What is real? Philosophy and science merely describe, never define, the fabric of reality, and one’s place in it left nebulous. Pondering the essence of existence, an exercise of mental academia, was, to Freya, a question of paramount import. While the Abenaki and Hindus believe that reality was dreamed into being, others profess that our dream world is as real as our waking one. None of this helped her plight. Where does reality end, fading into delusion and insanity? With another world, a candlelit cum away, questioning the meaning and temper of realness, gave way to surrealist imaginings, fractured thought echoing into oblivion.

As her mind descended further, doubt and confusion gnawing at the fault lines of her psyche, such musings burned in her mind. Delusional hallucinations seemed to be the only resolute answer, but the young woman could easily discern the concrete from spectral phantoms conjured from the plasma of nightmares. However, when reality melds into fantasy, what is true becomes solely a matter of consensus. For the young woman, only horny abandon quelled the screams of the demonic curse within her; even then, the potential of slipping away into another universe tempered those lusty sensations—no solace to be found, only possession.

Panic, despair, and dark bewilderment tore at her soul as she took in her surroundings. Another layer of sanity ebbed away, flaking from her mind like a layer of powdery dust subjected to a harsh wind. In her new environs, hauntings of the half-familiar, the almost-remembered, assailed her. The Victorian-Gothic surroundings seemed partially ethereal while vainly tugging at long-forgotten recollections. Freya could no longer discern delusion from reality, but whichever she was in, vestiges of her existence entwined with the surrealism of her environment.

Dazed and uncertain, Freya donned the sexy but somber dress that lay on the floor beside her, a deep scarlet satin, overlaid with black, gossamer spiderwebs. The air hung heavy with the aroma of sex, and it was obvious that the chamber was utilized for more strenuous activities than sleeping. Opting to explore before she attempted returning to what she viewed as reality, Freya went about discovering this erotically charged existence.

In this bizarre realm of constant Summer, Freya had eschewed attending college. Known as Freya Satanicus, the young woman was a hedonistic singer in a Goth-rock band named Freya’s Abyss, the poetry of her youth, penned in another world, her lyrics. Enjoying rising fame and drinking deeply of the debauchery that went along with it, her antics on and offstage were as infamous as her dedication to the demonic Choronzon. Her debut album, Reflected Realities, was rife with the imagery of a delusional woman teetering on the edge of madness.

She, with her hauntingly familiar bandmates playing ethereal, otherworldly rock, headlined a show, the warm, Summer-like night, festooned with unfamiliar constellations, their backdrop. Bodies writhed to the rhythm of the soulful, almost-spiritual rock music, save one man. While others gyrated, lost in the decadence of songs about lost souls wandering, aimlessly, through the cosmos, with neither direction nor destination, the tall, dark, gaunt man, his head slightly tilted forward at an ominous angle, his lips in a wry, malicious, close-lipped smile, stared up at Freya, his gaze never wandering. In an eye-searing flash, he was gone, but no others had noted him. To Freya’s fraying mind, he was foreboding, demonic, and somehow aware of her plight.

When the midnight moon reached its zenith, her vampire-like, spiderweb dress lay sundered, a torn heap on the floor of her dark bedchambers, as she writhed, aglow in candlelight. A stout, young man pounded into her cunt while two nude women pleasured her throbbing clit and passion-engorged breasts as they fingered themselves, moaning into her flesh. The rapture and sexy hotness of her foursome soon elevated her body, hurling it toward orgasmic bliss.

“No!” she shrieked, lamenting the powerful, oncoming orgasm. No matter where she cast her eyes, mirrors were everywhere. “No, no, no! I like it here.” Her voice wavered as her universe splintered, disintegrating before her tear-filled eyes, replaced by another reality.

Plain walls, a soothing lemon-yellow that tugged at remembrance, surrounded her. Wearing a T-shirt and skull-adorned pajama pants, fuzzy Devil slippers on her feet, she sat on a metal, folding chair in a small, barren office, a mustached man wearing horn-rimmed glasses staring, judgmentally, at her from the other side of the elongated, battered, faux-wood desk. Had she dreamed this world before or, perhaps, lived it?

“You’ve come a long way since you were committed, here,” the monotone-speaking man stated, “and began your therapy. Before we release you, we need to see how you respond to viewing yourself the night you were checked in. Are you ready?”

He pointed to a television sitting atop a nearby metal, wheeled cart.

Mad as a fucking hatter, she thought to herself. I knew it! Outwardly, she only nodded; internally, her heart was beating hard, her mind billowing away into splinters of insanity. Perhaps, this was true reality, the others a delusional, waking dream, and she had surrendered to the nightmares of an ill mind.

