[Fiction] Pursuit of Pleasure

[Officelover]

This is a cruel fantasy story I'm developing. Bear in mind, unlike my last story, I'm writing it as I go, so there may be some time between updates. This story will include drug usage as a major theme, however, it is not a story that exactly glorifies the drug lifestyle. You'll see what I mean. I might be very cruel to my main character. As always, comments, questions and criticisms are much appreciated. Enjoy!

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“When she's abandoned her moral center and teachings...when she's cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor...when I have so corrupted this fragile thing and brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore for my enjoyment and pleasure.....enticing from within this feral lioness...growling and scratching and biting...taking everything I dish out to her.....at that moment she is never more beautiful to me. ”
~Marquis De Sade
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Julie gets just as much pleasure from the anticipation as she does from the actual experience. The preparation for smoking weed—the rolling, the grinding, the packing—actually gives her more pleasure sometimes than the high itself.
A true perfectionist, Julie works meticulously on the joint she was rolling for the two of them. It is a Friday evening, just as the sun is setting, early July. The night is warm, but a breeze runs through the treetops.
Julie’s boyfriend of four months, Brandon, is lying on a green lawn chair. He says, “Dr. Sugar said this is good shit.” Julie turns to him. “Real good shit.” She nods, brushes a strand of hair out of her face, and goes back to rolling it.
She smiles at the small cigarette between her middle and index fingers. She hands him her lighter and the joint she worked so hard on.
Brandon looks around the yard, and back at the house. “You sure your parents are going to be out for a while?”
“Yeah,” she says, “They won’t be back until at least midnight.”
He lights the joint, inhales, and sort of sighs while exhaling. “It’s nice out here.”
“Yeah,” she says, taking it from him, “really nice out here.”
He watches her blow the smoke out. She coughs a little. She still does that. (He thinks it’s cute.) Brandon gets up out of his chair and kisses her. They smell each other’s pre-high. They both sit down on Julie’s other lawn chair, and pass the joint around five more times. Six tokes each.
Julie laughs and falls into her boyfriend’s arms. She tells him to look at the stars.
Indeed, the stars have come out. All four of the ones (not counting airplanes) that they’re going to see with that kind of light pollution. The sun is set, and the night is dark. They sort of cuddle together. He tries to put his hand on her breast, after a couple of minutes. She doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little bit to let him know. He moves his hand away.
“I got my schedule in the mail today,” she says to Brandon.
“Schedule for what?”
“For college.”
“What classes you taking.”
“Just the general eds.”
“I’m gonna miss you out there.”
“You’re making it sound like I’m moving far away. I’m going to UVM.” She said, “That’s like, what, fifteen minutes away?”
“You know what I mean.”
They sit in silence, a bit more. Then Julie just cracks up. She can’t stop laughing, and that gets Brandon laughing, and soon they’re both laughing because they don’t know what they could be laughing about.
By this point, Julie tells herself, she knows it’s working. She may be an expert at rolling joints, but Julie has only done weed about ten times in her life. All of these times have been within the past four months; all of these times have been with Brandon. Julie doesn’t enjoy the high as much as she enjoys the preparation because someone can tell her if she rolls a joint right, yet only she can tell if she’s getting high right.
“Let’s dance,” she says to Brandon.
She starts, and he joins in. They are dancing like the 60s. Not like teenagers from the 60s, not a dance from the 60s. They dance like the 60s. The two of them are singing, and dancing, and out of breath in a couple of minutes. But they enjoy it.


These are the things I tried with Brandon: marijuana, alcohol, cigarettes (I didn’t like them), some type of painkiller (I forget which one, but it did feel good), LSD (which was scary), and love. I wanted to be a good girl. But good girls are seldom happy. I have no idea why I said yes to Brandon when he first offered it to me. But I did and that’s all that matters, right?
He was tall, pretty handsome in that greasy way stoner’s often are, and had a great smile. A lot of my friends thought he was a loser. They were right. He’d dropped out of school middle of junior year. We’d see him though, after school, walking around, waiting for his friends, Damian and Jon. The old stoner club survived Brandon’s departure, I guess. They all used this guy, Dr. Sugar, who sold them virtually anything they could want. Brandon didn’t really fit in with the other two and their usual cohorts. I don’t know, at least that’s how I saw it. They really, as many stoners do, only had two things in common: a desire to get high and similar taste in music.

