlon, “But what do your actions say.” And he crossed his arms as if dismissing her.

“Oh no, don’t!” cried Debbie, raising her eyes and touching his arm in real concern.

“Too late! Too late!” said Marlon, glowering vigorously, “I see no enlightenment here!”

This left Debbie with a tremendous feeling of responsibility for the loss. “Oh, I don’t know what to say,” she cried, squeezing his arm.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Marlon, as he surreptitiously pocketed the loot; he lowered his head, looking almost sheepish. “It was just ...just that I wanted to teach you,” he said, and he allowed a tear to form in his eye and to slowly course down his heavy jowl.

“What?” said the girl, too amazed. “Oh my darling,” she said, putting her arms around him, “My precious baby,” and she stroked and fondled him feverishly to bring comfort, drawing his great head down to her shoulder and rocking it there like a big strange infant.

They were standing like this then, with Marlon letting his massive head slide down the front of the girl’s shift, cleverly manipulating his huge cleft chin to undo ribbon closing it. The dress was sliding off her shoulders. “Yes, my darling, yes,” she sobbed preparing herself to become one with the universe.

“Ah, you wicked creature,” he scolded but not without affection. “You try to tempt me with carnal pleasures. I’m too enlightened for that.” He opened the outside door

 Marlon drew the girl outside into the shadows.

“More important work awaits us,” he said, inadvertently, or so it seemed, touching her crotch for a moment. “Come.”

So saying, he took her hand and led the way, along the rocky path and down the bramble bush hill to a stream there at the bottom, which they followed then, curving around the hill and the barn above.

Debbie ran alongside the stream, lifting her skirt a bit, terribly excited by the wild moonlit aspect of the countryside and overjoyed at this sort of informal outing she and Marlon were having.
Round a bend, and they came to a shimmering pool, and behind it a grotto, or water-cave, the mouth of it dark against the silver water.

“Oh, how lovely!” cried the girl, clasping her hands together at her breast, as though the sight were so lovely indeed that it gave her a pang there.

“Come,” said Marlon, taking her hand again, “We must go inside.”

They had to walk through a foot or so of water to reach the mouth of the grotto, which Debbie did with little squeals and shrieks of pure delight: then they were inside, and Marlon lit a lamp that was sitting on the wide reef-ledge of the grotto. With this soft yellow light and the moon coming in through the mouth, the already interesting interior, its cavernous roof spidered with stalactite formations and glints of quartz, took on a quite remarkable beauty. Blue-green moss and rich fern grew in abundance along the walls and on the ledge itself, forming a veritable carpet there, the thickness, almost, of a love-couch.

“The path is arduous,” Marlon intoned. “This is where I give lessons.”

“Oh it’s just too marvelous,” said Debbie in a whisper, looking down now into the blue pool itself and the deep, wavering splinters of phosphorus below the surface.

Marlon, though, was watching the young girl; in this setting she was nothing so much as a perfect nymph, or the immortal beauty Diana herself.

“It’s good that you wear that simple shift,” he said, matter-of-factly, “It will expedite the next lesson considerably.”

“Are we really to have another mystical lesson now!” exclaimed Debbie in sheer delight, actually giving a little jump of joy; it was all too perfect already! And now another mystical lesson as well! She sat down eagerly on the fluffy bed of moss, arranged her skirt primly, tucking it under her precious knees, getting comfortable and making her mind ready and alert, just the way she had always done in the interesting courses at school. She had a momentary regret that she didn’t have her notebook and pencil along, but she quickly dismissed this thought for the infinitely more preferable notion of Arcadia, with the students sitting around under the trees, listening to the master talk, and not taking notes but absorbing everything, everything. That’s the pure way and the true way, thought Debbie and was extremely pleased.

“First,” said Marlon, sitting down beside her, “we’ll want to get out of this worldly apparel.” And he began taking off his wet shoes. Then he started undoing his trousers.

“Do we have to?” asked the girl shyly; she wanted to be worthy.

“‘Put your house in order,’” quoted Marlon, “‘that is the first step.’ Certainly we must divest ourselves of all material concern--in both spirit and body.”

“Right!” said Debbie firmly in an effort to dispel the great warm reservoir of feminine modesty she felt glowing up inside her and finally flushing her pretty face, as she slipped out of the simple garment.

“There!” she said pertly, and in an abrupt little movement that spoke well of her bravery, she put aside the soft shift, which was all she was wearing, and gave a little sigh of relief that she had actually been able to do it; and yet, even as she was sensing a certain pride and accomplishment in the feat, her sweet face flushed maidenly rose as, under Marlon’s gaze, she felt her smart little nipples tauten and distend, as though they, alerted now, had a life quite their own.

