Once in a Lifetime

I'm just a normal girl.

I know that there's no such thing as '

bimboification'

- the act of turning someone into an over-bloated, hyper-sexualised, mentally-stupefied sexaholic - of course. That just makes sense.

Similarly, I know that there's no such thing as brainwashing - no such state where a person can be so totally mentally drained as to feel as if they have no thoughts at all, no desire to consider or wonder or i, just enough mental capacity to feel aroused and reach for the next boob, pussy or cock.

And of course, I know that there's no such thing as sex slaves - at least, not in any socially accepted, non-illegal way, of course. I know that people

choose

to have a night of fun, or seek

consensually non-consensual

couplings, or just like to be really, really submissive in the bedroom... But these things never all came together to create the ultimate mindless, hyper-sexualised, sex-enslaved slut. Right?

But...

If

those things weren't real... Then, that meant that my Saturday night carried memories--and, more undeniably,

pictures in my phone

--that bore no sane explanation what-so-ever.

I remembered it as well as one could when they had already begun the night teetering into drunkenness. My friends and I had gotten together at Jane's place to do what girls did best - drink, talk about boys, watch cheesy romance shows and 90's rom-coms and pretend we weren't all just a little bit considering dashing into the bathroom to masturbate. I think Jane might have even done it - she had said she'd gone for a shit, but I'd seen Jane take less time to shit than most of the men I'd dated, and when she came back, she'd flopped down on the couch, sighing and smiling, looking all spent and red-faced. Ah, I couldn't blame her; Joey

was

'finger-licking good', especially on

Friends,

and I knew that was what a young DiCaprio did to a girl.

Amelia said it was the alcohol, and to her credit, we'd collectively polished off a bottle of wine we'd started last month

and

cracked into the spirits, but I'd known Jane since high school, and I'd seen how she looked after she'd rubbed one off many times before. Still, we were in front of newer company, and although Amelia was tight, she'd never made it as far as the 'showing your girlfriends your titties' base before (whichever base that is) let alone the masturbating-around-each-other base.

But I digress. An hour later, our romance movie and romcom shows quota filled for the month and our drink well and truly on, we'd packed into a taxi and hit the town, just in time for the sun to slip beneath Mother Earth's skirt for a little night-time fun and for us to break into the first club in what was sure to be another lengthy crawl.

I remember spots of lucidity after that. At one point, I ground my ass into someone wearing sequins while KE$HA played--

party don't start,

indeed, given the way I was trying to work anything underneath that monstrosity of a piece of clothing into me--and at another, I did shots across a table with a man who I

remember

looking exactly like Arnie (from his Terminator days, naturally.)

There was one point in the evening where I remember pushing out of the ladies' room, my sweaty panties freshly squashed uncomfortably back up vaguely where they ought to be, and my hands neither dried nor soaped, thanks to the lack of working soap dispensers and hand driers, to return to our table, finding Jane and Amelia resting atop their elbows, staring into the sticky tabletop. Flopping myself down and using the last of Amelia's half-finished vodka lemonade to sanitise my hands, I just sighed, feeling as tired as they did.

'Man.' Amelia said.

'Men.' Jane echoed incorrectly.

'Fuuuck.' I groaned, completing our sorry game of

Telephone

.

'I'd take a good fuck.' Jane said. Amelia nodded vaguely. I wasn't sure if she was agreeing to the need to be fucked--by some unknown male figure or other--or agreeing to fuck Jane. In our state, I wouldn't have put gay stuff past them - I was deep enough into the night myself to have some

severely

blurred lines.

'I would-I could,' Amelia said, stammering slowly through her vodka-thoughts, 'I'd do a good fuck. Like--I'd like...

Like

a good fucking. Man, you know? I haven't had one since...' She trailed off, seemingly realising she still had a sip left in her glass. She tipped it back, not noticing or caring that it was the glass I'd washed my hands with earlier, and frowned when only a few drops reached her tongue. 'I haven't had-

hic

-one since last--last year.'

'Oh shut up,' I said, genuinely, enunciating in the way that inebriated people do when they feel they need to communicate something important, 'you're literally gorgor-gorgeous. Men would be fucking over to fall you.'

(I of course meant 'falling over to fuck you'.)

