On Saturday morning Heather opened her eyes slowly. She felt ill. She'd had hangovers before, but she hated them, and this was by far the worst she'd ever experienced. For long moments she lay without contemplating movement, just content to try draw her thoughts together. She realised quite soon, though, that she couldn't remember most of the night. She must have been plastered beyond belief.
A chill settled in her stomach, aggravating her nausea. She was in her own bed at least, even if she had no idea how she'd got there. Some good Samaritan must have taken care of her. Yvonne, perhaps.
As the Dean's daughter, it would be an enormous embarrassment if she had been placed in a compromising situation. Her parents had often warned her of the implications of inappropriate behaviour – it would compromise the college, and by implication his job. Thank heaven her parents were away: they would be all over her if they saw her like this. She hoped, prayed, that she hadn't done anything stupid.
Something about the sound of the birds, the angle of degree of light in the room, made her realise it was late morning. She would have to get up at some point, even if her nausea was overwhelming her. A shower would help her feel less grubby. She pulled off her blankets and turned hesitantly to rise, sitting with her palms down on the bed for long moments of recovery.
She stood up and walked across the floor to the mirror. She looked awful. Her green eyes were puffy and red, her skin bloated, her blonde hair tousled on her head, her shoulders slumped. Her mouth was parched, and when she opened it, her tongue was carpeted with a white, textured layer. She teetered on the brink of being ill.
Her summer dress was dishevelled. As she wandered slowly into the bathroom she unzipped it and let it fall to the floor to lie in a heap. She turned on the shower, closed the door and reached behind her to unclip her brassiere. As it fell away she glanced down to watch it slide off her arms, and a chill settled in her stomach.
The inside of each bra cup had a red circle of lipstick. She let the bra fall and raised her breasts: each nipple had been clearly painted with the same bright red shade. She closed her eyes, filled with a sense of intangible doom.
Then, wanting to get into the shower to wash the lipstick off herself, she reached down and drew her panties off; but she felt a shock as the same red tinge appeared in two areas of the fabric. Reaching down to explore, she confirmed her fear: her pussy lips and her anus had been smeared as well. Her hands were shaking, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. Who had done this? She would never have done this to herself! Who had seen her like this?
She clambered into the shower, as if she could wash away the events along with the lipstick, feverishly soaping herself down; but as the import of it all sank in, she slowly slid down to sit on the floor of the shower, knees open, head down, thinking: What have I done? What have I done?
The rest of the weekend was terrible: nausea kept on returning throughout Saturday and she still felt wasted on Sunday. She washed her underwear, determined that all traces would be removed before her parents return; and when they wandered in early on the Sunday evening, she managed to pretend convincingly that it had been an uneventful weekend. She was dreading Monday: somebody in the halls of the college would be watching her, remembering the events of Friday night; and she didn't know who.
When Monday dawned she wanted to feign sickness, but realising the inevitability of her situation she came downstairs, ate breakfast, climbed into the car alongside her father. Walking down the college corridors she felt naked – every greeting seemed to have undertones. Her cheeks were flushed with a shame that she couldn't express.
And yet as the day passed slowly without incident. Nobody made reference to the party, and by mid afternoon she began to wonder whether anyone would mention it at all. Perhaps it was all behind her. She relaxed enough to enjoy some humour with friends over a Coke. And then, reaching into her bag almost at the end of the day, she found a videotape and a note that she had not put there. The note was addressed to her, printed off an anonymous computer.
It read: You make a great actress Heather. I look forward to filming you again sometime. Don't let anyone see the tape. We'd hate it to become public. Wouldn't we?
She had to sit down to contain the nausea, but when her father arrived to take her home she feigned nonchalance. She had to watch the tape, but she felt afraid to do so. She sat through a quiet supper, and then retired to her room, explaining that she wanted to study. The door had barely closed behind her when she pressed the tape into the recorder, started it running and watched with a mounting horror.
At no time in the tape could she see the faces of any of her protagonists. She also could not recognise any of the voices aside from her own: although there were at least three boys present they all seemed much younger than her. She wondered whether they were even old enough to have intercourse at one stage, and their youth seemed to add to the humiliation.
From the beginning of the tape it was clear that she was hopelessly drunk. She was sitting on a bed in a room she didn't recognise, with muted party music in the distance. As she spoke she roared with laughter, moved with extravagant gestures, flopped back occasionally. She was drinking all the time. The camera focused only on her, but the voices of the boys could be heard quite clearly above the thump of the remote drumbeat.
She took a drink of something, when a voice came from her left.
Voice 1: You're really beautiful, Heather. Way too gorgeous to be the Dean's daughter
Heather (laughing): Thank you. I think so too
Voice 2: It must be a real drag though
Heather: What?
Voice 2: You can't have any fun
Heather: I can have fun! I have lots of fun!
Voice 3: But you can't ever be naughty, can you?
At this point she fell back onto the bed, sighing and laughing, then sat up to talk again.
Heather: I can be naughty if I want!
Voice 1: I'm sure you can.