“Good!” said Marlon. “Now then, lace your ringers together, in the yoga manner, and place them behind your head. Yes, just so. Now then, lie back on the mossy bed.”

“Oh gosh,” said Debbie, feeling apprehensive, and as she obediently lay back, she raised one of her handsome thighs slightly, turning it inward, pressed against the other, in a charmingly coy effort to conceal her marvelous little spice-box.

“No, no,” said Marlon, coming forward to make adjustments, “Legs well apart.”

At his touch, the darling girl started in fright and reticence, but Marlon was quick to reassure her.

“I’m a doctor of the soul,” he said coldly; “I am certainly not interested in that silly little body of yours--it is the spirit that concerns us here. Now is that understood?”

“Yes,” answered the girl meekly, lying very still now and allowing him to adjust her limbs, just so, well apart, and turned out slightly.

“Eyes closed,” said Marlon firmly, and when Debbie had obeyed, he sat back and surveyed the whole.

“Good!” he said at last. “Now then. This lesson will be devoted to the transcendence of the bodily senses. Under my guidance you shall achieve the ability to master all bodily feeling. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” whispered the closed-eyed girl. She was greatly reassured by Marlon’s tone, which was like that of an instructor in logic, but she was still flushing and somewhat annoyed with the way her pert little nips kept pulsing and pouting. Those bad little smart alecks! she thought crossly to herself.

Marlon leaned forward with outstretched fingers and allowed them to play idly across the golden melon of the girl’s budding tummy. She moved a bit and even gave a little nervous laugh.

“Now, now,” said Marlon sharply, “You’re not a child! Try to be serious! The mystic path is not an easy one--many take it, few arrive.”

Under this admonishment the girl sobered quickly enough and tried to order her thoughts.

“Now this is a so-called ‘erogenous zone,’” explained Marlon, gingerly taking one of the perfect little nipples which did so seem to be begging for attention between his thumb and forefinger, turning it gently back and forth.

“Right on,” the girl agreed, squirming despite her efforts to be serious.

“Yes,” said Marlon, nodding sagely, “And this too, of course,” taking the other one now, giving it a series of fondling tweaks, while the girl stirred uneasily.

“Now then,” said Marlon, abandoning the nipples for the, moment, leaving them there, like two tiny heads, craning up eagerly, and allowing his hands to caress slowly down the wondrous arch of Debbie’s delightful body, down the sides, along the hips and over the inner thighs to converge in the glistening down, beneath which the fabulous lamb-pit was sweetening itself.

“Oh gosh,” the girl  murmured, as Marlon  carefully turned back the  rose-petal labes and revealed, in all its tiny splendor, the magnificent little jewel, the pink pearl clit, shimmering, it seemed, in absurdly delicious readiness.

“This is another of these so-called ‘erogenous zones,’” announced Marlon contemptuously, addressing the perfect thing with his finger, giving it several gentle flicks.

“And how,” Debbie was quick to agree, fidgeting now in spite of her attempts at control. Marlon applied himself to massaging the clit adroitly.

“Goodness . . .” said the girl in soft fretfulness, “...I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

“Yes, you must master these feelings,” said Marlon easily. “One who is not master of his feelings is not master of his house--he is like the reed, tossed on the waves of chance. Tell me, how does it feel now?”

The lovely girl’s great eyelids were fluttering. “Oh, it’s all tingling and everything,” she admitted despairingly.

“First,” said Marlon, continuing the massage, “you will learn transcendence of the senses, and in that way will you soar above all sensory concern; next you will learn control of the senses, whereby you may come at will--instantaneous orgasm, untouched, at my command.”

He stopped the massage and raised himself to his knees.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “I will show you an example of such control. You will notice that I have caused my member to become stout and rigid--as though it were in the so-called state of ‘erection.’”

It was true, as the girl saw soon enough--Marlon close at hand displaying his taut member, and she flushed terribly and averted her eyes.

“No, no,” said Marlon, raising her demure chin with his hand, “Do not allow vulgar sexual or material associations to bear upon the matter--it is a demonstration of perfect sensory control, I have merely willed the member to become stout and rigid. It resembles the so-called erection, does it not? In the sixth stage, one masters all such muscular control, even that which is most involuntary--thus can one, by the will of the advanced intellect, achieve what was theretofore a secret of nature. Regard how I have willed my member: no base or material desire is connected with it, yet it resembles the so-called sexual erection. Does it not?”

