I'm seventeen years old. The leather couch beneath me feels like silk on my hot skin. I've got about six double-stacked blue dolphins in my system, and four bottles of water sloshing around in my stomach.

I'm electric.

I don't know how I got into this club. I don't even remember coming in. It feels like I've been in here for years. I don't even remember the name of it. It's got many levels, many rooms, and endless pounding music that all beat in time with my heart.

Or maybe my heart beats in time with the music.

Either way, my body is a languid playground.

There's a guy's lap underneath my head. He's ever-so-gently stroking my sweat-soaked hair, and with every sweep of his hand I moan.

God, I love drugs. It's like my body is made for them. I've tried to overdose, just out of curiosity, to see how much I can take. But it never happens. I always think I can't possibly get any higher, but I can and I do.

I am invincible.

This lounge we're in, there's no DJ, but there are speakers pumping the drum'n'bass from next door into our ears. It's too loud to carry on a conversation. But that's okay. Right now I could talk somebody's ears right off of their head, but at the very same time, I'm content to just lay here and be petted.

The people I came with have been lost for a while. I don't really care, they're rave buddies, we all just scatter and explore and do what we want. I might see them later, when we're stumbling outside, squinting against the morning sun.

But I don't want to think about that now. I'm riding the ocean of pleasure, that chemical heat that makes you feel like the most supple creature to ever live.

This is the kind of club that sells beer for a dollar, and bottles of water for ten.

The hand strokes my throat, and I tip my chin back to give him access. My eyes are closed—I don't think I could handle any visual at the moment. It would be overwhelming.

He slides his fingers over the little black corset top I'm wearing, and when his digits pass over my right nipple it's like an explosion racking my body.

I push against his lap, bending my head further back, so that I'm arched over his legs. He continues to just run his hands over me, and my skirt of feather boas parts as I bend my legs up to meet his hands. His right hand caresses my fishnet clad knee and I nearly come at the contact.

I might combust. His hands take over every texture on my body.

Feathers, lace, silk, skin, hair, lips.

I know he won't fuck me. Guys generally have erectile problems when they're hopped up on ecstasy, but that's fine. I understand. I just want to be touched.

I'd have no problems riding his face, either, but dudes generally suck at that. I don't bother them with it. Most guys just eat pussy to get it over with so they can get their dicks wet. If you ever find a guy that seriously enjoys eating pussy, do yourself a favour and chain yourself to him.

You'd think they'd enjoy it. I do. It's so soft, and tangy sweet, and when their legs shake and clench around my head... ahhh.

I'm practically writhing on this poor guy's lap. I open my eyes a fraction and his eyes are heavy with lust. You can tell he's wishing he could fuck the shit right out of me. But under my back I feel no bulge. Not even half wood.

Sorry, buddy.

I roll off of him and stand on gelatin legs. It takes about 2.5 seconds for the blood to rush back to my brain and then I'm zipping back to the dance floor in the room next door. Back to the squirming sweaty bodies doing exactly the same thing I was just doing, only on a larger scale.

I slide my way in front of a guy that moves like an elastic band. He slides one hand around my waist and the other through the feathers straight to my lace panties. I gasp.

He continues to dance with me, and discreetly pushes aside the thin soaked garment to easily slide two fingers into my slick heat.

I continue to ride the sweet waves of pleasure long into the morning.