Guys like me don’t land girls like Annika by chance. It's not the natural order. Divine intervention? Fate? Karma? Blind luck? Pick your crutch. The fact is, it happened.

And it changed my life.

I tap out a vertical line of coke, ending an inch above her slippery clit, snort and chase the high by burying my tongue in her bald pussy as she clutches my nape. She arches against me, clamps her thighs and begs for more, thrashing when I deliver, my chin dripping silky nectar.

Crawling up for a breathless kiss steeped in fiery arousal, she licks the powder residue from my nose and I plunge into her squelching depths. Pinning her to the four-poster by her throat, she groans approval, body rippling with each thrust as we gallop towards chemically-enhanced nirvana.

Her eyes glaze over. I lose myself in her pleasure, dimly aware of commotion outside, the front door splintering its hinges, an army of boots swarming in. I don't even Freeze! at the command, pulsing inside her as she ripples around me, mewling. The cold gun barrel registers and a slow smile spreads.

I knew she was trouble the day after I met her.

By then, it was already too late.

………

Woodstock, 1969. I heard about this three-day festival of music and peace through a colleague at the auto dealership we worked. It'd be fair to call Dave a hippie. Self-identified. The kind of bushy-haired guy that ended every other sentence with, man. Said he was going for Jefferson Airplane, man. I preferred Buddy Holly, but he wasn't on the bill. Man.

Dave scrubbed up okay in a suit. He was arguably the better salesman, where I had the better business head, always looking for the next big thing. That’s what I discovered at Woodstock: opportunity. And Annika was the catalyst.

I eventually caved to Dave's pestering to accompany him to the event. Being caught in miles-long tailbacks wasn’t the start I’d hoped, so we abandoned his baby-sick coloured BMW 2002 and hiked instead, along with many other festival-seekers.

The six-string slung on his back earned a few giggles and comments from groups of flower-haired girls who thought he might have been one of the performers.

One whispered to her friend, “Bet he can’t even play.” Dave swung it to his front, and launched into a rendition of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl, encouraging me and the girls, and a few random passers-by, to sing along to the Sha La La’s.

Introductions made, we carried on towards the venue. Bonnie’s classic all-American waves cascading over her sleeveless top contrasted Annika’s more European onyx-haired complexion. With a thin white T-shirt and no bra, I noticed.

An hour later we still didn’t seem to be any closer. Dave hopped onto the trunk of a slow-moving car and placated its owner by detuning his guitar a step and playing Yesterday. Bonnie jumped up alongside him and we joined in the song as we ambled alongside. Lennon and McCartney we ain’t, but it didn’t seem to matter.

By the time we reached the dairy farm and threaded our way through thickening crowds towards the stage, it felt like we’d known each other years. Annika didn’t seem to have a plan. Waitressed for cash. Hung out with her friends. Attended anti-war rallies including the Loyalty Day March the year before. Smoked pot. She embodied something I’d mostly only seen in the news; this spirit not to conform. The spaced-out counter-culture that we stepped over, all long hair and lofty ideals.

Christsakes, a month earlier we’d put men on the moon, yet it didn’t seem to matter to any of those descending into a fog of delirious stupefaction around us. It was fascinating. Eye-opening. Where Dave told everyone he was a hippie, yet held down a job and paid taxes, Annika showed it. Lived it. Smoked her cares away, a leaf tumbling through the turbulent jetstreams of life. It was admirable.

The crowd multiplied, exceeding the expected capacity. Heads and bodies stretched to the hillside and beyond. Hundreds of thousands of people swayed and whooped and cheered as Richie Havens opened the event. Even the clouds rolling in bringing light rain didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits, nor the growing stench of marijuana. Dave turned his guitar over, using it as a makeshift umbrella, then abandoned the idea and just got soaked like everyone else.

Bands came and went as night approached. Joan Baez rounded the day in what can only be described as a deluge. We all fell asleep in a tangle of limbs under useless, sodden sleeping bags and blankets. My mind whirred in listless rest.

I awoke, gritty and hungry. Provisions were scarce. Sliding out from Annika's arm draped across my chest caused her to stir. I stood and gazed down as she rolled onto her back, light drizzle pattering firm nipples beneath her drenched, muddy top. She held out her hand and I tugged her up, wordlessly meandering through the sea of gradually waking bodies.

The queue for hot dogs took almost an hour. We debated buying food for Bonnie and Dave but figured we probably wouldn't be able to find them again. We chatted. Learned more. Her father didn't approve of her slacker lifestyle, which only seemed to make her more determined to shun the nine-to-five existence he'd carved as a partner accountant.

I'd never had hot dogs and mustard for breakfast, but we inhaled them like the last supper. I'd never fingered a girl behind a hot dog stand either, but she dragged me there, kissing and groping under damp fabric.

I was hard in an instant, slamming her against the back of the van, mouths connecting in a torrid kiss. She stroked my cock through my trousers and I snaked hands under her T-shirt, sliding to cup and squeeze her tits.

Hoisting the top to her neckline, I kissed my way to the perky pebbles that capped her freckled flesh. Sucked as she sighed, onlookers inconsequential. Seems we fuelled a few horny romps around us, a waif-like girl freeing her guy's prick and straddling him. He pawed her chest, flaxen waves cascading as she bounced, ogling my hand sliding into Annika's panties beneath her miniskirt.

