Chris Johnson [Johnson - Pornopsychedelica

PORNOPSYCHEDELICA

by

Chris Johnson

A Wild Wolf Publication

Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2018

Copyright 2018 Chris Johnson

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Cover by Southern Stiles Design

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Katalyst Part One

Party Popper

From her exercise mat, Tomoko Iwamoto glanced at the digital clock and realised that it was time to get ready. She exhaled slowly, bringing her mind back from the depths of meditation to the gloom that seeped into the corners of the apartment and the Japanese pop that trilled from the radio. She stretched forward to touch her toes.

A wall lamp threw light over her naked body and the clothes lying on the bed. The silk panties were first. They'd like those, same as they'd like the bra, low cut to show the deep swell of her cleavage. The stockings were hold-ups, blue. Tomoko rolled the stocking over her foot, pulling it gently over her calf to the top of her thigh. She went to the mirror on the wardrobe door and tied a red bow around her waist, adjusted the bra slightly, then reached to the corner of the bed for the holster rig that would hold the guns.

Two old Steyr Mpi69 submachine guns, loaded with thirty-two round magazines. She cocked one by pulling on the sling at the forward end, lowered the weapon into the rig and did the same for the other. The metal felt cool against her skin, a hardness that moved back and forth across her thighs as she walked. She picked up two extra magazines, attaching them to the harness. Over the lingerie she wore a grey overcoat.

She added red lip-gloss.

The tap of Tomoko's heels on the sidewalk never missed a beat.

She cruised at a steady pace down Jalan Yap Kwan Seng, hands deep in the pockets of the overcoat. Tomoko always liked down-town Kuala Lumpur at midnight, when the streets buzzed with activity. The city made her feel like she was back in Japan, in Tokyo's Roppongi district, busy with hustlers, the smell of food bubbling in the pots of street-side cooks, neon screens glaring above.

A guy in a silver suit made his way toward her, grinning until she gave him the stare, the one that said don't come any closer. He was probably an American, one with a well-practised technique to keep his ego intact, waving his arms and smiling.

' Sayang, aku cinta pada mu ,' a drunk said to her. He followed her for a few steps before staggering into a cleaning mech.

Tomoko said, ' Sorry bang, you tak mampu .' You can't afford me.

Corporate towers had emptied weary salarymen onto the streets, ties loosened, thirsty for alcohol and whatever soothing effects mama-san could offer, the proprietrix keeping them happy with conversation and dirty jokes. Street hustlers sold sex, or tried to buy it, flashing virtual pop-screens for clubs and fetish dens in men's faces, following them if they showed the remotest sign of interest. Some had cowboy hats, pushing pussy like it was some kind of life-changing product. Here the hustlers were mostly American, for no more reason than the ones in Roppongi were mostly Nigerians.

The sign post for Jalan Pinang appeared behind the Big Boy donut stand and Tomoko crossed the street. A boy sitting on a scooter with spots and green hair flashed his tongue at her. His T-shirt said Pig Farm Whores across the front. He shouted something as she passed him.

She reached Peter Yang's apartment block, colonial white.

The guard behind the security desk looked like a ghoul from the static light of monitors, raised his chin sharply in her direction.

' Cik nak jumpa siapa? ' he asked in Malay.

' Nani ga? ' Japanese.

He drew an impatient breath, spoke in slow English. 'Who are you here to see?'

She opened the overcoat, wrapping the material around the guns so he couldn't see them.

'Entertainment,' she said.

The guard just stared.

The glowing numbers in the elevator climbed to twenty-one.

The guests from Peter Yang's party had spilled out onto the foyer, to the green marble floors bordered by blue walls and the tall columns with the gold frieze around the top. The place smelled of alcohol and roses.

A woman approached Tomoko, carrying a single champagne flute on a silver tray. Tomoko accepted it, raising the glass to her lips for a light sip. They managed to exchange smiles before Giselle arrived, Peter Yang's secretary, a blonde with too much make-up and self-importance.

'You're late,' said Giselle. 'Mr. Yang is waiting for you.'

Two security guards escorted her down a short corridor. She loosened the belt on the overcoat, walking at her own pace.

Yang's collection of artefacts lined the walls. A Mesopotamian stele and a tall Sueki pot, no doubt acquired illegally from the Shs-in treasury in Nara. There was a jade pendant in a glass case, further along, a jade horse and a matching warrior. She knew the Chinese believed jade had a connection with immortality, and she wondered about Yang's interest in keeping dead things alive. She'd studied archaeology and history at Hiroshima University and learned that the past often had more life than the present.

Tomoko reached a chrome balcony and looked down over the fifty or so guests, singing Happy Birthday in a mix of Mandarin and English. They laughed and cheered, swaying to a dreamscape of alcohol and narcotics. She made her way down the steps, the security still following.

Yang had paintings on the walls by long-dead artists, a giant TV screen relaying images of the guests and the couples having sex on chaise lounges in the middle of the floor. Hired performers, just like Tomoko. She saw Peter surrounded by a group of his guests, hanging on his every word. His wife didn't look in Tomoko's direction but Tomoko sensed that she wanted to. Peter had his arm around her waist until he spotted Tomoko, then he lit the cigar he held in his mouth, blowing a line of blue smoke.

He'd called his wife Kameko. She stood next to a hanging scroll by Lu Zhi. Rugged peaks thrusting from a winding valley dominated a small house, half-visible behind trees and bamboo. Kameko seemed so fragile, like Lu Zhi's ancient colours.

Tomoko stood facing Peter and his wife.

She'd stopped at the guy with tattoos down his arms, sat on one of the sofas with a blonde squatting over him with her back to him, riding his cock. She had small, perky breasts and was looking straight at Tomoko, her lip curled, teeth bared in a moment that seemed to catch her breath. Tomoko smiled, and the woman didn't seem to know how to respond. The guy suddenly groaned and lifted her up, jerking his cock and shooting a sticky line of cum onto her belly, pale spots marking her thighs.

The man got up and made a bow, body slick with sweat, drawing a palm across his forehead before picking up his robe. The girl did a little shimmy and the applause increased.