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
