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Acid is a wonderful drug. Easily my favorite. Sadly, a lot of people are scared of it, especially those that take to heart the many apocryphal stories surrounding it. Like the one in which the naive girl takes a trip for the first time, and leaps to her death from the rooftop thinking that she can fly. Or the guy who’s in an insane asylum, thinking he’s a glass of water. It doesn’t work like that, and in any case, taking drugs on the rooftop is a silly idea. No, acid does something much more interesting, more beautiful, and more useful. Acid takes your brain, the pattern matching part, and turns it up. Only for a few hours, but while under its influence the most mundane things take on shapes and movement so fresh and gorgeous that it makes your heart sing. Trees in a forest will pulsate with life, and the sound of the river will rise like a glittering blanket of white noise up into the honest and open sky.
Also, it makes me as horny as hell. Which makes taking it with friends interesting.
Its effects begin almost imperceptibly. Nothing at all, but close your eyes you’ll see rotating patterns of color. They’re flat and brief at first, but soon they gain depth and detail. Then they start to appear in the shadows, which is when you want to find something to look at. Acid isn’t too much fun in the dark, your senses need stimulus when so stimulated. Look at other people. Look at her, let your eyes linger on her. Look at her shapes, the curve of her shoulder, the hollow in the back of her knee.
Find some music. It doesn’t matter too much what, something instrumental is good. It will sound like nothing ever has before. It will seem to make more sense, its rhythms and textures will mean more. The bend of that note will seem to mean her eyes, perhaps. Or the change of chord her lips.
She’s looking at you too. Probably thinking the same things.
Touch her. Reach out and touch her anywhere. Rest your hand on her skin, maybe on her arm. Leave it there until sweat appears between your palm and her, and taste it.
Suggest that you draw something.
Find pens; preferably have some kicking around before you start. Use felt-tips. Draw a spiral on the back of her hand. She’ll stare at it, taking it in, falling in to it. Draw another, this time perhaps just below her throat. Tell her what you see your designs do. Maybe they’re spinning, or vibrating. Maybe melting into the texture of her skin. Acid opens the mind, a cliché of course, but for a reason.
Let her draw something on you, somewhere. It’s a game, and she draws interlocking circles on your stomach. They’re playing with each other, she might say. Or she may just stare. She kisses your tummy, and sits up.
She unbuttons and removes her shirt, silently asking you to decorate her.
Her soft bare breasts draw your eyes in, like the spirals did, and her nipples grow as you stare. You lean forward and draw lines, as though threads were hung down from the upward curve of her breasts, up to her shoulders. You follow the curve of each line, and take your time getting the shape right. Her fingers are in your hair now, and seem to lengthen as she massages your head. You continue your design around her sides, and lost in the sensation of the pen running over her skin you cover her back in curves and swirls.
And she sits up again. She stands and gives you a twirl with her arms over her head. Your drawings look like wings, like clothes, fall like bias cut fabric over her nipples, the only part of her torso that you haven’t covered. And she laughs and dances and the lines leave her body and hang in the room. You catch her as she passes, and quickly pull her skirt and knickers down. You draw big spirals around her bum cheeks, making them seem to swirl out from her arse.
And now she’s into it. She dances away again, leaving her clothes on the floor, and naked she twirls around you, lost in the music and the sublime sensation of the air on her limbs. Again you grab her, and this time she stops, and drops to her knees, her legs apart, her face resting on the soft carpet. And you lick, all the way, in one long slow stroke, from her clit to her arse, up the small of her back, and right up to her neck.
It’s not so much that one’s inhibitions are lowered; it’s that they no longer exist. Your perceptions are altered, and your body parts and hers lose their separation. As you kiss, that could easily be your arse that you’re fingering. Maybe that’s not your cock, but hers. You swear that you can feel its smooth skin against your lips as she sucks you.
In a tangle of your remaining clothes, you manage to find a hole for your cock. And as you kiss, and forget whose tongue is whose, you push. But it’s not her cunt, and she gasps objection. You hold your position, wait, and she relents and pulls her knees up against her chest. You lean in, and over, and the patterns on her breasts seem to extend like roots into her knees, and grow tendrils and trails. Her mouth is an O, her tonsils shimmering with light as though made of glass, and you push harder.
The pain of your cock, entering her, is changed by the drug. Her eyes are closed, and the only thing she can feel, and see, and taste, and hear, is the throb of you inside her.
But she rolls away, your cock leaving her arsehole with a pop which echoes into the music. And in one motion her face is in your lap, her hands rubbing your cock over her lips. She grabs the pen, and decorates you with flowers and elegant curves. She licks and sucks, and almost without noticing the pleasure of an orgasm rushes in from nowhere, through your body, and out into the air.
Unfazed, she mops up the drips from her lips with a finger, and swallows.
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