Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  “Well, I guess old Sal has started on his way up,” Jack said, beginning to feel a little bit strange himself. As he remembered, the most typical reaction to mescaline was to laugh for about a half an hour or an hour straight when you were first going up. Just as he recalled that bit of information, he heard an immense giggle from the porch, where Janice, Al Frederickson, and Dale Henry were sitting. Jack went to the window and looked out and saw Dale and Al tickling Janice ferociously. She had curled like a ball on the floor, and was clutching her arms around her knees in an effort to protect her stomach. Since she wore only a very short skirt, tight panties, and a blouse which was practically see-through, there was little left for the imagination, and her thighs, creamy white and full, and her buttocks, were fully exposed. Finally, she succeeded in launching a counter attack, pushing Dale back with her feet for a second and tickling Al ferociously. Al just lay there in an hysterical fit, almost like a fish out of water flopping around on a boat's deck. He was plainly being influenced by the mescaline, and was now completely unable to defend himself. After a few seconds, Dale recovered, and dove on Janice, virtually tearing her blouse off, and removing her skirt by grabbing it and pulling up till Janice's legs stuck straight up in the air. The skirt went flying off the porch and landed in a bush. Al was now crawling toward Janice, and started sucking on one of her nipples, while Dale tore off his pants, revealing his huge joint, ready for action. Janice, still laughing like crazy, obligingly spread her legs and awaited Dale's arrival. Dale, the only black in the group, made an imposing figure as his dark body catapulted onto Janice's and his organ disappeared into her like a sword into a sheath. Soon they rolled over and Janice was on top, humping away. Al staggered up and, reeling as he walked, went around behind Janice. Dale obligingly stuck his hands back and spread the cheeks of Janice's ass, revealing its generous, loose hole. Al dropped his trousers, and, using the tossing circle of Janice's buttocks as a target, aimed for the bull's eye. By this time, five or six people were standing around on the porch, giggling like little children, and cheering Al on. It took him quite a while to get his organ in contact with Janice's hole, which was suitably lubricated by the cunt juice that had flowed out of her and down into her crack while she was fucking Dale. Little by little he began to shove his cock in, and Janice was screaming and giggling and panting with pleasure the whole time. It was the first time Jack had ever seen somebody laughing while fucking, and it really struck him as strange. He always thought that humor and sex didn't go together. Maybe they only did on mescaline. Anyhow, the trio seemed to be enjoying their giggling fuck, and after a few seconds of tangled limbs and missed attempts, Dale and Al managed to stand up with Janice between them, their dicks fully embedded in her from each side. Janice's tits were bouncing up and down like water balloons, as she locked her fingers behind Dale's neck and hung on for dear life. After what seemed like ages, she began to gasp and grunt, and slam herself down harder and harder on the double weapons that penetrated her. It seemed as if her flesh had turned to water, so fluidly did she ride this crest of pleasure, held up by two flaming, pumping organs. The two cocks, shoving in and out, reminded Jack of some kind of machine—of pistons in a car, maybe. Janice, all at once, started twisting violently back and forth, and began her climax.

  Up till now, Jack had only experienced some indescribable but strange general sensations from the mescaline. Now, however, he found himself catapulted all at once into the strange world of the drug experience. The weird configuration of people before him seemed suddenly to become detached from the porch. It was almost—as if the outlines of the three conjoined bodies were suddenly traced by a razor which slit the fabric of existence and detached them from it. For a moment, Jack lost the conception of the strange, writhing form as being composed of three human bodies, and saw it as a single surface, undulating in mid-aid in a weird rhythm. His eye fastened on Janice's thigh where it met her buttock, and was captured by the bizarre patterns that her flesh made as she bounced up and down.

  Jack's vision instantly began to feed him data that he would not normally have received, or noticed. He could see, as he drew closer, the patterns that her pores made, like so many tiny, almost invisible dots, as her skin expanded and contracted. He could see the faintest traces of nearly invisible hairs, giving way to the complete baldness of her buttock. He could see her hip joint pressing the flesh outward, and the depression behind it, like a large dimple, on the side of her buttock. It was as though Jack was constantly going to sleep and waking up again, to discover every instant a strange and bewildering world. Janice's flesh looked to him like a barren arctic landscape, warmed only by the faintest pinkish-yellow glows from a sun far away on the horizon, about to set.

