Even before the second shot of absinthe has finished burning its way down my throat, I can feel the first one beginning to take hold of me. Its vapours rise up my throat, I'm struggling not to cough and to remain steady. Its hardly the psychedelic dissolution of reality that LSD tends to bring about, which is what I'm used to with this kind of shit after all - but its enough.
That other part of me - the weird side of my brain begins to unfurl. The little whispers of sensation around me blossom and acquire something like tangibility. The crumbling ruin is no more. The dank smells of mildew and damp are replaced by a warm, summery breeze wafting in from a nearby window. The imprint seems like it must thirty years old at least ... I try to look around, but I can't see. There's something over my eyes - a blindfold, or the memory of one, anyway. Then, at the same time, my awareness of my clothes drifts away, bit by bit. My biking leathers, boots, even my underwear, until I'm standing stark naked, nervously curling my toes into the floor. I'm not myself by this point of course. I'm someone younger, my breasts a little smaller, perkier. My skin is soft and sensitive ... I bet I'm ginger, probably even have freckles. Thin, cute, late teens - probably quite hot.
Of course, that none of that makes what is to come any less twisted and sick. There's a lump in my throat the size of a Buick ... No, not my throat, the girl's throat. Fear occupies her body like some eldritch god, she can scarcely move. Well, not all of that is down to fear I realise soon enough. Her hands are bound, handcuffs tightened way too tight around her slim, bony wrists.
I struggle, whimper, unsure now which sounds and actions are hers and which are mine. Her pulse drums in my ears. I hear footsteps and it quickens. There's that undercurrent of arousal of course, too ... that's not hers, that's mine. Fuck knows why this shit turns me on so much, but it does. Guess its a coping mechanism? The mind's gotta do some crazy shit to deal with crazy shit, right? Feels to me like that's how things usually go. Or, hell, I don't know. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm the same kind of psycho sicko myself, like all those ones I see in my visions. One day I'll snap, go on a little spree of my own ... naw, that thought's just too morbid.
By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's hands, not even those of some shithead college jock. This guy's way older, so that means the truth is far more sour still - he's a relative, I bet. Some fucker she's trusted, once. That's painful. The cacophony of emotions begins to make a little more sense to me. There's that quivering strand of confusion running through it all - betrayal. The absolute, fundamental, world-inverting betrayal you only get when you are deceived by that which you relied upon most. Its a gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that makes me nauseous. Not nauseous enough to counteract my own sick feeling of arousal though, dammit.
Shit, I can feel bile in the back of my throat and its not just the absinthe. These always give me flashbacks to my first trip ... If that weren't bad enough by itself, having two violent flashbacks at the same time is overwhelming even for me.
I gasp for breath. Once the trip's started, there's no easy way to get out of it. Best I can do is see it through to the end. I try to push the memories of my first time out of my mind though. By sheer misfortune, that one's still one of the most brutal experiences I have seen. Perhaps this one won't be nearly so bad, at least then I could cope with just the one sexual assault in this memory. Experiencing two rapes at the same time would probably hospitalise me for good.
There's talking going on now. It generally sounds like a wailing trumpet, like how you had the adults talk in those old Snoopy cartoons. Unless I'm exceptionally lucid and blitheringly tripped out of my mind, I get little more than the gist of the conversation anyway. In these cases, there's nothing else I want to know, anyway. I'm sure whatever he's saying would just make me cringe all the more. My body hits the carpet and the next thing I know, I'm violated.
He's not pulling punches. His two fingers roughly squeeze into my ass, feeling like something's burning. He doesn't care that lube is something that's a thing. I squeal, writhe, but I'm helpless. He twists them back and forth and I can feel him searching for a way to get the most reaction out of me, dragging his fingernails across my rectum. I want to kick him, but I can't, this girl is a victim and she knows it, she's already given up. I mean, I can't blame her. Whoever the motherfucker was, he was her guardian, pretty much a paragon of stability for her ... you can't just recover from a sucker punch like that. Not that fast, maybe not ever. Its vile and violent and he's enjoying himself like hell.
This is where things start to get fucked up. He pushes his fingers into her mouth, making her suck them after he's had them in her ass up to the knuckles. But that's not the sick bit. I mean, that's horrid ... but the worst of it comes when I'm starting to feel him, too.
See, my shtick is that I can read emotionally charged experiences from places and things. Negative ones about ten times as strongly as positive ones cause hey, ain't life a bitch? And sadistic glee ... Oh yeah, that's pretty negative. And its pretty fucking strong. The girlie begins to slip and I start to feel both of them now. His own sickening excitement is running through me and ... God, his fucking arousal. It's not like a girl's arousal at all. Masculine, fierce, almost savage in its intensity. It doesn't roll and ebb and it just ... builds up.
The next thing I know, I'm screaming. He begins raping her, anally, cause that's the kinda fuck he is. I scream in real life ... I'm the rapist and the victim at the same time, I'm fucking sodomising myself. I don't know how long this goes on for and then I come.
And I come fucking hard. It's both me and him, the male and female orgasm layered on top of each other, a mind-fuck in and of itself.
I hate this most of all. All the fucking violence, the abuse, the insane, warped psychological torture - it makes me cum harder than anything or anyone else ever has. Part of it is the rapist's sadistic ... release. He chokes her, making her scream across the entire house, then drowning her voice entirely amidst his fingers, partially crushing her windpipe. I can feel the tightness of her anus, rectal muscles spawning and clutching around his cock as he repeatedly violates them, forcing them painfully open again and again. And I can feel my seed evacuating into her bowels, surging forth from an organ I don't even have. But that's a shadow of a memory. Its there, but doesn't even feel quite real. No, most of my climax now is my own. Its fucking arousing. All of it, from the carpet burn I'm getting on my bare knees, the burning deep in my ass, the throat throbbing against my calloused fingertips, the blood on my lips as I bite into her ear, the way his fingertips dig into my breast ... and more. I am overloaded with sensation, sex and violence. It awakens both the hunter and the prey in me, like a snake devouring itself.
What happens next, I'm only faintly aware of. The absinthe is starting to fade and I'm on my back, gasping as smaller fireworks continue to go off in my cunt. He pinches her, slaps her, spits on her. She takes it, she's so broken now it barely registers. I feel disgusted at myself for enjoying it, but there's only so much self-hate you can muster when you're orgasming like a motherfucker.