The God Particle Genie

She looked at me with a kind of aloofness, maybe disdain, a certain distance at least.

We were sitting in the rear of a very latest-model, long-wheelbase car, at virtually opposite sides from each other - she, placing her back, half against the inside of her door, and with me edging away, leaning, up against my doorside.

She was visually similar to someone I knew, someone I didn't much like on one level. And I knew in the case of that particular person, the feeling of dislike was mutual. Physically, I'm sure the feelings were completely in reverse; mutually so. But intellectually, spiritually, in terms of what things we believed and the ways we thought, the differences could not have been more pronounced. The whole thing was unfortunately very incongruous. It may not have started out like that but over time it had gotten like that. I was a trained experienced lawyer, now working out of a sophisticated financial institution -- she, a nurse of Polish extraction who although second-generation in a modern Westernized country, still held views and ideals that were not very practical in the present place where we lived. It was all to do with a condo manager. She had tried to get me to help professionally over some matter to do with a condo manager. And I couldn't. ...As far as sex was concerned I didn't know what her views were.

But that was her -- this was only someone like her. A lot like her. Visually. Physically.

Only maybe better looking too, in a few subtle ways. There was something in the face that whilst still having that vigorously euro-peasant robustness, was suggestive of a far more sophisticated intelligence -- more akin to the metro-sexual and calculating visage of 'another city lawyer type' like me I guess.

Which is a dangerous look.

People will often tell you that it is important to be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Which is true enough as far as it goes, but it is far more important to be able to tell the difference between reality and supra-reality. You can be stuck in your life, stuck in a kind of rut, stuck in the flow of the daily rat-race -, or stuck in its inertia. That's real. Or you can observe the attractive lives of certain people and try and see what is going on there. It's all reality but some realities are better than others...

I learned my reality from a British gangsta rappa. Well actually he was Bajan living in England. I just came across him one evening in a nightclub during the middle of some week when there were not a lot of people around, and there he was opening Crystal champagne and raconteuring to all who would listen, in a sonorous voice and strange accent, and appearing to be having a great time surrounded by a small handful of people. I was -- pretty typically for me -- holed up in a banquette all by myself looking into distance with a Belgian Leffe Blonde beer in front of me. All of a sudden this voice pulled me out from the distance into which I had been focussing: "hey white man. Come over with us and 'av some fun man."

"Huh what?" And thus began a friendship and a saga.

But it was in fact a companion with a tall ponytail top-knot, who was sitting by his side who was the agent of my subsequent new, augmented lifestyle. All throughout the rappa's conversation ran this constant reference to his bedroom genies -- 'bedroom genie this, bedroom genie that,' until I eventually had to ask him to explain to a dummy like me what was all this biz about 'bedroom genies.'

Turned out he was employing a colourful and visually quite apposite analogy to communicate what services the female next to him was providing him -- according to what he was saying, it appeared she was some kind of professional dating psychologist who specialised in motivational hypnotherapy for rapstars and other wealthy high-life stylers -- or that is, to be more accurate, who helped such people get game. 'Get game,' in case you didn't know (not that you necessarily don't), is a phrase that means to enable oneself to become exceptionally attractive and score very highly (establish a high game score) in seducing potential sex partners. 'So-and-so got game...' As they say.

Actually, the way in which the woman I soon ended up talking to then, was presenting all these 'motivational' ideas seemed to have a really quite tongue-in-cheek slant, or perhaps a modernised twist to real motivational psychology... She was coming across as if she might be actually claiming to be a genie, as it were. An actual genie, that is, as in -- not a human, someone who could turn into a scorching smokeless flame and speed off through space and time, grow massively tall or infinitesimally small, disappear, and reappear, or produce money and gold and jewels from out of thin air. I had to take more than a second look at her. She certainly seemed to have that strange looking face and upward pitched almond eyes and strange oriental-looking long straight eyebrows. But I guessed it was a kind of an act. Or maybe I was just breathing in too much of the 'fine white particulate matter' that can tend to float around in the atmosphere of this kind of place. For why was I even thinking like this?! Feeling slightly strange like this...

