Inspired by the painting “A Summer Day” (1927) by Gerda Wegener

Here I am, sprawled out on a blanket with my two lovers, having an afternoon picnic by the wild, untamed shores of this Scottish loch, its dark waters reflecting the afternoon light. Loch an Eilein, set amidst the ancient pines that tower like silent guardians around us, and the island in the middle of the loch where lie the ruins of a small 14th-century castle. The LSD is kicking in hard, and the water looks like it's breathing, rippling with secrets.

I, Lillian Fletcher, recline here in glorious nudity, my skin kissed by the crisp Highland breeze that teases my nipples to pert defiance. With me are my two lovers, Abigail and Dahlia, all of us English roses transplanted to this wild Scottish bank. We've shed our clothes like old skins, our bodies free under the vast sky. Our picnic basket is spilling over with strawberries, cheese, crackers, and a bottle of wine that tastes more like liquid stars right now. The air is cool on my skin, but inside, everything's on fire—colors swirling, thoughts expanding. We're diving deep today. Deep into the mystery of life. It’s the universe in motion, and I’m feeling super groovy.

"Oh god, Lillian, look at the loch," Dahlia points to the shimmering water. “It's like a giant... well, you know. It’s like a giant glass eye, and it’s looking right at us.”

I laugh, popping a strawberry into my mouth, the juice bursting onto my tongue. The world is tilting a bit, trees waving like they're in on the joke. "By god, Dahlia, you're right! I see it too! “The loch does indeed look like a gigantic eye watching us, and here we are, naked as the day we were born. Do you think the Loch is checking us out?”

We all burst into hilarious laughter.

Abigail, sitting cross-legged, giggles, her hand holding a wildflower, as she lazily traces circles on Dahlia's bare thigh. Dahlia’s got that dreamy look, eyes wide as saucers from the acid. Abigail presses the wildflower to Dahlia’s lips and twirls it around.

“Do you hear that?” Dahlia whispers, pushing the wildflower away.

“What?” I ask.

“The castle. It’s whispering.”

We listen.

At first, it’s only a breeze. Then we hear what sounds like someone reciting a poem in Gaelic. The acid heightens every sensation, turning the loch's glassy surface into a swirling kaleidoscope that mirrors the depths of our explorations. The walls of the castle on the island in the center of the loch appear to shimmer like they’re breathing. The grass prickles against my bare thighs, a thousand tiny tongues licking at my skin, but I don’t dare move. I feel as though I am rooted, immobile, as if I’ve merged with the grass that grows here. We’re all a constellation, a living rune, and if I shift even an inch, I’ll shatter the shape we’ve melted into. The acid has me wired to the marrow, every sensation dialed up to a scream, every thought a neon thread weaving through my skull. An indigo blue-colored dragonfly hovers over the picnic basket. It looks like a stained-glass flying crystal. Dahlia sits up and stares at the dragonfly, her perky, round breasts bouncing gently, their creamy fullness crowned by rosy nipples that pucker in the crisp air, drawing admiring glances from Abigail and me. The acid turns everything around us into a living painting; the pines' green hues swirl into emeralds, the dragonfly's bright colors dance over the picnic basket, and the castle's ruins pulse with ghostly auras.

"Oh, Dahlia, those breasts of yours are perfection—so firm and inviting, like ripe fruits begging to be savored," Abigail purrs, reaching out to cup one, her thumb circling the hardened peak. The LSD makes them seem to glow, auras of pink and gold dancing around the curves. “My breasts are heavier and more pendulous in comparison. They seem to sway with every breath I take. Feel the difference, Dahlia? Yours defy gravity, so buoyant and youthful, while mine speak of abundance, weighing down with sensual promise. Lillian, yours are somewhere in between—pert but soft.” I lean forward, my breasts brushing against Dahlia’s thigh as I trace the underside of hers, marveling at the smooth, taut skin. Abigail presses her fuller breasts against Dahlia’s perky ones, feeling the contrast in texture and firmness.

We are in a peculiar state of mind, for we have all partaken of the divine sacrament, a small bottle of liquid LSD-25, which unfurls the veils of perception, revealing the raw, pulsating truth of existence. The world, once mundane, now shimmers before us with an iridescent glow, each blade of grass a vibrant emerald, each drop of water a glistening sapphire. Our senses, heightened to an almost unbearable intensity, absorb every nuance. The gentle lapping of Loch an Eilein against the shore becomes a rhythmic symphony. Our bodies, liberated from the confining shrouds of cloth, entwine in casual caresses as we move closer to each other, knees parting in curious invitation. It's a moment of profound admiration—gazing upon each other's most intimate of places, taking in the secret gardens between our legs, and observing the lovely variations that make each one unique. The differences fascinate us—shapes, colors, textures—all amplified by the acid. Berries and wine lie scattered, forgotten as we lose ourselves in this shared discovery.