Freya saw, on the poor-quality video, a scene from a mind-bending horror movie, complete with flickering, fluorescent lights blinking overhead, a version of herself, slavering in lunacy, tethered onto a rickety-wheeled gurney, being carted down a starkly barren hallway. Burly men dressed in clothing the color of vanilla ice cream held her struggling body in place as she writhed, seeking escape. One side of her face was bloody, and nearly half of her fiery locks had been torn out of her head, her fingernails encrusted with mud, soil, and blood.

Melting down, her voice a caterwauling, audible madness, her otherworldly avatar screamed in growling fury, lamenting, “You don’t understand! It’s not real; none of this is the real world. He’s after me, over there…there! Give me a mirror and a candle, and I’ll prove it. Help me! Help. I don’t belong here. You’re not real; this world is an illusion, a soul trap.”

Neither defending nor explaining the actions of Freya’s lunacy, she drew upon her prior studies, avoiding clinical lingo, and secured her release. Ensuing weeks proved that this realm was sculpted from the raw clay of decrepit horror, danger, and violence at every turn, drug-addled denizens stalking her, echoing her footsteps. Penniless and unable to secure any sort of employment, the world around her in a crazed rage of polarized contempt, Freya languished, teetering on the brink of madness, until she discovered a junkie’s lighter and candle, lifting the sleeping person’s paraphernalia to facilitate her escape from that harsh, cruel world. Fleeing into the stormy night as thunder and ominous lightning raged all around, the mentally haggard young woman sought a mirror, running through the electrified tempest, her thin, tattered clothing soaked to translucency. 

The dark metropolis, a jungle of glass, steel, and concrete, looming around her, Freya sprinted away from the locale dubbed Death’s Alley. Large, oppressive buildings crowded over the despairing streets, a foul moon occasionally emerging from behind inky clouds to ooze puss-colored emanations over the harrowing cityscape. The streets a chaotic battlefield, despite the murky downpour, the young woman, fending off groping drunkards and perverted men in ties, fled into a dirty, seedy, dimly-lit adult shop, the intoxicated, horny Lotharios splashing onward, seeking a more amenable waif to grind their cocks putrid against.

The greasy, pot-bellied, balding miscreant manning the run-down store merely nodded in greeting, his attention returning to the pornography playing on the wall-mounted screen. He sat there, his grubby tank top undulating with his fattened torso as he wiped his grungy revolver with a soiled rag as if caressing it. Freya tiptoed across a dusty, creaking, wooden floor, randomly selecting a whorish dress from the anemically-stocked rack, telling the sex-predator-looking clerk that she was going to try it on.

“No fitting rooms in here, little streetwalker. Use a glory hole through that door. They have mirrors. Some pervs like to watch themselves stroke.”

Nodding meekly, Freya’s mind crashed, a collision between the real and the delusional, when she looked at the slutty frock clutched in her dripping hands. It was a chintzy, red satin dress, a wispy lace overdress of spiderwebs slung over it. Retreating from the greasy man’s leers, locking herself in the roach-infested cubicle, semen stains all over, Freya lit the tallow and began fantasizing, facilitating her escape from that nightmarish realm. Quickly stripping nude, self-doubt enshrouded her, a surrogate frock woven from doubt and eroding mental well-being.

Without her nearly nineteen years of background context, this reality seemed all too real. This place was evil, vile, callous, and demonic, nothing more than self-absorbed, adult-aged children, with no sense of right or wrong, parroting back the buzzwords of false idols, self-appointed leaders of morality, proclaiming virtue and activism while pursuing self-destructive behaviors, hate, spite, and greed. Solipsism was an attitude she was well-versed in; her parents and their coven of demon-worshipers prime examples. It was as if their stunted, self-centered mentality, cloaked as goodness, permeated the universe. If real, Freya sought another world; if it were a delusion, she’d gladly trade for a gentler, less hostile one.

Clammy fingers, near freezing from the vile, acidic rain, plunged into her wetness as her hard, rain-stiffened nipples poked outward. Kneeling, facing the grungy, cum-covered mirror, the fiery-haired woman assaulted her flesh, feeling the heat of arousal warm her creaking bones. Her mind drifting from one thought to the next, one life to another, Freya was no longer a scared, delusional, lost soul; she was Freya Satanicus, Freya of the woodlands, and Freya the college student. A thousand lovers, real, imagined, or amalgams of multiple possibilities danced in the theater of her mind, pleasuring her nubile, volcanic flesh as tremors of lust-fueled arousal racked her body. The sounds of low-quality porn echoed through the dilapidated building, her pants and moans mixing with the crackling soundtrack.

A riot of noise erupted in her ears as she brutalized herself, plunging four fingers inside her sodden hole, attempting to speed her egress. Gunshots, screams, and shouts filled her ears, yet, she ignored the cacophony erupting outside the sex booth, fingering herself as she tugged viciously on her clit, then attempted to bite her nipples. Sirens wailed, their squalls growing loud, then steady, as if idling outside. Still, Freya frenetically plunged her digits into her wetness, mentally forcing an orgasm that refused to come.