“What are you doing?” She laughs, as Brandon fumbles around in his ratty knapsack.
“I forgot,” he says, “My dealer gave us something.”
“Brandon,” Julie snorts, “we already smoked it.”
“No, he gave me something else.” He pulls a tiny plastic bag out of his back pocket, and shows it to her triumphantly. “I don’t know why, but today, he gave me this pill. He said it was something new he’d gotten. Said it was supposed to be fucking incredible. He called it – shit! What’d he call it? Fig. Some weird name like that. Want to try it?”
“What?”
“Want to try it?”
“Why don’t you? He gave it to you.”
“Yeah, but he said it was for you.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he want you to try it?”
“I dunno… maybe it only works for chicks.”
“That’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard.”
“C’mon. I think you should try it, but you can do whatever you want, babe.”
She looks at Brandon, and after some silent deliberation, sticks out her hand so he can give her the pill. He smiles at her and hands her the pill. She swallows it.

Why did I make the brilliant judgment call to try this mysterious ‘new product’ which I knew nothing about? There’s a simple answer: I was stoned as fuck already.
I just wanted to be wild like him.

The next day, Julie wakes up imagining the sun was hugging her. She feels it inch over her – first her feet, then her legs. She knows it is there, she knows she’s awake. She isn’t pretending to be asleep. She is just enjoying herself, sunlight seeping over her, eyes closed.
She feels like the sun was fingering her.
That’s when she opens my eyes, and realizes she is lying underneath one of the trees in her back yard, completely naked. Brandon is naked next to her, their clothes lying next to each other. She starts freaking out—are there any lights were on in the house? Julie gets up to check if the car is in the driveway. It is.
She kicks Brandon—not having the presence of mind to think of a kinder way to wake up my boyfriend. “Ow, what was that f-”
She puts her hand over his mouth, and motions to the clothes beside him. He looks at me with surprise, as if he had forgotten his own nudity. He hands her her shorts and shirt, and puts on his jeans and his tee. She sneaks him over to the gate, checks to make sure the coast is clear, and sends him on his way.
“I’ll call you later,” she says quietly before he left.
He’d left his weed next to the chair. Her bra and panties were still next to the tree. She sighs, wraps his pot up in her panties, and puts them in the bottom of the trash barrel.
Her parents don’t find out. They don’t notice anything out of the ordinary – her parents were out drunk, at their friends’ house, probably out till 2 A.M. She knew better than to wake them on a Saturday morning. Both would be hung-over.
So within an hour, she calls Brandon in the privacy of her room. She asks him the reasonable question: What the hell happened last night?
“You went crazy, that’s what.”’
“What do you mean went crazy? What the hell happened last night?”
“Julie, you… I don’t know how to tell you this. We had sex last night.”
She swallows. “What do you mean we had sex?”
“You saw the clothes.”
“I don’t understand… how could I… was it good?”
“Julie, you were a fucking animal. Best I’ve ever had.”
“Then why can’t I fucking remember it?”
“I have no idea. You don’t remember anything? You must have blacked out.”
“I know that, but on what? Weed?”
“No. It was probably that Fig stuff.”
She remembers the white pill, that mysterious white pill, all of a sudden. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried that stuff! Why would you let me try something I knew nothing about?”
“I don’t know, you were the one who made the choice to try it. Plus, I was too stoned to think straight.”
“So was I. But that’s no excuse for what you did with me. How could you, Brandon? You know I wanted to wait, how could you let me… give you that?”
“You climbed on top of me. You stripped me. I don’t think I did any work, you were moving, climbing all over me. I couldn’t stop you.”
“Brandon, you couldn’t stop me or you didn’t want to?”
“I’ll be honest, Julie. Both. What kind of man has the power to resist a beautiful naked woman, whose mind is obviously set on having sex with you?”
“You did this didn’t you?!” She shouts, a little too loudly.
“What do you mean?”
“Your dealer didn’t give you a free sample. You bought a date rape pill, got me high, and got your way with me.”
“You—you have no idea how wrong that is. You have to believe me, I didn’t do anything.”
“I can’t believe you! You couldn’t have waited – just waited for me to give you my virginity. You had to take it away from me. I’m sorry, Brandon. I… I don’t think I can be with you anymore.”
“Julie –”
She hangs up.

[dickface]

this sounds not only good but original too!

[Hunterman36]

Very interesting indeed, I'm wanting to read more.