She was soaked, and not only from the rain. I curled my fingers inside her tempestuous heat, crushing her hips to the side of the van as she clutched and clawed at my clothes. Her clit slid against my palm, gasps in my ear as she froze, cumming hard.

When we separated, she held my gaze and reached into her homemade, tie-dye satchel, producing two thumbnail squares of colourful blotter paper. Offered me one. I shook my head. She popped one under her tongue and repeated the offer. "Sure? It's like nothing on Earth." She stepped in and stroked my chest, whispering, "I'll treat you to a mind-altering blowjob."

I faltered. Eyed her.

Fuck it.

I reached for the tab and took it.

At first, nothing. Zip.

Then the world bloomed, kaleidoscopic colours exploding. Everything slowed, her lips working my hardness. She engulfed me as I anchored myself against the stand, encouraging her to take more with each swoop of her mouth.

She did.

Shapes swam. People, or shellfish, or giraffes, approached. Knelt and kissed her nape as she sucked. Releasing me, time stretched. Someone backed against the stand alongside me. I patted across the metal. Found his hand and gripped as Annika took turns blowing us both.

Then he was gone. Laid in the mud beneath her and she rode him while her mouth plunged my throbbing shaft. She hummed and slobbered as rainbow dolphins somersaulted past the drizzling clouds.

Hands scrabbled at my top. My own, maybe. And someone else's. A feminine scent. I tousled oaky locks as she sucked and bit my nipples. Seeking her centre, my fingers found home and we bucked and ground beneath the bubbling sea until I tensed and groaned in Annika's mouth, starting a chain reaction.

My cum slashed her lips and cheeks, slicing through the air like pockets of hot lightning. The girl's pussy pulsed around my invading fingertips. The guy pinched and slapped Annika's nipples, the pair of them noisily climaxing as more creatures descended Noah's Ark and watched, cocks in hands, pussies stuffed with fingers. We were all one. A heaving web of exploratory desire.

By the time Annika and I stumbled away through the mud pit, hand-in-hand, spunk was drizzling down her inner thighs and I reeked of hot cunt. Bands restarted and we gazed, swayed, drifted until the planet solidified.

Along with an idea. Clarity. A plan to fuel the needs of thousands of pleasure-seeking hippies.

I watched them. Honed in on a sunglasses-wearing guy with close-cropped hair. A dealer. Followed him to his scrawny-looking supplier. Introduced myself and Annika as investors. Forget wallowing in the small time. Go big or go home, right?

For her part, Annika played along. Whether it was the thrill or simply for the hell of trying something new, she role-played alongside the biggest sell of my career. Using wide-eyed charm and then her skilful mouth, she sucked a partnership deal out of him. Poor guy never stood a chance.

I left the festival a changed man. Leased a lock-up, further upstate, close to the railroad and a private airstrip. Set up a new distribution channel, filling the gap left by Owsley Stanley's arrest a few years before.

Trafficking LSD wasn't highly lucrative, but volume helped. I brought Dave into the organisation and we both quit the auto industry to focus on working for ourselves. We became the preferred distributor for some of the top brands. Attracted the attention of a few Colombians who wanted to expand their trade routes into the Northeast.

The risks quadrupled. But so did the profits.

Annika and I married. Tripped together. Worked hard and partied harder, while developing innovative ways to transport, cut and distribute powder. Dave sought new markets, and vetted new suppliers to slot into the chain. It was beautiful. Symbiotic.

The heat was always on us, but we kept our distance; plausible deniability each time I was arrested, and walked. They kept tabs on us. Heavy surveillance. Staying ahead of the Feds became the game, and we were fucking good at it.

My weakness? Cocaine. Snorting it from Annika's delicate skin and fucking her into oblivion was the sweetest rush. Freeing. We did it between courses at Nico's off-Broadway. The minx whispered she had no panties on, teasing my hardness with her stockinged foot under the table.

Knife and fork had barely settled on empty plates before she dragged me to the bathroom, yanked her top off and I did a line from her cleavage. I spun her and fucked the life from her as she fogged the mirror, stifling cries they must have still heard in the dining room, before returning to our seats for the finest New York cheesecake.

She was trouble alright. But I couldn't get enough.

………

The Feds at least allow me the dignity of putting on sweatpants and a T-shirt after they haul me free of Annika's dripping cunt, cuff me and read me my rights.

She lies there, spread-eagled, cum trickling from her—another act of defiance—as they bundle me downstairs and into a cruiser for the journey across town.

Except they turn away from the city. Head north.

Butterflies churn: this is new.

We pull up outside the kind of building that looks as if it should only exist in the rain. Interrogation rooms, perhaps.

As they march me up the steps into an unknown future, I force myself to remain calm. My operation’s clean. Compartmentalized. I hope. I'd beaten the rap before and I'll do it again, whatever heat they apply.

And when they ultimately turn me loose, I trust Annika will still be there, building our empire. The girl that started it all. My business associate. Wife. Fucktoy.

My unafraid, free spirit.