Better Loving Through Chemistry

This is Part 2 of the story, please read part 1 to make sense of it!

*****

I met Nicole for lunch a few days later. We met at a little café near her work, on her lunch break. She was dressed fairly conservatively but still stylish; she worked for a museum in their PR department as their graphic artist so she had to walk a fine line between bohemian and business. She seemed happy to see me, though a little nervous.

"That was quite a night we had," she said after we hugged.

"Yes it was." I grinned.

She then proceeded to have a very mature talk with me, which impressed me and frankly made me even more aware of how mixed my feelings were. She mentioned the drug, and the feelings, and how the two sometimes mix and create a false intimacy. We barely knew each other, really, beyond the parties and the raves. She felt both turned on and embarrassed by how free she was with her desires that night. I felt both rejected and relieved. I did not want a relationship with anyone, really, but I could not deny the fact that she had been on my mind. Was I in love with her? Was she dumping me already? Thankfully she created a very sensible plan to meet again the following weekend, giving us both a time to sort through our potentially drug-induced feelings without chucking the relationship baby with the bath water of insanely hot sex.

We hugged and parted.

I also had an idea, a different idea.

She had mentioned the freedom from her inhibitions during the rave, and during sex. I liked the sound of that. Was my mix, with its added ingredients, not only generated sexy feelings but also removed inhibitions? As a good scientist, I needed more data. Data I was convinced I could find at another rave, that Wednesday night.

Wednesday was not the usual day for dancing in my circle of friends, which is why I was fairly certain that I would meet no one there that I knew. I wanted to observe that night, not participate. The location was also a little further off on the East Side, the music a little darker. I dressed appropriately, with more black and silver than the usual day-glo range my crowd tended towards.

I had also mixed my new Ecstasy concoction in a water bottle with a spray nozzle. It was fairly common for people to bring those in order to spray themselves, and each other, when they needed to cool down. The spray would deliver a lower dose, but what I hope would still be an active one.

I have to say at this point that one of the reason I wanted to try it out on a far-off Wednesday location is that I was pretty sure that what I was about to do was pretty shitty. I was not proud of potentially spiking people, but at the same time my curiosity would not be sated. I had to see what would happen.

That Wednesday night I found myself in the large basement of an old industrial building, with several low-ceilinged rooms making up the underground dance club. The rooms would alternate between lounge areas and dance rooms, each of them with a different DJ. The lights were low, the crowd was young and mostly Goth, the music industrial. I drifted towards the softer of the dance rooms, where the music was more trance-like.

A good dozen people were in there, dancing in the small room. In the corner the DJ was set up on a folding table. A stack of speakers filled the space behind him. A few lights were splashing up at the ceiling, casting red and orange shadows. A string of Christmas lights was wrapped around a support beam in the middle of the room.

I notice one girl immediately. She was dressed in a school-girl outfit, with a short pleaded skirt held up by suspenders, with knee high socks and Doc Martens on her feet. She wore a mostly open shirt as a top, letting her purple bra exposed as well as quite a bit of cleavage. She was in her early twenties at most, blonde, lithe, dancing with her eyes partially closed. She danced with a hint of self-consciousness, knowing full well the effect her outfit had on the men around her. Three guys were around her, dancing and glancing at her. Couples and singles moved around the rest of the space, oblivious.

I danced into the mix, bottle in hand. I smiled at her, catching her attention. I motioned to the bottle in my hand, a question on my face. She smiled and nodded yes. She threw her head back, chest out, and let me spray her. She obviously enjoyed the cooling mist, and so did the guys eyeing her white shirt as it became wet and transparent. I aimed at her face and opened mouth, making sure she swallowed a mouthful of the water. Satisfied, I slinked away.

In my defense I stayed to make sure that she was going to be all right. I did not want to make a rape drug, or leave her so freaked out that she would injure herself. I did want to see what would happen when someone, a pretty girl, was allowed to drop her inhibitions.

I leaned against the wall, keeping her in my sight.

Within a few minutes I noticed a change. She paused and looked around a bit, as if confused. She started dancing again. She started dancing in a new way, slower, more in tune with the music. The same undulating motion emerged out of her that I had first seen in Nicole, as if the music was rising from her feet and whipping her body back and forth. Her arms rose up. Again, like Nicole, she started playing with her hair. Her eyes closed, she let her hands wander down her body, pushing her shirt open so that her hands could touch her bare skin.

The suspenders holding up her skirt were in the way, so she pushed them off her shoulders, letting them drop down around her hips. Her skirt dropped a couple inches, barely held up by the swell of her ass.

The shirt dropped off her shoulders, then off her body and onto the ground. She was now only in her bra, a lacy purple thing that barely hid the dark circles of her nipples. The guys around her noticed this. I started to worry if I had made a mistake, if I had placed her in some danger. But the guys were apparently too awkward to know what to do with a half-naked woman in their midst. They just continued gaping and dancing.

She danced and swayed, letting her hands travel around her body, her fingertips tracing spirals on her bare skin. When she found her thighs she shamelessly stroked them, front and back, lifting the hem of her skirt and exposing the black thong she wore underneath. And the tight, small ass beneath the skirt. She seemed unfazed by her exhibition. She barely noticed that her skirt was falling off her hips. But her focus was definitely in her hips, her crotch. As her hands travelled up to her breasts, her hips started a rolling motion, thrusting her panty-clad crotch in the air.

Her eyes flew open. She took in the men staring at her as she danced. A small smile fluttered around her lips. She closed her yes again and bit her lip. She fished a breast out of her bra, pulling on the bright pink tip, rolling the nipple between thumb and finger. Her hands continued to travel, leaving one breast exposed, the other still in the cup of the bra.