She came into the nightclub every now and again -- mostly midweek but occasionally I would spy her there on weekends, across the dancing crowd, in amongst the faces, flitting in and out of the light beams and the dark shadows and the spinning colours. I suppose foolishly or at least adventurously I had asked once about not just 'having game' but getting into a relationship with someone who would provide the absolute best orgasmic sex. "Easy. Easy." She said. It was easy apparently. And had something to do with accessing the collective unconscious and allowing yourself to move patterns around in synchronicity with your sex drives.

I didn't understand it, really.

Don't worry, she said. I will just make it happen. And she pulls out an iPhone 5 and posts a message onto some board or other: 'guy in black Caballero vest, with dynamic magnetic personality, looking for a bedroom genie, must be able to deserve Ah Ah Ah Armani, forty five minutes outside Kandy Klub.'

And about forty minutes later as I was leaving the club, this big dark car pulls up beside me and the passenger window comes down and this woman calls out: "Hey you. You in the Caballero jacket."

It took me a few moments to realise that this was one hell of a good-looking woman talking to me. And there was this sudden frisson of doubt because of the similarity of looks with the girl who detested me.

"Get in," she said. And opened the door. I stood there I guess a bit non-plussed for a second. "Do you want to get in?" She asked quite softly.

"Okay." I replied. I guess it's easier for a guy. You kind of doubt that you are being dragged away to some basement by a serial killer if a woman in a brand new Jaguar XJ Ultimate dressed in a dusty pink silk halter-neck topped, short dress with tassels, and pale natural chamois almost knee-high fuck-me-like-you-hate-that-I'm-rich boots, asks you to get in...

She shifted across to the other side of the rear passenger seats manouevring across the centre tunnel consol during which movement I couldn't help but notice her firm solid thighs and muscley butt with the dusty pink silk tightening across her ass cheeks.

There was a light scent of rose geranium and a strong scent of womanly musk and underarm acridity. Maybe she'd also just come from out of some hot and thronging dance club. "It's not as complicated as you might be thinking, you know. We employ Suhaila to check out guys for us. She found out that you are rich, for example... Work high up in the world; pretty much in your own private bank. And you are packing some heavy equipment down there, Tiger. Aren't you." She reached across over the consol and patted the front of my pants with an easy lift of her eyebrows.

"I could be some nasty serial killer though." I offered, like a sick fuck -- which is pretty much what the whole world of men is like; sick fucks, that is.

"I don't think so," she laughed devastatingly condescendingly. She slowly, insouciantly, lifted a knee and crossed her legs, her strong solid thighs showing all the more with her tasselled silk dress riding up a little. I noticed she seemed to be a little more taut than the average woman, with slightly curved muscles in her upper arms and obviously strong sinewy forearms. To make matters worse she had short-ish pageboy-cut honey-blonde coloured hair that accentuated a certain male-like quality. I couldn't help but flick in my mind back briefly to the woman who detested me. It was all becoming a cocktail here.

She slowly reached out a hand towards the neck of my vest, and touched the enclosed high collar with a neatly french-nail manicured hand. "Caballero, eh? Expensive. Makes you a colt not a tiger, though. And colts... ...must tang." She felt the material of the vest and lightly moved her fingertips across the high tech nylon surface. There was a little chrome zipper tag right up at the top there, and she flicked it with a nail. I could hardly move. She was overpowering in so many ways. I am by no means some weakling myself - in fact I'm very athletic, but that's not the point is it?

Right under my nose I could see the large Tsarvorite stone glowing green in her cocktail ring which she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. Behind the stone I was deliberately focussing on I was aware of the creamy tops of her exposed thighs, and the possibility of a glimpse down, down, down there in between her thighs at the nexus underneath...

She was also wearing a thin gold bracelet around her wrist and gold stud earrings in her petite gamine ears. And a small gold cross on a thin chain around her neck.

