He poured some oil into the palm of his hand and began to rub her shoulders and upper back, slowly moving down to her lower back and then over her ass...cheeks. Once he had finished her core, he applied oil to her arms and legs. Throughout the rubdown, Adam admired every inch of her skin and physique. His mother had always maintained the perfect balance of being well toned but not overly muscular, enhancing her beauty and her femaleness. He noticed that she was completely relaxed at this point. After hanging around for as long as I could stand it I grabbed a jacket and headed outside. (I don't know why I picked this particular jacket but it was a black suit jacket that my folks bought me for 8th grade graduation. That was significant to what happened later; something I could never have imagined.)We lived on a quiet sort of street that was a loop off a main through street. You know the kind that no one goes down unless they live there. I had it in my mind to walk over a street or two. Thankfully she had passed out by that point, so I managed to get her up into my arms and carry her towards the steps. The little kids were trailing along with a flashlight.“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.“Sightseeing! Listen, she’s hurt bad. You need to drag her outside and get her some help!”“Oh, crap! Lift her up here!”I managed to pull over a couple of crates I could step on, and then lifted the young mother up as high as I could. It wasn’t enough. I just didn’t have the strength. Anyone else would have died from massive infection, or barring that, would have required reconstructive surgery and titanium hardware to knit the bone fragments back together. Years of physical therapy would have resulted in a slow limping gait.But that was not Michael Peterson. He was a shaman. Modern culture does not recognize what thousands of years of wisdom has taught the "healers" of remote cultures: human beings are spiritual creatures, by creation and by intent; in our essence, in our.
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