Concentrating on her real existence, the main universe she knew, visions of Cassandra, her dorm-mate, came, unbidden, to her. Arousal followed, a tiny flame growing into a soul-searing bonfire of lust and passion, as the surrounding chaos fractured like disturbed ice on river rapids, pieces of it slowly drifting away. Her entire body quaked, hands aggressively molesting her heated body, her moans drowned by the shouts from outside the locked, tiny door. 

An unbidden vision, a moment of tranquil, peaceful arousal, flashed in her brain— Cassandra wearing a T-shirt so thin that the swells of her pert breasts were revealed, dark nipples on display. Then, insanity gave way to clarity, and the two intermingled into a churning well of possibility, the waters spiraling away into the ether, Freya’s mind, body, and soul along with it.

A mote, a tenuous spark, at first, of electrifying, orgasmic bliss welled up inside her nubile, writhing body. Freya’s mind rendered itself amorphous, graffiti hastily scrawled on the corridors of time, as her cunt oozed wetness, further staining the sticky floor. Unrelenting, her head tossing from side to side, the candle flickering as the stormy night raged outside, she pushed herself past the point of no return, blissful waves crashing over and through her, once more.

Eliciting sighs and moans, Freya redoubled the erotic assault on her flesh, adding a finger to her clenching asshole as she sought physical and metaphysical release. More shouts, followed by gunfire, were heard, but, still, the woman heaved her tits, fingered her now-dripping pussy, and hurled herself toward sexual abandon, the bliss of arousal just a few thrusts away.

Eyes clenched shut, her heart pounding, body convulsing in rapture, Freya ceased to exist, joining the cosmos and absorbing its lusty energy. Crests of horny agony, followed by troughs of impassioned delight, slammed against her soul, peeling away her veneers of sanity, reality, and self. As she hung in the blackness of the timeless void, Freya heard malicious chuckles, the noise of the violent disturbance she’d heard gone with the world.

As her material body reconstituted itself, the panting woman, mewling in the afterglow of the endorphin release, became aware of warmth, birdsong, and the sweet scents of nature. A round tent, a yurt, surrounded her, dry greenery underfoot and a sweet breeze gently permeating the canvas and wooden structure. 

Covering her nudity with a gossamer pixie dress, all white sheerness, and lace, Freya found herself part of a youthful commune, followers of gentle neo-paganism. A sweet but short-lived vacation from the horrors of unreality; that existence was serene, albeit boring. Within a week, she craved her original state, the Devil she knew. With a stoned, hippie woman writhing over her lust-filled body, others looking on, masturbating, Freya gazed into a silvered mirror, a small bonfire being the only light in the clear, moonless, midnight sky, and, once more, erupted into an alternate world. A professional dominatrix in that universe, her sanity surrendering to the layers of madness, finding a willing slave to fuck her into oblivion, an entirely different world, was easy.

“That must have been one intense orgasm,” a red-faced, gawking Cassandra guffawed. Her face, although Cassandra attempted to mask her horny emotions, showed open lust.

Freya, after months of oblivion, had managed her homecoming, familiar surroundings enshrouding her with a spurious sense of temporary solace. Her doubt, fear, and madness still lingered, eroding her thinning armor of sanity, but she smiled and soldiered on, burying herself in her studies. Fearing psychosis, she retreated into introversion, chewing over every spoken word, careful to not reveal her distressed mental state. Sulking in the shadows and attempting invisibility seemed to be the proper precautionary measures, lest she be committed.

Still, the bond between her half-Asian roommate, and her remained strong, uplifting, and intimate. Having caught Freya masturbating, Cassandra quickly grew more open about her sexual antics, sometimes not even bothering to hide her masturbatory antics. Her impassioned moans reminded Freya of Jenna, her lover at another school, another world, another reality. Soon, her otherworldly experiences echoed through reality, and the two became lovers, just never by candlelight in front of mirrors.

The semester gave way to Winter, then to Spring, and though her mind was still splintered, nightmares of worlds half-dreamed, slightly remembered, coursed through her belabored psyche, fracturing it into intertwining segments, fraying strings of sanity coiling around her sense of self. Having ventured through so many shadows of possibility, Freya did the one thing that she felt would somehow, irrationally, quell her curse; she colored her hair a sunny, shining, sun-bleached blond. Somehow, this mentally sated her, and Freya felt, for the first time in her entire existence, at peace. Still, though, her carnal impulses ruled her behavior.

