Hungover, Sore, and Full of Regrets

Lois Lane woke like a cat. She did not awake in some gradual process of wakefulness, but came to consciousness all at once without any outward sign to show it. Eyes still closed, she took stock of her situation.

Her pelvis hurt. Pussy ached and burned. Deep inside of her, Lois could feel that weird itch that she had only experienced when a condom broke, when there was something deep inside of her cunny that hadn't oozed out. Worse, she could feel the wet dribble ooze out of her labia. Taste the thick, sour flavor of booze and strange spit in her mouth. The reporter's head began to pound, slowly and insistently, and her stomach lurched in sudden revolt.

Which is when the reporter's brain informed her of a more immediate issue.

Her arm was pinned to the bed.

The reporter let her left eye open a sliver. Next to her on the narrow bed was another woman. Small naked breasts slid to either side of her breastbone, and the puffy pink nipples quivered with each soft snore. The great black mane of her lover's hair hid the face, but the reporter's memories of the night were all too sharp. A name swam into the forefront of Lois Lane's brain.

Angelica Blaze.

Lois Lane's eye drifted down the long, lean, narrow body...and yes, there splayed across Angelica's thigh was the thick, long cock that the reporter remembered had **** her to orgasm after orgasm last night. The purple-pink tip was soft now, the one-eyed trouser snake quiescent like some great, fat, utterly sated slug.

Great Caesar's ghost, Lois Lane thought. I can't believe I let her shove that in me. I can't believe I let her cum in me. I need coffee...a morning after pill...a functioning toilet...

Color flooded the reporter's cheeks as she remembered the people that had seen her last night.

Fucking in public! What was I thinking!? Lois remonstrated to herself...but of course she knew that she hadn't been thinking. Months of effective celibacy and the loosened inhibitions of **** had led to a series of stupid decisions. Smarter women than Lois Lane had made similar mistakes, though that was cold comfort when the reporter's pussy felt as if it had gotten ten rounds with the heavyweight champion of the world, and her future either involved the uncomfortable contractions of a morning-after pill or the surgical intervention of an abortion.

Carefully, very carefully, Lois tried to extract her arm from beneath the sleeping dickgirl.