[Officelover]

Julie wakes up, six days later, with the worst feeling in her toes. Just her toes. It feels like the space between her toes is being nibbled off by fire ants. She looks at them—no ants. They look normal. So why do they burn? The feeling, she soon realizes is spreading—fast—to the rest of her feet. It feels like someone is shoeing her like a horse, with a sole made out of molten cast iron. And this metal just seeps up her legs, an inch every thirty seconds. Soon enough, as she lies there, in too much pain to get up, she forms a mock-chastity belt for what she now considers her less-than-pure pussy. A chastity belt made of fire. A dildo made of fire, too, materializes and seductively slips into her. It’s getting faster now… she feels like someone is dipping her into the fire, and that someone wants to get it done as fast as possible. Her stomach burns the fastest. Then, her breasts have a little metal cone bra for them. The metal reaches her neck, and she now finds she has to think about each breath. She feels like she is choking. Like she had held in weed for too long and now it is encrusted in her lungs. And when it gets to her head… a metal taste in her mouth, blurry vision, and the most pounding, thumping, never-ending headache of her life.
She lies there for over an hour, waiting to see if the pain will subside. It only intensifies. She couldn’t even scream, just moan lowly. After an hour of this torture, she decides she needs to get up, to do something about this. Moving her body even slightly is painful. The moment her feet touch the ground near my bed, she feels as if she is stepping onto a carpet made of shards of glass. She gets up, and basically gets used to the pain of walking. She makes it over to her cell phone, and starts to dial Brandon’s number. She stops herself, realizing that she can’t call him for anything anymore.
She knows what this is. She doesn’t exactly know why it had come so late, but she knows that this had to be a hangover from that mystery pill, Fig, or whatever it was called. It has to be. This is probably the most pain she had ever experienced, and she knows she needs to do something to stop it. After all, the most basic human instinct is to do anything to avoid unnecessary pain.
She makes the trek to her kitchen, and picks up an ice pack from the freezer. When she touches it, she feels like her hand is on fire. She drops it to the ground. She wants to wash the metal taste from my mouth, and the smoke from my throat. She fills up a glass of water, and sips it. Molten metal seems to run down her throat. She spits it out, and accidentally drops the glass on the floor as well, creating real shards of glass on the floor.
She can’t take it anymore. She knows she needs to go see the guy who made this pill, ask him what to do. If he could make this pill, after all, he could cure her hangover.
She calls Damian, Brandon’s stoner friend.
“Damian,” She tells him matter-of-factly, “I need something.”
“Chill, didn’t you just break up with Brandon?”
“Yeah, I did. But that’s not –”
“You shouldn’t be calling here; I’m not about to cross Brandon or anything.”
“Listen, Damian, I’m not fucking calling about that. I need your dealer, Dr. Sugar’s number.”
“Oh, I see, now that Brandon’s gone you have no place to get your weed. Well maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Damian, I got some bad stuff and now I have the worst fucking hangover of my life. Okay? I am in no mood to listen to your bullshit. I need his number!”
“All right, all right… Listen, you can’t call him. You have to go to 32 Oak Hill Road. That’s out in Johnston.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Whatever.”

