The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Australian Reverie

Tagline: A girl comes of age on the Outback.

Classification: mc mf md

I would be pleased to receive comments and corrections from anyone more familiar than I with Australian dialect, anthropology, and fauna.

Queensland, Australia, 1942.

When Alexis Gillanton came down to breakfast, her mother was looking out the open ranchhouse window, across the east paddock to the rolling grassland beyond. At 46, Marion Gillanton was still a striking woman, with hair like fine copper filaments, high cheekbones, and a dramatic (if thickening) figure. “There’s a hunting party of Abos arrived last night. They’re camped down in the grove, Jonas says. Not any of our lot. You can hear the drums.”

Alexis joined her mother at the window. Alexis, at 19, was a neat and petite tintype of her mother. She had the same brilliant copper hair and lovely face, but with a slight, sweetly curved figure and the coltish limbs of youth. She listened. From time to time, as the breeze shifted, she could hear a faint susurration of drums.

“What do you think, Mum? Should we get Jonas and the men to move them on?” Jonas was an Aboriginal, and the foreman of the ranch workers. With Alexis’ father and brothers away at the War, Alexis and her mother were the only whites left at the ranch. It was hard for them to keep the station going, but they managed with the help of Jonas and his extended family. Jonas’ family had worked at Gillanton Station for generations.

“No, I don’t think so. They usually move on in a day or so anyway. Jonas says its all men, so they won’t want to be away from their families for long.” Marion poured them both coffee. “Will you be going out today, dear?”

It was Sunday, and there was little work to be done. “I thought I’d ride over to Woomaroo, and visit Billy. He’s been called up, so I want to see him as much as I can before he goes.” She appeared to be concentrating on the coffee swirling in her mug . “Mum, there’s something I want to ask you. Billy’s going to the War, and of course I’m sure he’ll come back, but, um, there’s something he wants us to do before he goes, just in case, and, well, I don’t really know what to do. We don’t want to get married or anything, anyway I wouldn’t want to leave the Station, but I feel like maybe I should do it with him. Just because he’s going to war.” She blushed prettily.

Marion smiled. She had liberal views, by Queenslander standards, and she was pleased that her daughter confided in her. “I understand, darling. This isn’t a new problem, you know. I suppose it’s ancient. In some societies it was the done thing, when a boy went off to battle, his sweetheart would sleep with him, to encourage him, and in case he didn’t come back.”

“But we don’t do that any more, do we? Dad fought in the Great War, but after, when you and Dad got married, well, you were a virgin, weren’t you?”

It was Marion’s turn to blush. She evaded the question. “That was different, darling. We were a little older, and I hadn’t really known your father well before the war.” She thought for a moment. “I think you’ll have to make your own decision about this, darling. It really depends on how much Billy means to you, and whether you might want to marry him when he comes home. If he’s the one for you, that’s one thing; but if he’s just your boyfriend of the moment, who happens to be going away, then I think you shouldn’t do it. You might regret it if you sleep with him and then meet another boy. But no matter what, I’m sure no one will blame you or think ill of you. There are fewer virgins in Woomaroo than you might think. These are hard times, and it isn’t always easy to make the right decision.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Alexis threw her arms around her mother. “You’re great.”

As Alexis was riding out from the stable, she passed the kitchen window where her mother was still looking out. “Alexis, which way are you going to ride?”

“The creek trail. The water’s low, it’ll be easy to ford.”

“Darling, I wish you’d take the main road instead. I really don’t want you to go near the grove. The Abos are still there.”

“What could possibly happen? I’m on a horse, and anyway they won’t bother me.” This was true. No one had ever heard of an Aboriginal harming a white woman. The Abos, even the nomadic tribes, were peaceful toward whites, although they did fight among themselves.

“It’s not that. They have a rule, or a custom, that their own women aren’t allowed to see the men making music. I even heard of a Abo woman who was killed by her tribe, because she saw one of the men playing the bull-roarer, that thing they whirl on a cord. I know it doesn’t apply to you, but I still don’t want you to see them.”

“Have you ever seen them drumming?”

“Well, um, one time I did,” admitted Marion reluctantly. “Once, when I was your age, my girlfriend and I spied on some Abo men,” “They were drumming and playing the digeridoo. They were naked, except for their beads and paint. I think we were a bit shocked.”

“What happened? Did they see you?”

Marion looked away, and spoke with a trace of irritation. “Oh, I don’t remember much about it. It was a long time ago. But I don’t want you to go there.”

Alexis laughed. “Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll stay on the trail. I won’t go anywhere near the grove. And anyway, I can ride faster than they can run.”

Marion watched her daughter ride out of the yard and across the east paddock. Marion remained there a long time, leaning on the window ledge, gazing in the direction of the grove, and listening to the scraps of drumming that came to her on the breeze. Her eyes shone. From time to time her hips shifted slightly to one side and the other, like the faint memory of a dance.