But Amelia was right. As we sat at who knew what pub, at who knew what hour of the night, with who knew how many drinks sailing our stomachs, we sobered up over tales of our woeful love lives.

It was more than Amelia and I had shared before, without a doubt. I'd known Amelia about two years, Jane far longer, since high school. She was a good friend, shared our humour and love for the same drinks and soppy romances, but she was still far newer than Jane and I, who went back over a decade, back to when we'd given each other tampons and shouted at mean boys when they teased us in the yard. As I said earlier, Jane and I helped each other through the best and worst parts of boyfriends, shared the same tiny studio apartment, had to turn ABBA up to drown out the sound of sex in the bedroom on the other side of the wall, hot-swapped in the shower to maximise the value we got out of our eight minute hot water budget, taken each other to job interviews--and picked each other up after getting fired from said jobs--and shared more nights out like this one than we could count. We'd seen each other naked, helped check for

those

kind of warts and bugs, done the pharmacy walk-of-shame for condoms, pills pads and pregnancy checks, and on one special occasion, broken a wrist bone punching a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend moments before someone's body count gained a very unwanted "R" word in it.

Amelia's last boyfriend had lasted almost a year, and it had ended as so many boyfriends in so many B-grade TV procedurals did; coming home from work early to find him clapping ass with a blonde that looked like she'd just turned eighteen on all fours, with a sliver of Amelia's side-of-the-bed sheets clenched between her teeth and her little fakey nipples dribbling on her mattress.

It had been a shame, Amelia said to us as she wiggled her shot glass around her finger on the table, because he'd not only been great for sex, he'd also been her first. Yes, despite or protestations, Amelia had been a virgin until she was twenty-seven years old, and she'd lost it to a boy who knew all the right things to say and do - all while he texted other women for nudes while she was asleep.

Following on from Amelia's story, Jane launched into one I knew well - the boy before her last, who, as she told it, had been oh so perfect for her - until he did exactly what I'd told her he'd do: blamed her for a dozen innocuous things he'd never communicated once to her prior, called her a sociopathic slut, tore out in a fit of rage, and then come crawling back into her bed a week later to apologise, fuck her brains out, "forget" the condom, and then call it her fault because she'd stopped taking birth control. I could almost finish the story for her, word for word.

'And then, a month later, he writes me this massive apology text, pours his heart out, tells me he's changed, that he's seen a therapist, that he knows he has attitude problems, but that he needs a gentle rock like me in his life to keep him sane. Two nights later, he slips it in after getting me drunk watching fucking Sex in the City and has the audacity to shush me while he finishes--

shush

me!--and when I tell him to get out, he says I'm only attractive when I'm asleep, because I "can't run my mouth" and my "fat sags out of the way".'

Of course, after my friends had shared their horror stories, I had to go next. Jane knew what I'd choose before I did, and of course she was right: the Highschool Home Run.

Comparatively, my story was pretty simple. I'd met Tom in high school and we'd kept seeing each other afterwards. Things were going strong, until the day he and I were fooling about at his place. He'd had this great bedroom, spacious and comfortable, surrounded by football shit and posters of sexy girls and strong male role-­models, which I felt made him feel romantically 'safe' and 'normal' - plus, I liked looking up at Taylor Swift alongside Jean-Claude Van Damme while he tried to unclasp my bra. He'd just kissed me down to my neck and run his big, rough hands up my back, and was trying--rather unsuccessfully--to free the girls from their holsters, when his phone, abandoned on the bed beside us, had lit up.

Curious despite my growing heat, I'd reached out for it, and it was in my hand before he'd been able to rip his out of my shirt.

Message from: Hannah (wink emoji, pointing-right emoji, OK-hand emoji)

Hey babe, are you interested tonight?

As I stared at the notification, my nipples inverting further with each word I read, a second message came in, appearing beneath the first.

That red set you bought me came - and so did I ;)

Image

The phone didn't display the picture "Hannah" had sent, just a word representing it's presence, but for all I knew, it could have been a picture of Tom in a tutu, performing "Baa, baa, little black sheep" on the high school cafeteria tables for all I cared. Before I knew I was doing it, I pushed him off me, slapped him, screamed something woefully timid at him, and stormed out, bra still on (though he'd managed to get one hook free in all that time, and I think by mistake.)