She lowered her hand and arm and reached forward into the magazine pocket at the seat back of the leather chair in front of her. Slowly and casually she extracted a gleaming nickel metal chain and leather hand loop.

Noticing where I was really looking she stopped suddenly. It was almost with unimportant casualness the way she was observing me - noticing where I was looking. She looked directly at me and uncrossed her legs. "I can do better than that..." She raised the leather hand loop up to right under my nose. "Do you know where this has been?" She asked. "I shoved it up myself the other day when I thought of all the pretty ponies I could train. I can smell myself on it. Here. Try." She pushed it forward real close to my nostrils. I just smelled the same polished leather that was all over the interior of the car.

I was realizing, but very slowly, that this was a whole lot more self-confident an individual than the average sort of woman. And it was starting to be more than just a little daunting to me. I looked into her face. She was a very good-looking woman and you just don't get bad people who do bad things, and yet who look this good. It wasn't really the riskiness of it all that was getting to me I don't believe -- it was the doubt over what her sexual expectations might have been. It's not so easy to just give over, give in to someone else's needs as the main focus. Even for pussy, to get some pussy, how far would you have to go to accommodate them; the other person... Especially someone you really didn't know, but certainly could guess was fairly assertive, to say the least.

"What's your name?" I tried to manage asserting something of myself in there at least.

"Ella. You're a little nervous aren't you?" She said, lowering her head and then looking rather serious for a second.

It was such a shame that these days crazy evil people had destroyed the idiom of collaring; there were far too many examples of abductions where all kinds of restraints had been used, usually on women, often just young girls, and the worst of all possible endings had occurred. This was not that kind of situation at all, that was obvious, but to me nowadays it was still as if sacred things had been trampled on, by stuff that had come out in the media to do with the demonic and the criminal, not the kinky; and because of which some of the standard idioms of stylish high sex were now compromised in my mind.

Ella was looking intently at me and considering something. "How can I make you feel safe?" She said at last. "Because if I clip this to your zipper-tab up on your collar I want you to feel safe about it, not frightened by it.

"I tell you what," she offered. "I do want you... to feel safe... with me."

She leaned over to my ear and whispered very quietly: "So I'm going to take my panties off for you, and give them to you... How's that sound?"

I shot a look at the back of the driver's head, and noticed that the driver was wearing very expensive frameless day-night sunglasses with mp3 ear-bud attachments, and looking straight ahead. And probably couldn't hear a thing that was being said anyway.

Deftly and rather elegantly, she lifted one buttock cheek after the other and managed to squirm her black lace g-string off with one hand under her skirt, and slowly and carefully work them down her legs over the soft leather boots without getting anything snagged. As she lifted the black g-string up towards my mouth and nose I could definitely sense the salt seaspray odour of her pussy coming off warm lace. She pushed the panties into my mouth with her manicured hands and in one quick following move she had clipped her long slim metal chain endpiece onto the zipper-tab of my jacket which was high up on my zipped-up collar.

"There you are." She said with a note of satisfaction in her voice. "Now let's go home shall we."

*

She had me fastened onto the bed footrail with the chain. It was all very spurious and I was clearly meant to voluntarily not try to fight. She was coaxing and cajoling and prefacing every move she made with a polite question as to whether I would permit what she wanted. There seemed little or no reason to object.

Presently she unclipped me from the little chain and turned me around by pushing my shoulders and rotating my body around. Slowly she lay back and opened her legs to my facing mouth and pushed the back of my head down hard against her hot wet cunt. The smell of her cunt which had been in my nostrils since virtually the first moment I got in the car now exploded in my mouth and in my mind. Her honey-blonde haired pussy was sloppy and open and I licked down there dutifully and diligently. She smelled and tasted of raw bamboo shoot (urine), wood mushrooms (musk), and oysters (the sea). Every now and then I snuck a look up at her face which seemed just as sneering and condescending as before and betraying hardly the slightest hint that she was receiving much pleasure from it all. Only self-satisfaction maybe.