  Gradually, almost of itself, the focus of Jack's vision slid downward, and now, crouching, and from a distance of about two feet, he stared at the point where Al's dick disappeared into Janice's asshole. The hole, a tight, pink ring, was stretched so far that ordinarily Jack could not have believed it could withstand, such assault without tearing. But now, he had ceased to question such things, and the image of a machine took over his mind. In and out slid the shaft of Al's cock, its white-brown flesh and pale blue veins magically disappearing and reappearing again at an incredible rate. The hairs of Al's crotch were smashed continually between his own body and Janice's ass, and Jack could see them, after each stroke, springing back up, only to be flattened again. Al's balls swung up under Janice repeatedly, and Jack could see that sometimes they slid up along the shaft of Dale's cock as it pumped away at her cunt, and sometimes they brushed up against Dale's balls.

  Jack suddenly had the urge to see what was going on from a distance, to get an idea of the effect of the whole thing. Almost absent mindedly, he rid himself of his clothes, and wandered out onto the lawn. As he did, he glanced out over the ocean, and heard the low murmur of the surf, punctuated by strange fucking sounds coming from behind him. The boards of the porch were creaking, and there was heavy breathing. Now, as Janice reached the height of her orgasm, he heard little cries, that reminded him of the far off cries of birds. In fact, for a moment his senses tricked him, and he wondered whether what he was really hearing was a group of seagulls down by the beach somewhere out of sight. But when he turned back to the scene on the porch, he could see that the noises went together with the shape of Janice's mouth, that they were noises she was making. Her hair was tossing wildly, and her head was thrashing back and forth. She gripped Dale around the neck so tightly, and rode his cock so hard, that Jack thought she was going to injure him. But Dale seemed not to feel the ferocity of her actions, as he stared in fascination at the breasts that bounced before him and braced himself more firmly by grasping a rail of the porch with one hand. Suddenly his thighs and buttocks went rigid, and began to jerk uncontrollably. Janice, the excitement of Dale's orgasm immediately communicated to her, took in a gigantic breath and, as it seemed to Jack, began gyrating wildly about in every direction at once. Her cries were now like some weird kind of Eastern music, caught in an echo chamber, that resounded again and again in his ears, punctuated by tiny grunts and gasps. She seemed to come for many minutes, grinding up and down on Dale's cock, and then rocking back and forth to set both organs going in unison inside her. Finally Al came too, grunting and thrusting his cock almost to the hilt between Janice's loose and flopping buttocks.

  Suddenly, when all three had come, Jack could connect them again to reality. The razor-cut between the configuration of their bodies and the rest of the scenery suddenly was magically repaired, as they disengaged themselves from their complicated tangle of limbs and slumped, exhausted, to the floor.

  Jack looked down, because somehow he felt as if his body was trying to tell him something. Not surprisingly, the warm, tense feeling that emanated from somewhere down there was significant—his own cock stood out, rather ridiculously, he thought, a rigid hunk of flesh outlined against the grass between his legs. It suddenly occurred to him that he had to perform a strange act
of memory in order to discover exactly what connection this weird thing had to him, and what he was suppose to do about it. He looked, and through the open door of the house, he saw several naked bodies doubled over with laughter, tits and cocks flopping around, and arms and legs flowing in every direction. Virtually in a haze now, he decided to do something weird. He closed his eyes, pretending he was blind. Then, walking slowly, he traveled over the carpet of grass until he reached the steps of the porch.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he heard a female voice say. It took him just an instant to recognize the voice as Janice's.