That night, I checked his Facebook. He'd updated his cover photo to one of him at a club, one arm around the waist of a blonde girl that certainly wasn't me. The next morning, tearstained makeup still on my unwashed face, I checked my phone to see a text from Jane, who, unlike me, still had him as a friend on Snapchat. She'd screenshotted something he'd inadvertently sent to all his contacts, resulting in her getting blocked - not that she cared.

There Tom was, winking, throwing up a peace sign, half covered in his bedsheets, his toned chest exposed, while half a face and head of blonde hair filled the side of the frame that corresponded to the space beside him in the bed. She was half-smiling, half-tongue-poking, all cute and coy, and she'd managed to take the shot so that everyone could tell she was dressed only in his bedsheets, arm tucked underneath her little slutty titties which were just plumped up enough to illustrate their shape beneath it. The caption was in two parts, and read:

"Fell out with Olivia lol - Hannah came and made me feel all better tho ;)".

The night pushed on. After we talked some more, sharing progressively more personal stories, Jane took us to her favourite bar, and we danced some more. After that, we found some quiet sleeper on the edge of town, and sobered up a bit over about eight plates of garlic bread and three rounds of tacos. Amelia threw up in the trash, and I'm pretty sure Jane pulled a camper girl squat outside.

Hawt,

girl.

By the time we ended up at our final destination, we were all just about ready to call it quits.

Thundering bass vibrated so powerfully I could feel it in my pussy, like a wireless vibrator for my edges. There was a pair of massive tits in my face, but I didn't have the brainpower to question whose they were. As I watched, the black dress that clung desperately to them in a vein struggle to maintain their modesty was pulled free by two bodiless hands, and then my nose disappeared between them. She smelled like sweat and spices, her odour the scent of woman tinged with something that reminded me of hot food. When I licked it from her cleavage, I felt the bassline redouble itself, sending me an unintentional reward straight to my labia. My soft moan was lost between her flesh as it pressed into my cheeks, but I didn't care; I licked until I could taste nothing but my saliva, and then I licked some more. Her boobs were hot around my head, and they drowned out the world like I was underwater, making me feel soothed and safe.

Somewhere to my left, Jane was with me, of course. Though I couldn't see her through the thronging dance floor--or the pair of tits glued to my face--I knew she was with me. At that moment, Jane's orange skirt was being pulled, used as a handle to lift her bodily closer to a man whose erection bulged powerfully against his shorts like a sheathed carry handle. Jane's skirt tore a little as she was hoisted back a foot, but the stiffness that pressed against her black panties drove any care she might have had from her mind, and she bent herself even lower, grinding herself against the object so hard it left a damp spot on his clothes. A few minutes later, someone had taken the man-shaft out of it's hiding place, allowing him to press it against her, rubbing his upper edge along her shape, mimicking intercourse. One of them came, though whether it was him from the sex-like rubbing or Jane from the combined touch and vibrations of the dance floor, neither would find out.

Something

dribbled onto the sticky floor between the pair, and Jane would have to hope she remembered to get a pregnancy test the next day - and the pill.

Minutes, hours, or perhaps seconds later, I followed a swaying blue booty up the stairs, pulled hand-in-hand with her. Beside me, a red-headed woman, who had somehow lost all her clothes on the way up here, bounced--quite vigorously, given her generous curves--along with us. Half a flight behind me, I could hear Jane's voice, giggling and wordless. Amelia was somewhere up ahead, having been the first one to leave the floor. Last I had seen, Amelia's backside was wiggling beneath a high-hitched skirt, and I hadn't made out any panties.

I gasped as the bed rushed up to meet my back, confused as to why the room was turning around me, rather than the other way around. Dizzy, drunk--and though I didn't know it, as high as a kite on the pills I'd willingly accepted from the cute girl inside the door when we'd come in--I allowed gravity to do all the work for me, taking my weight and letting my legs fall half-open, limply. A moment later, gravity thought better of it, and he spread them even further, cupping his hands under my knees and hitching them apart to gain better access. Gravity was a strong bloke, apparently.

