So we all know that occasionally I like to get
smashed just-slightly inebriated and let the boys take advantage of me, right? And they like to do it too, and take full advantage of my insensible state, using and abusing and ass-fucking and pounding at me and into me until I pass out. Or maybe even after I am passed out. They could–and do–do anything to me, and I’ll do anything when I’m in that state. And the next day all I have are these flashes of the things they did to me, these vague memories…hazy and confusing and embarrassing…
I love being reduced to that state, that boneless piece of mindless meat that they just fuck and fuck and fuck. It is painfully, exquisitely humiliating. And so fucking hot I can generate orgasm after orgasm from just the memories of it for days after.
I love it.
But occasionally the next day I am reminded of, or told about, something that has happened, and I go, “Oh good lord nooooo! Tell me I didn’t–”
Sunday morning, after a night carousing at a bar (at which I got quite aggressively Toppy with a woman with whom I’ve been flirting with a bit) we went home and had wild, drunken, sloppy sex. Ass-sex by Ad (that’s when he likes to fuck my ass the most) and a relentless, punishing fucking by W, at least until we stopped so I could go lay on the bathroom floor trying not to be sick for awhile.
Wherein he turned into a sweet, thoughtful man, staying there curled up on the bathroom floor with me until I was able to stagger back into the bedroom At which point he promptly attacked me again. I only vaguely remember that part, actually, and I don’t remember
passing out falling asleep again at all.
What I do remember is waking up the next morning, sore between my legs, with a pounding headache and no memory of having gotten undressed, or where my clothes had come off.
Or whether I had taken care of a rather different issue.
Okay–here’s your TMI alert. Read no further if you get squicked easy by “female” stuff.
Standing at the foot of W’s bed, I suddenly realized that I had put in a tampon that evening before going out–but I had no recollection of having removed it.
“Oh my God,” I said, looking from one to the other. Had they fucked me with it in?? “You–I–” I couldn’t even articulate the thought. I just ran into the bathroom to fish it out, if I could, hoping to deal with it without them ever knowing (having no idea how they couldn’t know last night, but hoping they would leave me at least a shred of pride and not say anything when I came back.)
Yes, after all that he/they have done to me, I can still barely talk to them about my menstrual cycle. And if I hadn’t been drunken out of my head, I probably would have made some excuse to get out of sex in case it was messy, which I hate, rather than abandoning all dignity and respectability and letting them fuck me like an animal.
So, I ran in the bathroom and…fished. And fished. And…found nothing.
Whereupon I had to go back into the bedroom and ask about it.
Apparently it came out in the toilet before they ever started. Ad swears he saw it and flushed it. So I guess I have to believe him.
But gah–I don’t have to like it.