  “Playing games,” Jack laughed. “I'm pretending I'm blind. You should do it. It's really interesting. I'm going to grope my was inside, and into somebody's hole. I don't know who the hell it's going to be, but the first female within reach is going to be it.” With that, he groped his way further up the steps, across the porch, and after about five minutes, into the living room. Strange, mixed assortment of sounds bombarded him, sounds of shuffling bodies, laughing, a few words, and from somewhere, the sound of music. At times, he could swear that he was making it all up—that nothing really existed outside him. He dropped to the floor, and began to crawl toward giggling sounds that he recognized as female. Once more, he was asked what he was doing, and explained again. Everyone suddenly seemed to think that the idea was both hilarious and fascinating, and started to do it themselves. In a moment, Jack could hear clumsy sounds of people yelling “Where the hell am I?”, and trying to locate other people, bumping into things and shuffling around.

  “This is really far out,” someone—he thought it was Sal—cried. “Blind for a day!” Everybody laughed.

  Finally Jack succeeded in reaching his fingers out to touch someone. The skin was soft and smooth, and feeling it gently for several minutes, running his fingers up and down, Jack deduced that it was a calf and knee that he was examining. He seemed to be reading the body in Braille. He grabbed the kneecap in his fingers and jiggled it back and forth.

  “What the fuck's going on down there?” the female voice said. Jack made a special effort not to try to think who the voice belonged to, and miraculously, succeeded. He did not say anything, but moved his hands up to the loose, fleshy area of the inner thigh. In another moment, his fingers were tentatively probing the curved, furry, damp contours of a vagina, which opened obligingly to their touch.

  In several minutes Jack had crawled on top of the body, and, keeping his eyes tightly closed all the while, had inserted the tip of his organ into the cunt. The woman had thrown her arms about his neck, and was licking up his neck, and into his ear. That was something that had always turned Jack on. Now he realized that the sound of the tongue in his ear was a sort of roaring, almost like that of the ocean, but not so regular.

  From some other location—Jack could hardly tell where—messages of pleasure reached him. He realized that, with someone's tongue in his ear, he had momentarily lost touch with his cock, which was proceeding on its own. It seemed to be a million miles away, although it was not difficult now to bring it closer—in fact, he seemed to transport himself away from his head down between his legs. For the first time, he realized that the feeling of fucking was really indescribable. Of course you could describe the sensations of dampness, of tightness, of friction, but there was no way to put them all together and come out with the experience of fucking. He was willing to bet that if he had a thousand years, he could never describe the feeling of fucking. There was more to it than simple sensation. It was like a vast metaphor of existence—of two separate entities really becoming one. But that didn't help to describe it either. All he knew was that it was happening— that it was progressing as it always progressed. It was like getting on a train, which slowly built up speed, and passed along tracks that were always the same, and yet somehow always different. He had never really analyzed the feeling before, although he had realized that it seemed to start as a very localized feeling in his crotch, and to spread out all over his body, until in the end his genitals were almost irrelevant to his orgasm.

  After a few seconds, he began to be aware that the woman's hand was taking his, and guiding it downward toward her crotch. He let his hand follow where she took it, and she ended up selecting one of his fingers and placing it on her clit. He rubbed it in little circles, and felt the shudders that immediately ran through the woman's body. Then he felt his other hand being led in the same direction—only this time, underneath her. She placed one of his fingers on her asshole, and he began to work it into the small, tight orifice. Suddenly the whole thing struck him as hilarious—it was like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head, trying to rub somebody's clit in circles and shove your finger up their ass at the same time. It took him a while to get coordinated, but when he did, the effects were spectacular. It was a little clumsy to keep fucking while he did all this, but he managed it, and the woman reached such a high pitch of excitement that the rhythm of her fucking broke, and she quivered and shook and jerked around and around on the floor. This was something new to him—she was not having an orgasm, because somehow he could still feel that coming—but she had lost control of her body. It was as if she was in some kind of mystical state, as if her mind had suddenly become disconnected from her body, and the sensations that she felt simply traveled from section to section of her body and back again with no central influence to put them together.

