The next morning when I woke up… I woke up with a c**k in my p***y.
Haha. Gotcha. I didn’t.
What I did wake up with was a throbbing in my head so bad it felt like someone had played football with my skull all night. And nausea. Like full-body, gut-twisting, f**k-why-am-I-alive nausea. My mouth was dry. My skin was clammy. My n*****s were sensitive. And my stomach was doing this slow-motion tumble like I’d swallowed acid and shame at the same time.
I groaned, pressing my palm against my forehead like that would stop the spinning. “What the f**k is happening to my body?”
I didn’t sound cute. I sounded like death warmed up in a microwave.
I blinked and looked around the room slowly—trying to piece everything back together. The sheets were twisted. My thighs were sticky. My p***y was sore