She gets in her car—the old jalopy her parents have quasi-given her—and gets on the highway. After a short drive on the interstate, she gets off and turns on her GPS to find the drug-dealer’s house.
32 Oak Hill Road is a small, suburban home. Not what she had pictured, it is small, white, with a porch, a garage, and very few windows. A nice lawn in front, it looks like any other house, not a drug den. She feels a little nervous walking up the front path, checking the address over and over again; to make sure she isn’t going to a normal family’s house in a fruitless quest.
She has no idea what she’s going to say to him. She hadn’t thought of that, she was in so much pain. She is in so much pain.
She rings the doorbell. After some minutes of waiting, a little before she is ready to go back to her car, she hears footsteps approaching.
A slightly gruff voice asks from behind the door, “Who is it?”
“Uh, hello, this is Julie, Brandon’s girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, actually. Is this Dr. Sugar’s house?”
The door opens. A tall man, in his extremely late 30s or extremely early 40s, plain-looking, just slightly overweight man comes to the door, and asks, “You two broke up?”
“Um… yes.”
“Pity.” He looks at her oddly, and motions for her to step inside. “I’ve heard much about you from him. You are a flautist, I gather.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I’m not here to chat. That pill you gave me, to try. It’s giving me the worst hangover right now.”
“Hangover?” He asks, “Whoever heard of a hangover six days after ingestion. No, what you are experiencing is withdrawal.”
“You knew this would happen to me?”
“I knew, yes, you would experience some withdrawal. It’s a kink… I suppose you could call it…”
“Well, what can I do to stop the pain?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that extremely irresponsible? What do you fucking mean there is nothing you can do to stop my pain?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Stopping pain. In normal circumstances, that is the remedy. However, Fig does something different—it alters your mind’s perception of not only pain, but pleasure. During withdrawal, everything you find pleasant in any way normally becomes extremely painful. But, on the upside, painful things become pleasurable. The two impulses, the ones toward pain and pleasure, are inherently linked in the mind. It just takes a drug like Fig to alter that chemistry, and for your neurotransmitters to make a little mistake. Watch.”
He slaps her face. A wave of undeniable pleasure washes over her cheek. She looks at him confusedly, then angrily.
“Why did you do this to me?!”
“First of all, you were the one who took the pill. There is no way, Julie, that you can deny that. Any drug, from coffee to penicillin to heroin, will change something about the way your body works—that’s the definition of a drug. You willingly consumed a drug you knew nothing about. Second of all, I didn’t manufacture this drug for its side effects. I made it for the pain/pleasure euphoria of that high. That’s like saying alcohol was invented for hangovers. I created Fig for that glorious euphoria. You took it because you were curious. You got the euphoria, and now you have the withdrawal.”
“How long does withdrawal last?”
“It is indefinite.”
“Well, what can I do to stop it?”
“There’s only one way to end withdrawal.”
“Which is?”
“To take another Fig.”
“No way. No, fucking way I’m taking another crazy pill. Last time I took one of those I ended up without my V-card.”
“Well, then you’re going to have to deal with this pain for the rest of your life. There’s nothing anyone can do, short of a lobotomy that will re-alter your neurochemistry. At least, not until I work out a cure.”
“A cure?”
“Yes.” He grows grave, and says, “I, too, am afflicted by this addiction. I learned this all the hard way. You’re a Friday? Your pain comes every Friday? Well, every Wednesday night, the same pain that haunts you—the feeling that someone’s pouring you into metal—comes to me. But I take Fig, and I’m able to maintain a healthy, happy lifestyle. In fact,” he smiles, sitting down, “all it means is that one night a week, I get this euphoria.”
“How could you let others suffer from this stuff, if you know it’s so addictive?”
“As I said—everyone has to make their own choices. Plus, honestly, I learned long ago, not to care. You can lead a perfectly happy lifestyle and do Fig.”
“That’s despicable.”
“Yeah? Well, the way I see it you have two options. One: you can live in pain for the rest of your days, unable to go about the daily business of normal life, unable to socialize or work, and eventually come to an orgasmic collapse at the pleasure of the ultimate pain, of your death. Or, you can take one pill every week, live happily, and even get some bonus pleasure out of it. Unfortunately—the one person in the world who can make these pills, and thus who is capable of developing a cure, is me. So, if I were you, I would first of all choose option two, and second of all, really, really, try not to piss me off.”
Julie sat down in the chair across from Dr. Sugar, wincing at the pain.
“You enjoy sitting, don’t you?”
She looks at him, resigned, and answers at length, “Yes, I do. I’ll take the pills. How much does one pill cost?”
“It doesn’t ‘cost’ anything. You certainly aren’t in the financial situation to pay for them—they probably would cost two thousand, at least, a pop. I’m well off anyhow. Do you know how much money I make off the shit I sell? How do you think I can afford to live out in the suburbs, undetected?”
“So, you’ll give me the pills?”
“In a manner of speaking. I will give you a pill whenever I see fit, and you won’t have to pay me anything. However, I will expect you to… stay on my good side.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, whenever I ask you to do something, I’ll expect you to do so.”
She gets up, and stares him in the eye. “What type of things?”
“Well, let’s start with… For instance, right now, I’m asking you to give me a little blow job. You, of course, will be happy to oblige me—and that’s out of the kindness of your heart. And out of the kindness of my heart, I will give you a pro bono pill.”
“You think you can turn me into your fucking prostitute? Well, I’m not going to blow you. Not now, not ever. You’re the most disgusting man–”
“Now, now, you’re not all that innocent yourself, remember? I would keep calm, Julie.”
“I’m leaving! You can go to hell!”
She slams the front door behind her, gets into the car, and drives off.

