There was a certain pleasure in being this thoroughly screwed on alcohol:
1) Betty was having a great time hurling abuse at the television, cheerfully questioning the sexuality and endowment of every cute guy that popped into shot.
2) It made sense that she had a thick, long carrot rammed up her pussy and was licking her fingers clean of her own juices.
3) It appeared that Cool Ranch Doritos tasted better with a dash of Eau du Cunt applied by sticky fingers.
4 ) None of this, apart from a hangover and a weird tasting carrot, would come back and haunt her tomorrow. She'd passed "the-night-was-a-blur" drunk ages ago.
Her husband was away and she couldn't stop thinking about sex, sex and more sex. Was it too much to ask to get fucked occasionally? She was gorgeous, she'd married the high school hunk and all she wanted was sex and babies and then more sex. She could take the cooking and the parties and the family stuff... but dammit was it asking too much to just get fucked?! A lot?!
She choked back a sob. Her pussy was going to heal up, she just knew it.
There was a knock at the door and she cast around, pie-eyed, for what it might be. Eventually her fuddled glare caught up with an open leaflet for the local pizza place. Her eyes lit up as she cast around for the phone, finding it dead on the sofa, also covered in her juices.
She was very sad.
Then she remembered the door and wondered if they read her mind.
Betty groaned, the carrot in her cunt sliding in further as she scrambled to answer the front door. Her foot kicked over an empty bottle and she slurred something affirmative sounding as she staggered to her feet.
With a scream of triumphant effort she got into a shambling stumble and charged to the door, gripping the handle desperately as she rebounded with a clatter of timber and an "ooof!", her momentum opening the door after her.
She stood, outlined in the doorway, a hand proudly on her hip, the other pointing triumphantly at the delivery guy as she roared, "PIZZA!!" at him.
Not a him. A her.
It was the young woman who played the organ at church; big glasses, a long dark fringe nearly covering her eyes... big tits?! Big tits. Huh. Nerd girl was stacked. Kinda pretty.
She was wearing a stupid pizza place outfit that made her look like a mechanic. Obviously there wasn't much money in playing the organ.
"Erhbviously there ishn't mush money in playing th'organ!"
Had she said that? Or thought that.
Why was she cold?
"Gimme that!" she snapped, nostrils flaring as the sweet bouquet of pizza wafted to her and she seized the box off the young woman. The organist.
She shivered. She looked down as the cutie's hands flew to cover that uniformed crotch, those pretty brown eyes wide behind the glasses as they stared at Betty's crotch.
There was silence.
There was a thump as the juicy carrot thumped onto the floor between Betty's feet. THAT was why she was cold! She wasn't wearing any pyjamas. Or panties. Or anything.
"Move your hands."
Betty blinked. She had said that.
"I said 'move your hands'!"