Artefact

First came the mushrooms. Without them, this story could not be told.

It was the last summer they were legal. I ended up in Hoxton Square, with some friends whowere lysergically enhanced, and others who weren’t. I think it was the combination of seeing through the grimly flirtatious behaviour of the non-mushroom eaters, who despite not being attracted to each other, doggedly carried on their mechanical boy/girl flirtation rituals, and the grimy reality of the square: cigarette butts, dying grass, dark, unhappy trees. All of that made me want to flee. So I sent a ‘rescue me’ text to the woman I had been lightly seeing, and immediately she responded, saying she would drive by and pick me up in half an hour. It was a little miracle.

A word on ‘lightly seeing’: who knows what it means? We were circling round each other, having world-beating sex, but unable or unwilling to commit to anything more. I knew we loved each other on some basic physical level, but I couldn’t see us being together in a more complete way. Or, to put it another way, I couldn’t commit but I wanted to continue enjoying the fucking. I never asked if she felt the same as me.

She swooped down and scooped me up, and through a collision of the hallucinogenics, her Italian accent and the dusk drive through the deserted canyons of the City, made me believe for a few seconds that I was back in Venice.

We arrived at the apartment I was living in at the time. It had the most beautiful view, a balcony overlooking the Thames, right by the Tate Modern. The floors were wide and smooth, the furniture of various interesting shapes and sizes. It was a sexy apartment. She made me scallops with chilli oil, while I sat on the balcony and slowly came down. The searing heat of the chilli on my mushroom-sensitized tongue was a challenge and a dare. And her playful talk of a young musician I’d introduced her to, and who was just the type she tended to go for, goaded me into reminding her just why we were together. It made me want to stake my claim.

I stepped in off the balcony and sat down by the wall.

‘Bring in some milk, and a saucer’ I said. She looked faintly puzzled but did so.

‘Pour the milk in the saucer’. She did, and handed it to me. I put it on the floor by my feet.

‘Now get on your hands and knees’. As soon as she did so I kicked the saucer across the floor, smoothly, so that barely a drop spilled. It came to rest in front of her.

‘Drink it. Lap it up like a little pussycat’.

She did. Looking up at me slyly, she dipped her small pink tongue into the milk. Noticing the growing weight at my crotch, she wiggled saucily. I wasn’t having any of it. Walking around behind her, so that she couldn’t see me, I twitched her skirt over her hips so that her trim, brown buttocks showed. The polished leather of my shoe against her inner thigh made her purr.

My favourite chair was beside us. It had many apertures, footholds, armrests. I stripped her naked and threaded her body through it. Face thrust down sideways, on the padded headrest, so she could still breathe, and see. I intertwined her arms in the chair’s back, spread her legs wide, wrapped around the legs of the chair.

‘You’re a piece of furniture now’ I said. ‘Just a beautiful artefact’.

I was still clothed, and stood where her cheek lay pressed into the leather, and let her rub her face against my hard cock and smell, and writhe.

‘Yes’. She wanted to be my inanimate object of desire.

‘Please’.

Soon I was naked, behind her, fucking her hard in an inhuman, regular punishing rhythm. She was wrapped so tightly round the chair it was like she was trying to become it. She moaned, over and over again. I travelled to another time and place in my mind. This, I realised, was all a fantasy of mine- but somehow I had become displaced, my role had switched.

I remembered another mushroom experience, many years before, with a beautiful woman I was deeply and hopelessly in love with. My desire was intensified by knowing she would never be entirely mine. She liked to tell me about her afternoons spent with her married, female lover, who would visit her for wine, and end up wrapped around her perfect, tanned, dancer’s body. I lay in bed and imagined it. And all I wanted was to be the table on which they fucked.

I could see it all so clearly: me, lying across her bed, naked and erect. She invited her friend in, but made no reference to my presence. My eyes were tightly shut but I could imagine the odd look her lover gave her, But her confident air, the way she acted as if I wasn’t there- no, the way she acted as if I was there, but I was just part of the furniture, put the other woman at her ease.

The afternoon continued as they always did. I lay, perfectly still, my erection a constant, as I heard them kiss, whisper and coo. Then:

‘Come over here’ she said, and they sat on the bed. She settled her warm, wet cunt over my hard cock and wrapped herself securely around me. I was just a convenient place for her to position herself. She reached out- I could feel her muscles move- and pulled her girlfriend towards her. They spoke the way lovers speak when perfectly alone, and I lay there, still and content, not moving an iota. As they kissed she moved up and down on my cock, but not for me, for herself. When she moved and straddled my face, and the second woman took her place impaled on me, it wasn’t about me either. It was about them, their pleasure, their lovemaking. I was just a piece of furniture she had picked up somewhere.

The fantasy always ended there-possibly because that was the point at which I came. Of course, in the fantasy, my climax was of no consequence. A table can’t come.

Back in my London apartment, the memory of my fantasy gave me an idea. As I bent down over the chair, to untie her from her bonds, I looked into her eyes which were wild and sleepy from the intensity of her orgasm. Her body felt heavy and limp as I picked her up and moved her over to the dining table. I proceeded to lay her spreadeagled, face upwards, strapped to the table legs via cuffs on her wrists and ankles. I caught her eyes again, but this time they suddenly looked empty of expression, absent. I was completely sober by now; the effects of the mushrooms had worn off. And also hungry again. I pulled up a chair, sat down, and proceeded to eat my fill.

by M de Winter

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