While I was eating her out I couldn't help but think how muscly her buttocks were. And every now and then she squeezed her thighs together around my head and I struggled to breathe for a few moments.

Afterwards, I was really quite stunned at what a nice normal ordinary lady Ella actually was -- she laughed without condescension at all and smiled and talked very normally and made decent alcoholic drinks and opened an expensive jar of blue and gold Petrossian. She sent me home eventually with her personal card in my wallet.

*

I was just about to step out of my shower when through the misted-up glass pane appeared a burgundy-wrapped silouette in front of me, out in the middle of the lounge, and ten foot past the opened bathroom door. I stuck my head around the shower screen and saw Suhaila, attired from head to foot in a burgundy silk and gold edged pants suit, tight around the ass and breasts.

"Did I leave the door open?" I enquired lamely.

Next thing I knew she disappeared -- as in literally turned into nothing in front of my eyes.

I grabbed a towel and came out of the bathroom, naked and still dripping, and went into the lounge. Staring into the empty room into the space where she had just been standing, I began to wipe away the droplets on my arms and legs, around my genitals, across my chest...

And then she re-appeared.

"Oka-a-y..." I said. Well there was not much else to say, was there.

And then suddenly next, although her clothes were still there, underneath them her skin kind of vanished, leaving a complex pattern of fizzing, glittering arteries and vessel -- a network filled with electrons or something similar, rather than blood. And then I realised something: the rhythms and patterns of flow of electron-like energies were far too highly regulated to be like something -- even something mysteriously, organic - like a human; but more like a machine. Everything seemed to move around in a way that was much more reminiscent of a very complicated railway network of signals and energy, than an organic ebbing and flowing, or pulsing and radiating, the way that the blood circulatory system of a human might be understood to act.

So this was a machine; Suhaila was a machine. A machine made out of neutrinos or something fundamentally quantum-mechanised as it were and very advanced too, no doubt, but a machine all the same.

And then she was visible once again as a 'normal' person... Skin on.

"I hang around creative people," she said, as if suddenly guessing she had to explain herself. "Artists. Musicians. Writers. That type of thing..."

"And we get three wishes -- if? If we do what? In exchange for what?" I asked.

"Ah no. Not three wishes. Any amount of wishes. I'm just like you, you know. An intelligent being. Same as you. Although... Yes, we have the power to arrange and re-arrange - time, space, matter, energy -- and to know many things. And yes we can get inside almost anything we interact with and know it profoundly from the inside out. Except though not the human brain." Her voice trailed off and quietened then as if she was speaking to herself. "So that is not quite so easy... But of course then it's so very interesting, too... Isn't it? I hope you see your importance here..." Her voice picked up again.

"Well I do, I do." I said, with my mind of course straightaway going to the interesting prospect of getting to fuck just about anyone I wanted to - more or less.

Clearly such things as genies existed... They were not quite like as was understood by the ancient minds; indeed a modern scientific mind possessing the very latest knowledge about quantum mechanics would have a far better idea comprehending things as to what they were, technically - and how they indeed might exist. But otherwise, they were more or less like the traditional depictions. They could endow one with overwhelming power against one's unsuspecting fellow human being... Was that a good thing?

Would you really just want to always take something -- that is to say, like in this case: sex, for instance -- from another person, I asked myself, and all the time do something like simply wipe their memory of it and leave the whole thing as a cold mechanical, one-sided and emotionless exercise of a highly manipulative and selfishly elite supernatural power? Or would you desire a genuine dynamic to be going on, of at least a certain kind... And would you perhaps circumscribe your own behaviour then; frame the whole thing in actual relationships, with storylines or narratives going on virtually, of how things transpired with each given potential partner - or would you even term it: 'target' or -- maybe more accurately, 'victim...?' Was that more possibly the right word -- 'victim?' But then could it not also be the case though that there were some women too with the same, if rare, power, that I appeared to have negotiated for myself from this supernal quantum-mechanised automaton? And how would I feel were it to have been me who was the one being supernaturally manipulated by someone else?