"Oh, darlings, spread wide and admire," Abigail suggests, her voice a husky murmur as she positions herself on her knees. With an almost deliberate elegance, her thighs splay open, revealing the intimate landscape between. Her vagina, framed by soft curls of dark hair, reveals her plump outer lips that resemble the delicate petals of a wild rose, a deeper hue of dusky pink underneath, with an inner labia that protrudes slightly, an exquisite asymmetrical curve, warm and inviting.

"Look at mine," Dahlia cheers, settling back on her heels, knees spread wide. The brown nest of soft curls frames her love mound like a portrait, her plump outer lips full and flushed, inner petals peeking through—slightly uneven, slick with arousal, catching what little light is filtering through the Highland mist. "See mine? It's bold, isn't it?”

“It looks like it's breathing,” Abigail giggles.

“How about yours, Lillian? Let’s see yours,” Dahlia urges.

I blush under the intensity of their gazes, but the acid dissolves any shyness, replacing it with wonder. I part my legs wider, exposing my own smoother beaver, with minimal hair, the outer lips forming a tidy slit that conceals the delicate, lighter pink inner petals until aroused. It's more compact, with a subtle hood over the clit that conceals the hidden gem underneath. The loch's breeze teases it, sending ripples of sensation that the acid turns into waves of color. "Mine's like a secret garden, all hidden. No man has ever pierced this hood!” I boast.

Dahlia laughs softly, lying back and drawing her knees up in the air, fully displaying herself. Her vagina is a vision of splendor. A fuller outer labia in a warm alabaster-beige tone, with longer, ruffled inner lips that extend beyond, wavy and textured like ocean waves, and a richer crimson flushing through as she shifts her weight. “Touch mine, both of you; feel the differences.” Dahlia commands. “Doesn't it make you think? Each vagina's unique existential signature—mine's chaotic and expansive, like this loch's wild depths, while yours, Abigail, is welcoming and enchanting, like that castle over there. Lillian, yours is like a secret treasure, waiting to be discovered.”

Abigail reaches out first, her fingers gently tracing Dahlia’s ruffled edges, marveling at the texture. "Mmm, so soft, like velvet waves. Yours feels smoother and more padded than mine. I can feel the difference!"

Dahlia guides Abigail’s hand to her moist opening, pressing Abigail’s fingers against the plump outer lips. "See? It's cushioned, almost protective, hiding the sensitivity beneath. But yours, Abigail, it looks so vulnerable. Lillian, join in—compare yours to ours. Your tidy slit is like a locked jewelry box, with all its potential waiting to be opened."

Dahlia turns to me. “Lillian, press your fingers into me.” I oblige, my digits plunging into Dahlia’s warm, welcoming void, her slickness coating my fingers. “Mmm…” Dahlia lets out a soft moan. I trace a finger along Dahlia’s plushness, where the sunlight dances upon her exposed folds like a lover's whisper—warm, yielding, the prominent inner pink adding a quirky charm—then moving to Abigail’s, where the extended labia feel like silken petals, responsive to the lightest touch. Finally, I touch my own for contrast, the compact lips feeling restrained yet brimming with potential. In this sublime haze, I behold our cunts not as mere vessels of carnal delight, but as the very essence of being—abysses that swallow the soul and bring forth pleasure.

We continue this intimate examination for what seems like an eternity, hands and eyes wandering in reverent curiosity. In this nude, trippy communion, admiration turns to profound connection, the differences not dividing but uniting us in the grand tapestry of creation.

The loch's waters ebb and flow nearby, as if envious of our intimacies.

"Abigail, join me. Let your tongue explore the depths of my existential chasm.”

Abigail chuckles, her mouth descending upon me with voracious hunger, her tongue a serpent uncoiling in my depths between my lap. Abigail, her face buried in my mound, lifts her head, her face slick with my juices.

“Does it not taste like eternity's sweet nectar?” I muse.

“Indeed,” Abigail replies. “Like ambrosia from the gods.”

Dahlia laughs, a high-pitched sound that echoes across the loch, her hand slipping between Abigail’s legs in a bold, unapologetic stroke. "Behold this sacred crevice," she declares, parting Abigail's nether lips with deliberate slowness, exposing the glistening pink to the open air. "It is no mere hole, no passive receptacle for man's fleeting rod. Nay, it is a vortex of creation and destruction.”

Abigail moves closer to Dahlia, her lips meeting Dahlia's in a kiss flavored with my arousal fluids, their tongues circling, exploring each other’s mouths with a sensual slowness. They break away, breathless.

Under the LSD's influence, I see fractal geometric shapes blooming from our clits. Our cunts are a maelstrom of psychedelic patterns expanding and contracting. Colors swirl around our pubes like auras of otherworldly radiance.

"Oh, my libertine sisters! Let us embrace fully now!” I declare as we form a chain of cunts and mouths, a daisy chain of absurd debauchery. We dissolve into a tangle of limbs and lips, the picnic forgotten amid grapes crushed under our heaving bodies. The Scottish loch bears witness to our gay revelry. We are not women, we are goddesses of the absurd, picnicking nude by this loch to proclaim that meaning resides not in the stars and planets, but in the slick folds between our thighs.

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