Schrödinger's Twat

We stand in the garden. I have got through half the bourbon, and I am smoking the rest of the third joint. My underneath is cool and still damp from its extreme treatment, followed by a soothing immersion in the bidet. From time to time, Mutant John will lift my skirt to accelerate the drying process. He will invariably touch me ‘by accident.’ Neither of us will mention this. Instead, we discuss literature and why my favourite author is Jane Austen.

“She is so witty,” I explain. “Particularly in the way her rich, elegant language both expresses and is the expression of its meaning.”

Mutant John nods.

“Like the Apple Mac operating system,” he says.

I had not thought of this parallel, and enjoy the luxury of considering it at leisure on a lovely sunny afternoon as a naked Hell’s Angel strokes my genitals.

“Yes,” I say eventually.

I have no idea what the time is. From the angle of the sun and the feel of the light, I estimate about 3 pm. The sun is still hot, and one of us will probably burn. It should be Mutant John as he isn’t wearing anything and I am still in my PVC jacket, skirt, and black leather boots, all of which absorb the heat and send sweat trickling pleasantly down my flanks. However, Mutant John’s skin has a leathery texture with a touch of olive that begins to brown instead of reddening. I am pale and freckly, so will probably end up with an uncomfortable red stripe around the back of my neck.

Trying to remember if I’ve got any factor 30 in the car, I toke on the joint. Something crackles in it, louder than usual. Distracted, I take it straight down, and taste a greater herbal density. Mutant John’s eyes widen, as I suddenly need to get out of the garden and into the road, or a field – somewhere open where I can think, or perhaps escape, because…

What was I…?

Turning on the spot, I’m aware of a strange panic no less frightening for being distant, as if it has already been muffled by something. Time fractures, not in a spectacular way but in the super-positioning of one mental state over another, in which I am conscious and unconscious at the same time, and then…

I wake up on the ground. I have no idea how I got here, and no memory of falling. I am on my side, my left ear resting on the crazy paving. I shift, expecting breakages or fractures but the only pain is deep nausea. Mutant John has not moved, but he looks worried. I realise I was only unconscious for a moment.

Embarrassed, I jump up, surprised at my agility. Even in debauchery, there are rules of decorum, and one of them is an unspoken acknowledgement that I can handle my drugs. Usually, I can, and I have never crashed like this before. Mutant John reaches for me and goes to speak.

“I really am terribly sorry,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s been badly recorded and then played back on an old cassette deck in another room.

The nausea speeds up, whirling inside me. I feel hollow, drained, and green, like a flimsy shell powered by a storm of sickness.

Despite our intimacy, weird English decorum demands I do not let Mutant John know how awful I feel. I manage to strut back through the conservatory, stagger through the living room and run across the endless bastard hall with my heels clattering on the wood.

In the bathroom, I sink to my knees and kick the door shut. It is one thing for Mutant John to feed me his cock while I squirt his piss from my pussy, and quite another for him to witness this un-rock’n’roll frailty.

Banging the loo seat up, I seize the porcelain rim of the toilet. There is that awful moment when the last thing one wants to do is throw up, even though is it absolutely the only thing that needs to happen. Saliva floods my mouth and then vomit gouts up and out with the force of an oil well. Such is its power that I am distantly impressed, and I wonder if the resolute old loo will shatter under this onslaught. Fortunately, it doesn’t and then another need makes itself known. Hauling myself up, I sit swaying on the rim, having forgotten to put the seat back down. There’s no time to make any adjustments, because…

My God! I thought I was empty. Where the hell is it coming from? Is it ballast for times like these, when we must void every toxin to get shot of the real problem?

I try and sweat it out too, and feel a new kind of wetness slide down me. It’s like slime, and unlike my usual sweat smell, this one is intolerable. I’m boiling now, and unzip the jacket with shaking hands. That isn’t enough, so I pull off the jacket and sit in my bra. Still, the slime sweat doesn’t stop. I smell of weird chemicals as if every bad thing in me is working its way through my skin. I picture ancient evils, things from childhood, nightmares oozing out in sudden, unexpected freedom.

“Kelly?”

Mutant John knocks. There is no lock on the door, but he doesn’t come in.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep! Just give me a moment.”

Even I am convinced by this performance, while nausea roils inside me. I picture myself as a woman made of toxins, like the antagonist in a superhero movie.

Such a role could explain why, despite the predations of whatever was in that joint, Big Clit is suddenly engorged. I touch it, and shiver. More sickness rushes through me, which somehow turns me on more. I groan.

“Kelly, baby, I think you hit a seed.”

I imagine it flowering inside me at a terrifying rate.

“Right-o,” I say.

“Can I come in?”

“Gimme a sec.”

I am more out of breath than when I went for a run this morning. Close to fainting again, I pull the chain and get a window by the loo open. Giving myself a thorough wipe, I flush again and then use the bidet. It is while I am sat on it, suddenly unable to move, that Mutant John opens the door.

“Sorry,” I say.

I am still slippery with foul sweat, and when I look at my arms they are indeed green. Mutant John steps into the bathroom. His gaze fixes on the solidity between my legs, and his breath deepens.

“Allow me to help you with that,” he says.

Kneeling, he bends over and takes me in his mouth. I moan, the pleasure of his actions on my sex perfectly balanced by the sickness that hammers at me with an intensity that is almost audible.

“I washed my pussy,” I tell him.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, his mouth full.

“I might fall over, though.”

He takes his mouth from Big Clit with a reluctant grunt and regards its wet length with naked hunger. Taking it in his hand instead, he puts a hand on my sweaty neck and kisses my mouth.

“A seed can have as big a hit as several joints,” he says, between kisses.

“Did you plan it like that?” I gasp, because of what his hand is doing.

“No, but every journey has its unexpected twists.”

I lean against him.

“Pretty sure I’m going to faint again.”

“Good,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because that means I’m going to take you to bed. I will make you come because you need to. After that, you will pass out completely, and I will fuck you while you sleep. You’ll be defenceless, and I shall do what I want. You will have little memory of it if any, although I shall become increasingly brutal so you will wake up with me in you. You will be too dazed to do anything, and I will be too heavy for you to escape. I will dominate you completely, and use you, and come inside you.”

He grips Big Clit tight, and I shudder with pleasure.

“No,” I whisper. “Please…”

“It’s too late, Kelly. You’re mine now.”

He picks me up and carries me into the bedroom.

…to be continued