[Officelover]

She gets into her car, hot tears clouding her eyes, and speeds off Oak Hill. She heads onto the highway, and starts driving home. She finds it difficult not only to see through the tears in her eyes, but to concentrate on the road through her Leviathan headache and her behemoth fear. She finds it difficult to think straight, let alone drive straight. After several car horns honk at her, she decides to take the next exit off the interstate.
She does, and she pulls over at the first parking lot she happens upon, a McDonalds. She parks the car, and just lets her tears go. Not that they weren’t going before. But now, she feels that she can make more noise while she’s doing it.
She doesn’t want to sit in her hot car—though the stickiness of the July heat probably would have given her some relief—so she gets up and hobbles through her pain into the McDonalds. She pulls out her wallet and orders up a salad, so they’ll let her take up one of their tables. She sits down, and holds back her tears. She just picks at her salad, trying to think of what to do. After minutes, when she finally starts to eat it, she finds that it tastes disgusting. Just what she needs. She feels she can taste all the dirt that all the vegetables grew in, that she can taste the manure that helped them grow. She spits out the salad and throws the box away. And now she’s hungry…

What was I supposed to do? I was hungry! I know, I know I’m a vegetarian. Or, at least, I was. I prided myself in of that I was above eating meat, like some caveman. But I soon realized, if I was going through this withdrawal, the pleasure of a delicious, moral salad (as ‘moral’ and ‘delicious’ as one can get at a McDonalds), or any food I enjoy for that matter, will only cause the food to taste disgusting to me.
It was disgusting; it was wrong; it was unhealthy. But that Big Mac tasted then like the best thing I had ever eaten. The first thing I asked myself was, “How could I spend five years without eating something as delicious as this?”
Then, I stopped, considered and remembered that I must really hate this for me to love it so much. I took comfort in that, but that only reminded me the rest of the time how much I hated the burger. And the pleasure I had taken in its taste was almost gone.
I was so upset… while I filled my stomach, I played his offer over and over again in my mind. How could he take advantage of me like that? I had the right mind to go turn him into the police, to tell them about the drug deals and the assault on my honor. Then, I realized, I would only implicate myself, and Brandon, and his friends. I didn’t want to do that. But I had to do something! The pain was killing me. Once I finished the burger, it came back to me. That disgusting Big Mac was just enough to numb the pain. Once it was gone, I was left with glass in my arms and fire in my mind. One lump of relief in my stomach.
I sat there through the pain, looking out the window, and I realized that he was right. I couldn’t just sit idly by. I made the decision to return to him, to try to coerce the pills out of him… I needed a pill.

She returns to his house, in just as much pain as she was in before. She rings the doorbell. This time, he answers right away. “Who is it?”
She says awkwardly, “Julie.”
He opens the door, and smiles at her. “Well, well, well… look who had a change of heart?”
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know, are you ready to be reasonable?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ‘Yes, Doctor.’”
“Okay… yes, Doctor.”
“I’m going to make an excuse for your rudeness before. I’m going to allow that you are in an incredible amount of pain, and thus, in a state of mind that is unstable. Your anger, your fire comes from the fire within you. I understand that. But there are certain things we need to control, and others we need to release entirely. You need to control the pain, to use it. You also need to learn to absorb all possible pleasure, to release every block to it. So, I will forgive you completely, if you do me the favor I asked of you before.”
“Is there anything else I can do, instead?”
“I’m sorry, nothing comes to mind.”
“I could be your assistant. I could help you with making all your drugs.”
“No; I don’t trust you nearly enough to let you in my lab. I will take nothing more, less, or different than your lips around my cock. This is your final chance. If you don’t do it now, I will make a point of it never to give you a Fig again. What do you say?”
She is silent for a moment. Then, she looks at him, and whispers almost soundlessly, “Okay.”
He unzips his pants. He delicately reaches into the hole, pulls apart the two sides of his boxer-briefs, and takes out his medium-sized penis. It is slightly erect, but it’s clear that he wants her to work for his pleasure.
She approaches him gingerly, and kneels down in front of him. She has never had a cock in her mouth. She has never had a cock anywhere; she’d like to think, though she knows this is no longer true. So, she, the damaged goods, waits for him to bring his cock forward.
“Go on,” he says.
She realizes she must begin herself. She moves towards it, opens her mouth, and reaches for it with her right hand. She guides its tip to her mouth, and tastes it. She pushes her mouth closer to him, and lets it go further and further in…

It was disgusting; it was unhealthy; it was wrong. But his cock tasted good. It tasted just as good as the Big Mac had tasted, though I knew that a penis can’t taste like much at all. I just did what was natural… I moved in and out, at first. Then, I let my tongue do most of the work. I didn’t know how to give a blow-job… it just happened. It was terrible… I felt so humiliated, staring at his belt and the bottom of his shirt.
He came, in my mouth, after a little less than three minutes.
He made me swallow.