The day was hot and still, with just an occasional breeze ruffling the tops of the long grass. There was a lazy buzz of bees frequenting the poppies that grew beside the trail. Alexis slowly rode over the long low hill toward the creek. From the grove, below her on her left, the beat of the drums was clearer now. She heard the sonorous breathy hoomhoomhooooom of a digeridoo. There was a faint resonation from the opposite hillside. The swooping call of a bowerbird came from the grove. It was a pleasant medley of sounds, perfectly suited to the hot day and the ancient open landscape.

Alexis held the reins slack, letting the horse walk at his own pace on the familiar path. Alexis was wool-gathering, thinking about Billy. Her Mum had been right: Alexis was fond of Billy, and she was sad that he had been called up, but that wasn’t enough reason to give him her virginity. When he came back from the war, there would be plenty of time for all that. At that moment she came to a fork with a side path leading down toward the grove. The horse hesitated for an instant, then bore left onto the side path. Alexis, deep in thought, was slow to respond. “Whoa! Where do you think you’re going? Turn,” she said as she reined him around and back to the creek trail.

She rode on. The throb of the drums grew closer. The digeridoo boomed a base drone so profound, it was more a sensation in the gut than in the ears. Alexis fancied she could feel its deep vibration coming up from the ground, through the swaying saddle into her body. The buzzing of bees seemed louder now. A cicada added its rasp to the cacophony. Alexis idly recalled sitting with Billy in his father’s Ford, parked in the warm December night. They were behind the town’s grain elevator, away from the lights of the town. The top was down. The Southern Cross swung high above. They kissed a hundred times. His hands slid over her blouse, cupping her small breasts and squeezing them gently. She had stopped him then, although she had liked it. Sitting in the rocking saddle, dimly aware of the pounding drums, Alexis wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t made Billy stop. Strange to think that someday she might park in the same place with a different boy, while Billy was far away in Singapore or India. She imagined another boy kissing her. Maybe she wouldn’t stop him and he would unbutton her blouse and caress her breasts, and his hands would roam under her skirt and up her thighs to her most private places. She imagined herself kissing him fervently as she sank under him, their clothes falling away, and he lay between her legs and pressed hard against her...

With a sudden start, Alexis returned to herself. She looked around. She was on a side path, heading toward the grove. The horse had turned off the creek trail again. When had that happened? The drumming was straight ahead of her, and very loud. Quickly she turned the horse and rode back to the creek trail. I wasn’t paying attention, she thought. The horse is curious about what’s happening in the grove. I have to keep an eye on him.

Alexis reached the trail, and turned toward the creek. She kept her eyes fixed on the trail ahead, making sure the horse didn’t stray. The drums throbbed and thrummed in her head. She noticed that the rhythms never seemed to quite repeat. Alexis tried to follow the different threads of the rhythm, but the threads intertwined and mutated too quickly. The digeridoo droned and hooted faster now. A new sound started up, a treble hum that became a thin whining roar. It rose and fell, rose and fell. Alexis felt light-headed, sluggish. “That must be the bull-roarer,” she thought. It was her last thought for some time.

The horse turned off the path and struck out through the high grass toward the grove. Alexis sat quietly in the saddle, the reins slack, her eyes half-closed. The music carved intricate patterns in her mind. The horse reached the edge of the grove, and stopped. It began to crop the grass. Alexis didn’t move. A young Aboriginal man emerged from the shade of the gum trees, wearing only a loincloth and carrying a long stick. He was tall and well-proportioned, with short hair and shining brown eyes. He walked up to Alexis and considered her. She remained lost in the music. He spoke a word and motioned for her to dismount. Moving as in a dream, Alexis swung her leg over the back of the horse and slid to the ground. She stood in front of him, eyes downcast. He spoke to her in English, “You sleep.” At once her eyes closed. The music filled her consciousness. A voice seemed to be whispering to her, whispering and whispering, but the music was loud and the whisper was very faint. She strained to hear it but she could not make out the words. It seemed to go on for a very long time.

The girl awoke on a soft sward of green grass. She saw that she was on the bank of the billabong. I was sunning myself and fell asleep, she thought. She stretched comfortably. It was a lovely warm day. The only sounds were the hum of insects and the call of a bowerbird. The water looked cool and clear. Ripples lapped the pebbles. She decided to bathe. She looked down and realised that she was wearing clothes. Whitefella clothes. She was a black girl; why was she wearing whitefella clothes? A small voice seemed to whisper to her, but it was part of the insect hum and the bird calls. She unfastened the unfamiliar garments—the belt buckle and bootlaces gave her some trouble—and dropped them in a pile. That felt better. She bent over the bank, and looked down at the clear water. A red-haired girl looked back at her. A whitefella girl, with small breasts and blue eyes. Then the breeze rustled in the gum trees, and there was a whisper in the rustle, and the reflection rippled and changed. It was herself, of course. She recognised her own shining black skin, and full heavy breasts, and thick black hair.