She raised her hands in the air, intertwining them above her head. Her feet came together and she started a slow shimmy of the hips. The little skirt she wore began to move with the motion, inching down, coming dangerously close to falling of her hips. She shimmied some more, slowly turning completely around in a tight circle, the swaying of her hips getting wider and wider. The edge of the skirt slipped, slowed along the curve of her ass, and finally fell into a puddle at her feet. She continued to do her little dance, dressed only in her thong and bra, knee high socks and Doc Marten boots. I just drooled.

Maybe she finally felt freed of her clothes, but now she started dancing again, the dance she had started with, the long undulation of the body that shook her from head to toe. She let her hair swirl in front of her face, mouth open, eyes closed, lost in her dance. She was covered in sweat, her body shiny in the dim light. One breast was still hanging out of her bra cup, swaying freely. The pink nipple stood up, fully erect, in the middle of the small dark circle of the areola. I briefly wondered if there was any security guard who might show up and ask her to leave, but no one seemed to be complaining.

She continued dancing for a good twenty minutes. I assumed that she had pushed herself as far as she would go, which was already pretty incredible. Maybe it was a change in the music, or just a change in her desires, but then something changed. Her arms started to lower, her hands to trace curves across her thighs and belly. Her hand fell over her crotch, touching it lightly. It seemed innocent enough, just her hand in front, as if she was covering herself. But I saw that one finger curling up, tracing the contours of her clit through the soft cotton of her panties. Her other arm clutched at her breast. Her head hung down, her hair covering her face. Her thumb was playing with her hard nipple, flicking it rhythmically. Her other hand was still in front of her pantied crotch. That one finger continued to curl up and around. Even in the dim light I could see the outline of her pussy lips as she pushed the material against herself.

She seemed to suddenly shake herself awake. She pushed her breast back into her bra, looking around self-consciously. Was she embarrassed? There was still a smile on her lips, a little curl of the lips as if she was the cat who ate the canary. She quickly grabbed her clothes that had pooled at her feet. First the shirt then the skirt went back on. She stepped away from the dance floor, to the dismay of the few dancers that had stuck around for the show.

She left the dance room at a quick pace. Trying to act natural, I followed her. She walked through the lounge area next to the dance floor and made her way to some other room. The underground basement was a warren of little room, converted steam rooms and storage from some past industry. She stuck close to the walls, crossing room after room, from gloomy dance floor to barely lit lounges until she found herself in a side lounge, barely big enough for a couch and three bean bag chairs. It was empty of people. She ducked behind the couch and retrieved what looked like her bag. I was disappointed. The evening, it seemed, was over.

I lingered for a last moment near the doorway, peeking in. She was squatting on the ground, her back to me, looking through her bag. But something was off about her shoulders; hunched, tensing. I was worried. Was she crying? Had my little experiment gone too far? I stepped into the small room, not knowing what to do. She heard me and turned, a slightly pained look on her face. She wasn't crying. She had two hands shoved into her panties, masturbating furiously.

I almost left, embarrassed for her. But her eyes caught mine. She stared right at me and held my gaze. I froze in the entrance to the small room, blocking it. She rotated on her feet, still squatting, knees wide open. Her hands were busy under her panties, making them bulge and move. She pushed herself onto the couch, legs still wide open, pinning me with her gaze. She was filled with lust and daring. It was not an invitation to fuck, she was daring me to watch.

On her back on the couch, she pushed her panties aside, stretching them almost to breaking. Her pussy was bare, pink and wet under her fingers. With one finger she continued to frantically rub her clit while the fingers of her other hand curled inside of her, stretching her pussy lips apart. She was finger fucking herself with abandon, mouth open, eyes wide and piercing, never letting me look away. One long leg was draped over one arm of the couch, the other propped up on the seat, allowing her to open them as wide as they would go.

I reached down to and gave my cock a squeeze through my pants. I was painfully hard, my cock caught in an awkward position by my underwear. I moved it around, squeezing it through the fabric. Her yes lit up, glued to my hands on my crotch. I took that as a go ahead. I unzipped and pulled my cock out. Her lips trembled a bit at the sight of my exposed hard-on.

She stopped pumping fingers into herself and grabbed her breast. Again she fished a nipple out, squeezing it hard, pulling on it. The rhythm on her clit increased. I started stroking myself, watching her with glazed intent. Precum made the tip of my cock slick and sensitive. I looked behind me, but no one was aware of what was happening in the little room. I increased the tempo of my stroking. She increased her rhythm too, her fingers just a blur on her swollen clit.

Her face started to contort in a silent scream. She suddenly threw herself back on the couch, clutching at her pussy, spasming as wave after wave of pleasure shot through her. That was my cue to cum as well, bucking my hips and sending an arc of jism across the room to land at her feet. She was still spasming on the couch, completely oblivious to me.

She finally stopped moving, breathing heavily. For a few seconds she stayed like that, splayed on the couch, legs wide open. Her shirt was pushed open, a pink nipple standing proudly on her bared breast. Her long legs pointed at the raw and pink pussy, now pushed open and gaping, her clit hard and long at the top of her swollen lips. Her thighs were streaked with her juices, her panties ripped apart and falling off of one booted foot.

She got up, letting her panties behind. She quickly grabbed her bag and made to leave the room. I moved aside to let her through. She smiled almost shyly and quickly left. I watch her little skirt bounce with her every step, knowing how close she was to flashing the whole place. Wet streaks could be seen running down her inner thighs.

I took it as a good sign. The experiment seemed to have worked and no one got hurt. But as they say, a single event is just an anecdote. I'll need more data. I'll need to come back next week.