The sweet girl nodded shyly, scarcely able to look. “Yes. Touch it,” said Marlon, “you will see for yourself.”

He took her hand and encouraged it forward, and she touched it lightly. Being able to regard it now, impersonally, not as an object of lust but as a demonstration of spiritual advancement, made it a thing of interest to the young girl and she examined it curiously, touching it here and there, still with a certain reserve because she wanted to be sure she was being enlightened and not merely lustful.

“You can squeeze it if you like,” prompted Marlon, “...Yes, do.”

Debbie squeezed the swollen shaft interestedly in her delicate grasp, and what appeared to be a drop of semen formed on the end.

“There!” said Marlon, in triumph. “See that drop--that’s an example of glandular mastery as well! It is extremely rare. The late Rama Krishna approximated it, but did not fully achieve it in the end. I have willed the intricate chemistry and secretion of the fluid.”

“Far out,” said Debbie, raising her beautiful eyes to the great man, her face radiant now in frank reverence.

“Now resume the basic yoga position,” said Marlon, “and I will continue with the instruction.”

Debbie lay back again with a sigh, closed-eyed, hands joined behind her head, and Marlon resumed his fondling of her sweet-dripping little

“Does the tingling sensation you referred to before continue and increase?” he asked after a moment or so.

“...I’m afraid so,” said the girl sadly, panting a little.

“And do you experience feelings of creamy warmth and a great yielding sensation?” demanded

“Yes,” Debbie sighed, thinking he was surely psychic.

“Now I’m going to put this member into you,” said Marlon judiciously, “and in that way can the sensation of the so-called ‘sexual act’ be approximated and surveyed to advantage.”

“Far out,” said Debbie in veneration, unable, despite her efforts, to shake off all the old associations it had for her. And, almost in reflex, she drew her marvelous thighs a bit closer together.

“Never mind your crass and absurdly cheap philistine materialist associations with it,” said Marlon crossly, as he adjusted her legs again and ranged himself just above her. “Put those from your mind--concentrate on your Cosmic Rhythm, for always remember that we must bring all our mystical knowledge to converge on the issue at hand-even as does the tiger his strength, cunning, and speed.”

“Now I am inserting the member,” he explained, as he parted the tender quavering lips of the pink honeypot and allowed his stout member to be drawn slowly into the seething thermal pudding of the darling girl.

“Oh my goodness,” said Debbie, squirming her lithe and supple body slightly, though remaining obediently closed-eyed and with her hands clasped tightly behind her head. Her hips rotated into the weight and girth of the massive shaft as it slowly filled her.

“Now I shall remove the member,” said Marlon, “...not all the way, but just so, there, and in again. You see? And again so, I will repeat this, several times--while you do your Cosmic Rhythm.” He repeated the in and out motion, rocking her like a little ship in a wild surf; she writhed, wriggled, and squirmed with arousal.

“Gosh,” said Debbie, swallowing nervously, “...I don’t think I can concentrate on it now.”
“Oh yes,” said Marlon, encouraging her hips with his hands, setting them into the motion of the Cosmic Rhythm Exercise she had practiced earlier in the barn. And when she had satisfactorily achieved the motion, Marlon said: “Now this, you see, approximates the so-called ‘sexual act.’”

In and out, in and out, they rocked steadily.

“I know it,” said Debbie fretfully, greatly distracted by the thought.

“I shall presently demonstrate still  another  mastery of glandular  functions,” claimed
Marlon, “that of the so-called orgasm, or ejaculation.”

“Oh please,” said the adorable girl, actually alarmed, “not ...not inside me ...I ...I . . .”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Marlon, breathing heavily, “Naturally, in willing the chemistry of the semen, I would eliminate the impregnating agent, spermatozoa, as a constituent--for it would be of no use to our purposes here you see.” He began to grunt, rutting into her sweetness, lustfully.

“Now then,” he continued after a moment, “tell me if this does not almost exactly resemble the philistine ‘orgasm’?”

“...Oh gosh,” murmured the darling closed-eyed girl, biting her lip as the burning member began to throb and spurt inside her, in a hot, ravaging flood of her precious little honey-cloister whose bleating pink-sugar walls cloyed and writhed as though alive with a thousand tiny insatiable tongues, “...Far out!”

