Sleep now and cocoon your mind in those dark corridors of the brain where thought is formed. Your lone respite from the callousness of the world. Here they can take nothing from you and nowhere else is this true. Pained sleeper. In time the engine of your ruin will run itself to the uttermost terminus of infamy. Here as they were in Babylon. In the broken towers of Gomorrah.
The bright light coming in from the window illuminated the insides of her eyelids. Melody blinked in delirium, looking around with a blurred gaze. She was in her apartment, laying on the couch. She appeared to be alone.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. A throbbing headache pulsed like the blows of small hammers behind her eyeballs. She felt like someone had sawed open the top of her head and filled it with sand. She looked down at herself. She was completely naked, save for the ankle-high black boots she'd been wearing the night before. For a moment she sat completely baffled at her situation, but when her brain finally sorted through the variety of aches and pains present throughout her body and focused on those emanating from her vagina, rectum, and throat, her memory of the previous night came flooding back in a quick, sickening wave.
Suddenly fighting the urge to vomit, she stood up and rushed to the toilet, scrambling awkwardly on the high heels of her boots, then dropped to her knees and unleashed a violent torrent of puke into the water, the foul acidic bile burning her nostrils as it came up. She wretched two, three times, each time letting a diminishing volume of her stomach's contents splash down. She flushed and rested her head on the seat of the toilet, too weak to get up. Her eyes watered.
Reluctantly, afraid of what she might find, she reached her fingers down to touch the angrily pulsing rim of her vagina. It burned to the touch, sending a jolt of stinging pain up through her nether regions. She snapped her hand away. She knew her asshole would be no better.
Six guys had fucked her last night. Six guys she didn't know the names of, or even remember the faces of really. Was it only six? She wasn't even sure. Guys who had seen her at the bar and known who she really was...and everything that identity entailed.
Her face suddenly became hot and she felt panic rising up in her, and she leaned back over the toilet and vomited heartily again. Whether from last night's alcohol or from sheer anxiety this time, she didn't know.
She spat into the toilet, flushed again and leaned back heavily against the wall. She felt like she wanted to sob, but she couldn't. She just sat there, feeling empty. She pulled off the ridiculous solitary boots and then looked down at her naked body. She had a few mysterious red splotches and other subtle discolorations here and there on her skin. She didn't even remember everything that had happened clearly, but she knew they had been rough with her. So rough. Patches of dried semen coated her body, too, in various places, most of it on her labia and around her groin and asscheeks, but plenty over her chest and face. She gingerly placed another finger in the entrance of her vagina, then slowly pushed it all the way in. She withdrew it and rubbed her thumb against it, feeling the clearish, oily substance her vagina had been incubating for the last several hours.
So they'd cum in her. And not used condoms. Of course they hadn't. She was Melody Ainsley after all, everyone's personal nasty whore, as far as they were concerned. Her body was shaking slightly. Just when she'd thought she might be clean, six new strange dicks plundered her vulnerable pussy. Now she would have to go all through the terror again of possibly giving Kevin a disease.
Kevin.
Panic surged through her again. God, what if he found out? She couldn't lose him, couldn't have him find out about this. She prayed that this was just an isolated incident, that it wouldn't recur or spiral into something worse. It had to be isolated, right? She'd gone so long with nothing. She'd thought she'd escaped it.
She sighed and braved another peek down between her legs. There was a tiny microfissure on her perineum, a hair-thin line of blood. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. What a wreck. Her hair was a wild, tangled mane, matted in places with what must be cum. Her makeup smeared and garbled all across her face, her mascara splayed up and down from her eyes in long, translucent black streaks, or tear tracks. She bent over slightly, pulling her buttcheeks apart toward the mirror. She looked back over her shoulder. Her rectum looked red and somewhat beat up, too. She'd have to avoid having sex with Kevin for a few days. He couldn't know.
She showered, reliving the now familiar experience of trying to wash away a filth that just could not be gotten down to.
When she got out she saw that there was a notification on her phone where it sat on her coffee table. Her heart dropped. She slowly picked it up and turned the screen on.
Someone had sent her a picture of herself, with blonde hair, obviously taken last night. She was on her knees on the ground looking up at the camera, her uncertain eyes red with bloodshot. Her mouth was open and filled with cum.
He'd sent others, too. All from the same number. Pictures from last night, one of her on her knees, her face surrounded by a circle or dicks, various pictures of her with dicks in her pussy or ass, some with her looking at the camera while a cock was shoved deep in her throat, one with her being double penetrated.
"Your secret's still safe with me, babe," the accompanying text read. "Just keep up your end of the deal and your boyfriend never finds out."
She shut off her phone and threw it down on the couch, then she sank down next to it and began to cry in frustration.