  Jack went on fucking, rubbing her clit, and shoving his finger in and out of her asshole. Slowly, a rhythm began to reappear in her movements, building toward a crescendo. Jack reinforced it, matching his strokes to her thrusts, and soon the rhythm had completely taken over where seconds ago it had not existed at all. Now there was nothing but the tempo of their fucking, and Jack felt as though he was being sucking, milked—as though all the fluids in his body were gathering to rush out of him. The background din seemed to compliment their fucking rhythm, punctuating it with tiny melodic interjections. Jack's body was super-charged with tension, and all the tension was gathering in his crotch. Like a bow which has been drawn almost to the breaking point, it held that tension for just an instant. Then the string was released, and an arrow of sperm flew with incredible force out and away from him, and into the deepest recesses of the woman's cunt. He could almost feel the liquid crashing into her, could almost feel the liquid crashing into her, and filling her up, could almost hear the silent swishing sounds from inside her. Jack felt so many things at once, so many indescribable things, that he could pick out only a few, and could not even articulate those—he was too busy moving on to others. But they didn't need articulation, because they were simply there, and that was enough. He felt like a neon sign with a million parts, flashing electrically from top to bottom and from side to side. He felt as if he was falling from a great height. He felt as if he was being now burned with fire, now frozen with ice.

  Suddenly the body under him slammed hard against the floor, and then rebounded back up against him so hard that he thought it would throw him off—except that the woman had her arms locked tightly around him. The slamming and pounding continued, at such a fevered pitch that for a moment Jack thought that she would actually break the floor boards. Then he could feel the air rushing in and out of the woman's mouth, as she gasped for breath. Her body became suddenly hot and sweaty, as her orgasm reached its peak and hung there for a brief instant. The movements continued, but somewhere behind them Jack could sense an incredible calmness and detachment, an eye in the center of the storm, extremely profound, in contrast to what now seemed to be the insignificant thrashing of her body. In a moment, the outward signs began to reflect this inner calm. The woman gasped, and went limp. She was finished.

  Jack rolled off of her, and for the first time, opened his eyes. The ceiling, he noticed, was crossed with heavy wooden beams. The dark, rich texture of their grain seemed very solid to him— something he could hang on to. He imagined himself dropped into the middle of the ocean, searching for something to hold onto, and he imag
ined one of these beams floating by. With relief, he grasped it, as a symbol at least of dry land, warmth, and some definite location.

  For the next ten minutes or so, Jack lay staring up at one of the beams. Then, he dragged himself up slowly, and, waiting a minute for his body to pump blood into his dizzy brain, walked out the front door once more. His eyes instantly traveled to the horizon, and swept it, in a primitive and automatic gesture. Reflecting on this, he realized how important it was for a person—or for any animal—to set up the landscape of his surroundings for himself, to locate things, to drain them of their meaning, and so to be secure.—He wandered down to the beach, alone, and sat on the sand. The white grains were fascinating to him, but he continued to remember his thoughts of a few moments before. Suddenly he realized how completely disjointed his life of the past several years had been. He had been drifting aimlessly, moving simply from day to day—or from minute to minute—carried along by forces with which he was really not very familiar. Now many of the incidents which had seemed so absorbing at the time—like the incredible night he had spent with the girls upstairs, or the party at Art and Marge's, or their alarm at finding out that Art's movie had been stolen—were really not in themselves connected at all. They were just situations that had come upon him, or that he had fallen into, without any particular purpose. Not that he felt very bad about that. He really believed that to live was to live in the present, that life was such a strange and ephemeral thing that to make grandiose, ambitious plans was almost to contradict what it was all about. But somehow he thought that if be were paying a little more attention to what was going on at every moment, he would get more out of it all. Now he remembered his reflections of the night before, about how strange and different everyone he knew was. He began making patterns out of the group on the island, but immediately realized that the only way he knew how to reflect on what was going on was to use the common criteria of society. For instance, he was asking himself who the dominant people in the group were, and what the roles of the other people were in relation to them. Some people were clowns, some people were imaginative, some people were retiring, and it all fitted together in a way. If things had been changed, if the dominant people— like Art—were removed, all the roles in the group would change. But he then realized that this was not really what he was after. He didn't want to waste time thinking about things like that. After all, everybody—so far—was happy, and that was all that counted. What he was really interested in was who they were. No, that wasn't a very good way of putting it either. In the end, he supposed that all he wanted to do was sit back and take his sensations—of voices, of trees, of physical contact—and enjoy them and the strange multi-dimensional patterns that they made in his mind.