During the next few days, in the course of instruction, it was necessary for Marlon to enter the adorable girl with his member any number of times. It was decided, too, that because of her need for periods of uninterrupted meditation, it would be best for Debbie to remain permanently in the grotto, rather than return to the camp. Marlon would visit her there from time to time, bringing food, checking her progress, and carrying on with the instruction.

She was quite comfortable there and the guru had helpfully left the Sanskrit grammars and more illustrated books; Debbie was proud now that she was able to replicate many of the exotic positions with her guru and the sessions with his member inside her various lovely orifices could last for hours now. The Sanskrit was still the impossible mountain; after a week of study she could barely master the alphabet. But the master seemed quite pleased with her progress; sometimes they would study the illustrated books together while she practiced Cosmic Rhythm. He’d stand behind her, guiding her pace with his member pressed against her deliciously tight bottom. He’d reach over her shoulder to turn the pages until he found the position for the day’s lesson. Every day Debbie struggled mightily to meet the challenge and every day she’d cry joyously as he allowed his member to fill her with his not-orgasm; enchanting warmth flooding through her as she became one with the universe.

On the sixth day though, the girl seemed apprehensive when Marlon arrived. Along with the food basket he was carrying a large artist’s portfolio.

Debbie, always a ravenous eater, and expecting a calorie burning work-out once the lesson started devoured her meal quickly, anxious to practice a new position she discovered. She couldn’t pronounce the name but she diligently practiced the upside down contortions she’d need to accomplish the position.

But before they started Marlon unzipped the portfolio and drew out some large photographs. He did not allow her to see them yet. “I have been conferring with the other masters and with some special students.” Debbie’s heart soared; she knew Peter was one of the special students.

“We have discovered your special talents and your place in the universe.” He tapped the edges of the photos, seemingly hesitant to reveal them.

“Remember that art is suffering; but also art brings love to the universe. Forces rise here on earth and we must embrace them, love them, share with them.” Debbie was about to speak but he held up a hand. “Yes, even the capitalists. Your place is among them, to share your special art in order to guide them to the path. ‘He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.’”

He then turned over the photos; Debbie saw pictures of herself posing her nude body while the Light cleansed her. Even in her humility she saw them as beautiful. She felt one with the universe.

“Are you really sure,” she asked, wide-eyed and darling, “Will this really help the capitalists find the path?”

“Certainly,” said Marlon with a show of impatience, “They will see your purity and they will understand that your true beauty is in your soul, your oneness with the universe.” He was reaching into the portfolio again and drawing out a paper. It looked like a legal document, a contract. “Why do you ask these questions?”

“Because,” said Debbie, lowering her voice and blushing deeply, “These pictures look I’m posing for Playboy Magazine!”

“Ach,” said Marlon, with a grimace of distaste to reassure her, “Nothing! That is nothing--in fact, it is a good sign of spiritual advancement. You have transcended judgment. You will pose for the capitalists and they will follow you. ‘He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.’”

“Oh but I couldn’t,” said the girl, most convincingly, “They’re capitalists!” But already Marlon was extending the contract to her, clicking a ballpoint pen open.

“Sign here. And here. Very good.” Debbie looked at the Bunny logo at the top of the contract and she wanted to ask so many questions but she felt unworthy.

She looked at the pictures spread on the moss around them. They did look beautiful and laying in the soft green moss they did seem to make her one with the universe. Perhaps she could bring the capitalists to the path. And she could hear Creedence Clearwater again too. Her heart filled with confidence and she signed gleefully.

“Excellent,” Marlon said equally pleased. He collected the photos and contract and returned them to the portfolio.  He rubbed his hands together briskly--in that manner of his suggesting the accomplishment, like after a particularly successful lesson with the illustrated book. “Now, show me the new position you’ve been practicing.”

“Far out,” said Debbie, so awed by the idea that she forgot her hunger and immediately moved into an upside down position, her palms and feet pressed into the moss as the sweet curls of her honey-pot rose up to him. “We better practice the Cosmic Rhythm!”

She groaned sweetly as his not-erection pressed into her soft depths. “Cosmic,” she purred and lifted one leg into his chest while the other wrapped around his waist.

The next day when he arrived he handed her an airplane ticket for Chicago. “Your spiritual advancement now is such that you are prepared for the highest enlightenment. You shall walk with the capitalists and bring them to the path. You are about to present the holy of the holy to the world.”

“Your plane is at 7:30--I believe we have time for one or two more exercises before your departure.” Debbie eagerly bent down with her legs straight; her palms and feet pressed into the moss as his not-erection pressed into her tender bottom.

Debbie’s screams of pleasure shook the grotto as she sang out to the universe.


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