I moaned as I felt him, or her, or

it

, or whatever creature it was that had led me up to this room, move above me. I could still feel the throb of my pulse between my legs, strummed up to peak intensity after being buzzed and vibrated and rubbed wet on the dancefloor. My sweat-stained skin yearned to be free of my restrictive clothing, and throughout it all, I felt

need,

a true, inexorable, all-consuming lust that I hadn't felt for months, perhaps years, filling me, almost overpowering all other thought.

Something hot and heavy settled just above me, two hands depressing the bed either side of my breasts, making me yearn to twist them towards it but not knowing whether I should turn to the left or the right. I squirmed, knowing that a cock or vagina or alien

fucking

probe hung just inches away, dripping in anticipation of plunging deep into my heated folds. I tried to arch myself, tried to present my opening to them, to show them just how prepared my little slut-cave was.

But nothing came. No sudden, penetrating length plundered me. No stiff mounds pressed against mine, no slithering green tongue buried itself so far down my throat it could clean out my colon. I was not penetrated, perforated, pashed or probed.

'This one's ready.' A feminine voice said just above me. Yes, I thought,

yes

- I

was

ready,

desperately

so. I didn't care if it was the fucking pope himself at this point, all I knew was that I needed to be

fucked

like no woman had ever been fucked in her life. I was ready to put Eve to shame; at a single word, I'd fuck, suck, stroke and bounce on anything and everything. I'd drink cum like a soda, I'd siphon up jizz like I was trying to get pregnant, I'd take so much anal I'd shit white for a week, and when it all became too much and I passed out or fucking died, I'd leave a note on my tits to keep on

goddamn fucking

until I turned to ash.

The weight over me lifted. Hands slipped under my arms, helping me to sit up. Something slipped beneath my shirt, which at this point was little more than a mal-formed tank top, and a few seconds later, I felt it loosen as it was cut from my body.

Ah, so we're doing kinky foreplay,

I thought as I felt my shirt fall from my chest.

I'm so here for it.

A few seconds later, sighing with pleasure, I felt my bra give way, and, gloriously, magnificently, the girls sprang free. I sighed - just in time to feel a slip of fabric brush over my nose and mouth.

If I had been any more with it, I'd have been concerned. I was being stripped naked, not by the rough hands of an erection with a man attached to it, but by someone with scissors. Whoever it was put a mask over my nose and mouth, making me look like a prostitute with the flu. Then, they'd continued to remove the remainder of my clothes, which at this point consisted in a pair of tights and panties that I'd managed to hook entirely off my pussy.

By the time I sat, naked at last, on that hotel bed, bearing only my pink mask, I had begun to float into the most complete subspace I'd ever felt. The universe swum around me as if I could see through the planet, and I felt weightless. I disconnected from all the individual parts of myself, strung out on precarious, winding cables. Things happened to a body that I barely recognised as my own, and I had forgotten everything that had happened so far. It was as if my frontal lobe had switched off, and I was suspended in only the present moment, which looked and felt like a glittering, sparkling, colour-filled universe, unaware or just uncaring about anything that had come immediately prior or that approached me next.

I, of course, had no idea that the mask around my nose and mouth was laced with more hallucinogenics and aphrodesiacs than a high-school post-prom after-party at the rich, laidback, ex-druggie kid's parent's holiday home... Not to mention something

more

.

'Your name is Candy Cane.'

I nodded--or I thought I did. I couldn't tell if nodding in the centre of the galaxy also resulted in my real body nodding, but I had no way to check, and I found that I simply

didn't care

.

'You are a stripper.'

This time, as the words were spoken, seemingly coming from all around me in the infinite nothingness inside my head, something appeared between my legs. Gasping--the sound of it reverberating emptily about me as if were sitting in a large cave--I suddenly felt my cunt, disembodied from me and yet more real and tender than ever it had been. The sensations came from somewhere vaguely where my crotch ought to be, and I moaned as they materialised into the feeling of a hand gently parting my folds.

God

I felt

good.

'You are a prostitute.'

The fingers reminded me how wet and needy I was. I could feel my walls parting from each other as I was pried open, glued together by my sticky arousal. Cold air seemed to scoop me out, and I inhaled in response, just in time for the cold air to be replaced by the hot, very real feeling of fingers pressing between my lips. I moaned in ecstasy, on edge long before this but suddenly and totally aware of it now.