[Officelover]

I swallow down the liquid form of Fig, gulping almost, not knowing what to expect. He had to make it himself, in his lab. He told me the recipe was too valuable to mass-produce. He did take half of it, though, and set it aside in a vial for himself, for Wednesday. I grimace at the thimbleful of fluid – I don’t know if that means if I think it tastes good or if it just tastes like piss. (That’s what it tasted like.)
Though I was nervous to try it, within two minutes, the pain begins to melt away. I get out and in my car as soon as possible, and leave the green street. On the highway, the Fig starts to fully kick in. I smile, for what must be the first time in a day. The pain is finally gone, I finally have some relief.
I turn on myself. I’m high, I know. I’m enjoying some euphoria, some euphoria I should have never had in the first place. I’m a little disgusted with myself, going from the humiliation of sucking a cock to the enjoyment of a little pleasure-pill.
I start feeling really happy. Not even that wicked mother in my mind can take away relief from me. After a day of torture, what’s wrong with being thankful for an end to pain? Everything’s beautiful; the sun is just about to go underneath the horizon. If it weren’t for the horribleness that had just transpired, it would have been the close to a perfect summer’s day.
The radio is on. And I just notice that I like it. I hate the song that’s on – ‘Call Me Maybe’ or some shit like that, but maybe that’s what I needed. Something that I could never enjoy. The synth-violin gave me a little blood in my hands. I feel like the steering wheel is joined with my hand.
The night is god-awful beautiful. When I get home, I’m giggling at how ridiculous the day was. The Big Mac. I’m ready to let it all go. So what if I sucked a cock? Just means I made someone happy, that’s all, someone who could cure me. What’s wrong with that? I’ll look back at this one day…

“What are you doing back so late?” her Mom says when she walks in the door.
“I was hanging with friends,” a Julie answer, what she thinks is nonchalant.
“With who, with that Brandon boy?”
Julie sighs, happily, “No, we broke up.”
“When did that happen? When were you going out with him?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” she says, “it doesn’t matter. I’m not going out with him now!”
“Do you want to talk about it, hon?”
“Nope!” She giggles, and then she can’t steep giggling.
“What’s so funny?” Mother asks daughter.
“Nothing!” Julie says, trying to stop laughing.
Her mother looks at her, and asks her, whispering, “Are you high?!”
“Yes, I am.”

The next morning, she is happy and naked in bed. She still feels great. The pleasure of her sheets—like many of us she keeps a thin sheet on even during the summer month—the sound and whoosh of the oscillating fan. The sunlight is streaming in through the window, and she can see it fall near the foot of the bed.
She thinks that Fig makes her feel the pleasure in everything. Even now that she’s mostly sober of it, she can feel that attitude left in her mind. She puts on her slippers, puts on a summer dress, does nothing to her bed-head, and sneaks out. She walks down her street, looking for the nearest green space. The closest thing she has is the local part. Still, it has a grove of trees. She goes, and sees a homeless man lying under the trees, using their wide leafs for shelter. She decides not to bother him, and goes underneath a tree on the other side of the grove. There she smiles, and watches the remainder of the sunrise.
When she homeless man stirring, she gets up, and starts walking. She walks for about two more hours. It calms her. While she returns, she looks back on the events of yesterday, and tries to decide, calmly, without paining or pleasuring herself, if she is a bad person.
She ends up deciding, that no, for the moment, she is still a good point.
She gradually remembers what happened to her last night, after she took the Fig. She’s getting better at remembering the events that transpire under its influence, she guesses. She remembers telling her mother she was high, and her mother’s inability to say anything else. She remembers going upstairs, calling Brandon four times before giving up. She remembers, one thing that pains her—she remembers touching herself, touching herself and thinking of Dr. Sugar. Of Dr. Sugar’s cock. The only cock she knows, or at least the only one she remembers.
Yet, she knows, after all, she was high.