POINT OF VIEW
CHAPTER 2 — ART.
The stories I could tell.
K. is waking back home with a not-such-a-good-girl feeling. She can still taste him in her mouth. She can still feel his tongue on … in … her. Her immediate flashback is that she sucked him like a … like a … and then … and oh God …
K. thinks: Fuck. What have I done.
Very often, I hear words in your heads like “I can’t believe I did that. That wasn’t like me. I’ll never do that again.” You did. It was. You will.
She lies there and the memory of last night unspools across her mind’s clear screen.
Look. In this movie, K. stands there in front of him, drunk and a little nervous, in her bra and panties. She feels a jolt of panic at her inexperience. Will it be good? Will SHE be good? What if…?
“You okay honey?” he says, as he unbuttons his shirt. “You’ve done this before, right?”
I can sense young K.’s about to blurt out something inappropriate and ruin the moment. If we are going to get her over the line, this is my cue to act. I quickly draw down a few of her favourite fantasies and pin them front and centre with a couple of my own. K. feels an intense and overwhelming desire to make them real.
He slips out of his pants. There is nothing there I haven’t seen before, but it is certainly at the upper end of the magnitude scale.
She advances towards him, surprising herself with her own sway-hipped confidence, and she unhooks her bra. K. stands and looks at him, and then slowly raises both hands to cup her breasts, offering them to him as blatantly as any courtesan. He walks towards her. She feels his erection against her belly.
As he moves in, I sense K.’s uncertainty with this new territory. She’s not quite ready. I quickly gift her a few memes I learned from an Algerian hooker circa 1962, and K.’s suddenly got a whole new sense of self-confidence.
She reaches for his cock. Grasping it firmly with one hand she puts the other on his chest and pushes him back, towards the bed.
“My mouth is empty and it needs your cock.” A strange choice of words, she thinks, distantly, through a fog of lust (although trust me, this is exactly the sort of thing Algerian hookers love to say, and men love to hear), but the heat is running through her now. “Enjoy me.” She drops to her knees and takes him in her mouth, hungrily, and
Contact is easy in these circumstances. For the hell of it I quickly shift point of view.
The feeling is intense—K.’s bobbing and sucking while rolling her tongue round his shaft at the same time. I can see the top of her head and the muscles in her cheek working.
I offer nice Jerome one of my male memories (I will tell you all about that side of things another time) and he stiffens further as the thought lodges in his mind.
I spend some time enjoying Jerome’s point of view and the feeling of K.’s lips and tongue working their magic. He has one hand on her head now, urging her on, and she needs little encouragement. She opens her wide blue eyes and gazes up at him as she works, in, out, in, out, a supplicant at the altar of cock. She tightens her lips and takes along slow draw on him, an ecstatic slide from base to tip.
I quickly Contact switch back to K., who is expressing herself beautifully through the silent workings of her tongue.
The size of him in K.’s mouth is impressive, and more impressive still is the way she’s dealing with it. She’s taking it deep, slick as oil, and I feel rather proud of myself, which means K. feels proud of herself too.
Good girl, I think. Good girl, thinks K. She sucks faster and feels herself coming into heat. His cock is huge and rigid, filling her mouth.
K. is unprepared for the sudden hot jet of Jerome in her throat.
She yelps and swallows. She’s confused and suddenly nervous again. I try to calm her. She’s getting there, but still not quite ready to express herself fully.
“I—I—” she stammers.
“What is it baby?” says Jerome, puzzled. “That was something else. You were something else.”
“I—ah—don’t have much experience with this,” she blurts. Flustered, embarrassed, still in her panties, she’s looking around for her clothes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’d better go.”
“Oh no you don’t, baby,” he insists. “One good turn deserves another.”
Oh Jerome, you are such a gentleman!
He gently pushes her onto her back on the bed, and pulls down her panties. I feel him gradually lick her into her own fiery orgasm, the first she has ever had at the hands of a man. She feels his rough tongue side between the lips of her pussy, and as she comes for the second time she clutches his head and thanks God for the joy He has given her.
As if. Do I get no credit round here!
Lying there in bed that morning, replaying the night before, wet, horny, and unaccountably ashamed, K. thinks: I can’t believe I did that. That wasn’t like me. I’ll never do that again.
But her body knows better.
And then she thinks, blushing: OMG I went down on him at the drop of a hat, just like some sort of … slutwhore. I just let him use me like … like a slutmouth. I’ll never be able to look him in the face. He’ll never want to see me again. He’s a nice guy and I’m just a … filthy … whore.
But I know better.
Travelling from one point of view to another, with Contact the only prerequisite to shift, I’ve gained quite a facility for understanding which thoughts, which memes, which qualia will sit comfortably in another’s mind—which will complement their own. You can’t force a square peg into a round hole. You can’t make a sheep into a goat. As I keep on saying, you can’t make somebody do anything they don’t want to do.