She stepped down into the billabong. The water was cool on her ankles. The bottom was sandy as she waded deeper, and the ripples spreading out from her body flashed in the sunlight. She splashed water on herself, and gasped, and laughed as the drops sparkled rainbow-like in the bright air.

She was lying in the shallow water, gazing at the cloudless sky, when a boy emerged from the gum trees and walked along the bank toward her. At once she sat forward and squatted with only her head above the water. Where were her beads and bracelets? She was undressed without her beads and bracelets. The boy stood grinning, looking at her. He was about her age, and quite handsome. He must be from another tribe, she thought. She knew he was enjoying her predicament. She couldn’t stay in the water forever. She felt defiant. Her mother had told her, “Act like a chief’s daughter and men will treat you like a chief’s daughter.”

She rose from the water with her head high, looking him straight in the eye. With perfect dignity she stepped onto the shore. He inclined his head appreciatively. They stood for a moment, approving of one another. A little breeze cooled her wet body, and goosebumps rose on her breasts and thighs. Her nipples puckered with the chill. He glanced at them, smiled, then knelt down and began to wipe the water from her feet and calves with his hands. She laughed with pleasure at this absurd gallantry.

He continued to brush the droplets off her warming body, drawing his palms down one tapering thigh, then the other. Her laughter caught in her throat, and she breathed deeply. He slowly rose, as he brushed her pointed buttocks and round belly. With a quick flick of his fingers he scattered the dew that had lodged in her curling thatch. Her mouth went suddenly dry and her breathing grew ragged. His hands reached her full, slightly pendulous and jutting breasts. He pursed his lips and blew a stream of warm air, scattering the droplets that clung to the tiny hairs delineating her nipples. A little moan formed deep in her throat. Her knees felt weak, and to steady herself she put a hand on his shoulder, solid as obsidian. He drew his hands up her back as his face came level with hers. Her eyelids fluttered as he brushed his lips gently against hers. Then he pressed his face against her neck, deeply inhaling the warm aroma of her skin. Gently, he bit the smooth flesh.

Struck dumb with desire, she clutched him, feeling the powerful muscles of his back. Stooping again, he reached one long arm between her legs and spread his fingers against the small of her back. She felt herself go wet against his bicep. With the other arm he supported her neck and shoulder as he lifted her and lay her down on her back, on the grass.

Like all the girls in her tribe, she had slept with boys since she was old enough to bleed. But she knew that this was different. This was not the rough-and-tumble of children’s sexual play. This man was like a young chief. She wanted to be a woman to him. She turned onto her side and drew her knees up, in the posture of a young wife who is submitting herself to her new husband. She angled her buttocks up toward him, to make the way easy for him.

He lay on her, his chest against her shoulder, supporting his weight on his hands. She reached between her legs and found his robust erection. He inhaled sharply. She positioned him against her door, and waited. He thrust down and in. She cried out loud with surprise at the sting of pain, and the feeling of tightness, like a sudden cramp. She was astonished. Why would this hurt, as though she were a young girl with her first boy? Then a kookaburra chattered in the bush, and there was a whisper in its call, and the cramp relaxed, and the pain faded into pure pleasure. She gripped him with slippery tightness as he slid in and out, in and out.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she groaned as he thrust deeper and deeper inside her. With each thrust she felt him touch her deep inside. The tip of his flesh touched some exquisitely tender bud blooming deep within her, moist and tingling. Touch, touch, touch, and she was losing all control, growing frantic. She clutched him, digging in her nails. Without thinking, she repeated the ritual chant her mother had taught her, that a bride chants to her husband on their wedding night. “Oh yes, husband, that is good, press hard within me, I am yours, I obey you, let the juices flow, let the juices flow into me, put your seed into me, you give me joy.” The air was full of sound: the bowerbirds and kookaburra spoke, and a rising breeze spoke in the whispering leaves, and a distant drum spoke. There was a whisper in the speaking, and within her the touch, touch, touch was whispering to her, and she was straining to hear what the whisper said, and there was a pressure, and a heat. And then the sun swelled and exploded and fell on her.

Alexis’ reverie was interrupted as the horse reached the creek and began splashing across the ford. Startled, she lost hold of her daydream for a moment. The horse gained the opposite bank. She noticed that the morning had drawn on, and the sun was high in the sky. Oh, that was a lovely daydream, she thought. She had imagined an Abo girl and boy making love at the billabong. She wondered, is that what it’s really like? I wish I knew about Abo girls and what they do with their boyfriends. Maybe Mum would know.

Then her thoughts turned to Billy. Sweet Billy. She made a decision. She was going to give Billy a surprise. A going-away present. She was sure he’d like it.