One sunny day, her blond hair billowing in the wind, Freya, singing to herself as she ambled up the dormitory stairs, was surprised to find her lover, Cassandra, sitting on the floor, leaning back against her bed, surrounded by four young men, Gothic-inspired by the look of their attire. They were all dyed hair, gypsy makeup, lace, and frills. Music and art students, they were a nascent band, and Cassandra introduced her as her “roommate and friend, the poet.” They were leafing through Freya’s old poems, written years ago, the rambling, soul-searching prose lamenting her addled mind.

In a miasmic flash of déjà vu, Freya nearly fainted when they told her that their band was named The Abyss, and they were looking for a singer that could capture the melancholic mood and feeling of their ethereal, soulful, rock music. Hesitant but curious, Freya coupled her angst-filled poetry with their music, finding her voice, confidence, and a sense of outcast’s majesty in the process. As the band’s name transmuted from the Abyss to Freya and the Abyss, finally to Freya’s Abyss, the young woman’s dyed hair grew out, showing the red roots. Rather than recolor it, she dyed it into a fiery fade, the blond ends giving way to orange, then to her natural red.

Empowered with creativity, the art of their music an outlet for her mental anguish, Freya began associating her sexual hedonism and intoxicant usage with the music, often performing in a state of heated lust, sexual antics becoming part of their hypnotic, mesmerizing performances. Cassandra, friend, lover, and confidant, managed them, and the two became inseparable. Courting danger, Freya spent the idle moments before a concert in a darkened room, a single candle burning while she either masturbated herself into a sexual frenzy or allowed a willing sycophant, sometimes Cassandra, to pleasure her horny flesh.

The dark, foreboding club, called The Grotto, was a subterranean dance and concert hall, all arching brick, vaulted ceilings, and swampy atmosphere. The counterculture congregated there, a whirling, gyrating mass of sexual hormones, angst, and disenfranchisement, bowing before her presence as she spewed out her soul, her heart behind every syllable. That night, seated on a rickety chair, the cushion padding fluffing out through tears in the threadbare, once-ornate fabric, Freya toked on a pipe, surrendering sobriety for creative intoxication, while Cassandra knelt, one hand busy between her nectar-sweetened thighs, orally pleasing her lover and roommate.

Bliss, that sexual elixir of passion, vibrant, pervasive, and all-consuming, filled Freya’s veins as the world melted away, leaving only passion and desire. As her hands tore open the gypsy vest she wore over her diaphanous lace, fondling her swollen tits through the net-like material, Freya’s legs began shuddering, an orgasm building within her molten core. Her friend’s fingers plunged into her quivering holes, her ass and cunt fucked gently and deeply as the woman’s tongue swirled over and across her swollen, sensitive nub. Moaning in a banshee-like wail, her fire-tipped locks flailing over her volcanic flesh, fireworks of passion ignited in essence, her soul rising above the mortal realm, becoming one with pleasure, absorbed by the sexual energy of the multiverse.

Pervasive, sexual heat enshrouded her writhing body, her moans increasing the temperature, the walls seemingly warping under the duress of her radiating passion. Sparks of intimate passion, something more than mere sexual heat, erupted in her soul, sending her mind careening to distant lands, thoughts manifesting into possible realities as the sexual fervor of her pending release intensified into shooting stars of horny rapture. As one, the women, locked in lust-filled joy, melted into each other, flesh searing against skin, bodies conjoining, ecstasy their glue, reached an erotic pinnacle, one’s bursting cascading into the other’s, dual, impassioned explosions, sending their minds reeling through the darkness of creation.

Screaming her girlfriend’s name, her face a death mask of enraptured, carnal delight, Freya threw her head back, a life-rending orgasm shattering her sense of self and reality. Her glazed, gray eyes, echoing the heated bliss of her body, saw mirrors on the low ceiling. Reflected in their speckled planes, she saw the beautiful, exotic Cassandra, boy writhing, fingers sloshing, in the rapture of release, dissipate into nothingness, the world around her dissolving into another realm, an alternate existence.

Gone were the chanting, carousing audience, waiting for the concert, the low, mirrored ceilings, and her beloved Cassandra. Lamenting not studying her environment, a frazzled Freya, too stoned to worry about her lapsing sanity, looked about. A clean, almost sanitary studio, multiple paintings, molten views of nightmarish scenes; otherworldly realities assailed her crying eyes. High ceilings, a loft to one side, and a kitchenette gave the spacious abode a sense of class and understated style.

Nude, her hair still the same, Freya pondered the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, a bright cityscape in the view. A poster with tiny knives, all flowing, psychedelic colors washing about a demonic, surreal depiction of two demons wrapped in sex’s embrace, announced Freya Black’s art exhibit, Mirrored Worlds. According to the digital clock above the bulletin, the show began in an hour. How many ways could her curse be echoed, repeating itself, altered every which way before she tumbled into the chasm of madness?

“At least, it looks like my shit sells. I’d better find something to wear.” She looked around the spacious, affluent lofted studio. “This sure beats the psych-ward.”

To Be Continued…