When you’ve been around the block as often as I have, you soon get frustrated with how people are so locked in, so constrained, by their one single lifelong inescapable perspective. One boring, inhibited, uncertain, doubt-wracked point of view, cradle to grave.
When you’re a disembodied sentient meme, stuffed full with stories and fantasies and memories and experiences, a travelling non-corporeal something-yet-nothing, a passenger, not a pilot, in the realm of the flesh, you quickly realise that helping people see things differently, realise their dreams, is the one thing you can do that’s remotely worthwhile. New points of view are the only things that make life remotely worth living.
The number of tortured so-called geniuses I’ve helped along the way. Do you think there would even be a General Theory of so-called Relativity without me and my brilliance at memetic cross-pollination?
Maybe you’ve read Poe’s “Imp of the Peverse”? If not: do. I remember chatting with old Edgar over an Absinthe while he was wrestling over that plotline, and I’m pretty sure he was onto me. A few people—not many—can do that.
Later, as K. dozes, I implant a suitable idée fixe to help K. get over her slight, if understandable, nervousness and inexperience, and better express herself. Shame and inhibition have no place here.
This is art.
As I predicted, he called later the next day, and now K. has spent days fantasising about seeing him again.
My idée fixe has settled in nicely. I borrowed a little from the fresh memories of the cock-hungry little cheerleader and her penetrative obsession (without the baby nonsense). Having tasted a little wildness, the thought of K.’s huge dick is now a constant companion for K. She actually sees it in front of her face, as of course do I, in clear eidetic photorealism. She wants him inside her so much. Her muscles are twitching down there.
In her head is another of my gifts: the as yet unfelt feeling of clenching herself around nameless penetrating flesh. I can see her imagination is vivid. A flicker of fear through her mind at the intimidating size of Jerome and the girth of his cock stretching her lips, but a stronger flicker of excitement. From nowhere, I catch a nervous thought from K.: what if I can’t … ah … accommodate him? Should I buy a massive great … big … dildo … to practice on? She is furiously blushing for even thinking such a thing. These are not goodgirl thoughts.
I think: Interesting! That didn’t come from me. K.’s full of surprises.
She even dawdles around outside a sex shop on her way home that evening, but doesn’t go in. Thoughts of huge … things … swirl around her head. I could help her out, but I don’t. I’m happy enjoying the thrill of butterflies and anticipation and the sweet unknown.
Let her wait.
Worries forgotten for the moment, K. is happily bringing Jerome to maximum hardness with the thrilling mobility of her newly christened slutwhoremouth. He lifts her head from his cock with both hands and she looks up at him expectantly.
“Enough foreplay,” he says. “I know what you need. It’s time.”
Flashing on imagery of K., stretched wide to accommodate him, moaning as he thrusts into her...
“Yes,” she breathes, “Oh, please, yes…”
“Come here, baby,” he says. “Take it slow...”
He pulls her up and sets her on top, straddling him. Looking down, I am pleased with the contrast of her pale thighs at his muscular dark frame, and so is K. She feels him lift her hips slightly with his strong hands, and then a push as he begins to enter her. His erection is like iron.
At the first thrust, K. screams. She’s so tight! I keep forgetting she’s still physically practically a virgin. I gift her a thought and she relaxes into it, and suddenly he’s sliding into her. He pushes deeper, deeper, and I feel her muscles stretch and twitch as she opens fully to him with a gasp.
I crash-upload a muscle memory of a complicated thing some women can do with their hips—a sort of wiggling, squeezing roll—that I got from a deliciously versatile young Cajun girl circa 1870-something.
“Ma chatte est chaud et mouillé et faim. My cunt is warm and wet and hungry,” she cries. “Fill me, baise-moi.”
Jerome looks a little startled at this and I worry I may have overdone it, but everything seems to be in working order. He grabs her hips and thrusts hard, and K. positively screams in delight as she feels the full extent of him.
K. rolls those hips exactly so, and feels his huge cock slide in, out, in out, deep deep deep. She moans with the delicious friction of it. He reaches down and strokes her as she rides, back, forth, side to side, faster and harder. She grips her own breasts and throws her head back, gasping. She comes quickly and even as the orgasm courses through her she keeps the rolling rhythm going, lost in the rhythm, seeking the next orgasm. As her pussy convulses around his cock she feels nothing but lust and pride. She knows with crystal certainty she will never—ever—be able to get enough of this feeling.
Withdrawing, Jerome turns her around, and there on all fours, she aches for more. A few seconds feel like an empty eternity until her enters her again, urgently this time, hard and fast, and, pinioned, she bucks against him, urging him deeper still.
As she feels him explode inside her, K. screams: “J’suis ta pute! Baise ta pute! Baise-moi!”
You go, girl! We are going to be creating new memes by the dozen.