Rise and Shine (Hungover and Surprised)

You stare at your pants, neatly folded on a chair you don't recognize. But it’s not the pants that hold your attention. It’s the small, chaotic pile of fabric next to them. You lean closer, your head pounding. They are panties. Not one pair, but several. You recognize the faded floral pattern on a large pair of briefs that must be Jacklynn’s. There’s a plain, white cotton pair you instinctively know are Donna’s, the kind a good Christian girl would wear. A skimpy, worn-out thong that smells faintly of cigarettes could only be Michelle’s. And a pair of bright pink boyshorts with a cartoon cat on them—Julia’s.

Your blood runs cold. A vision flashes, sharp and cruel. It wasn't just a dream of being with your father. He wouldn't have been at the bar. Then the room comes into focus. The peeling poster on the wall, the faint smell of stale air and unwashed laundry. This isn't some random room. This is your room. In your parents' house .

The realization hits you like a physical blow: you didn't stumble somewhere random. CJ must have brought you home. Here. To the source of it all. And if you were here, that means… they were here too.

You close your eyes, and the memories—or are they wishes?—rush back in, now grounded in the geography of your own home.

You imagine CJ dragging your limp body through the front door, a triumphant smirk on his face. He’s not just an observer anymore; he’s a director, fixing the scene just like he wanted to in the mansion. He leads the others from the bar—Jed, Michelle, Julia, Donna, Jacklynn, Tran—into the quiet suburban house like a conquering army. You see a flash of your mother, her face a mask of shock, before William steps out from the guest room, looking intrigued.

“Time for a real test,” you imagine CJ saying, echoing the very words from the mansion.

Another vision cuts in, clearer and more horrifying. Your father, woken by the noise, coming downstairs. You see CJ cornering him, whispering the same humiliating things he whispered to you at the bar—about the daddy doll, about the mirror, about Rosa... You see the confusion on your father’s face turn to a pale, slack-jawed horror. Then you imagine CJ leading him upstairs and forcing him into one of your mother’s nightgowns, a scene pulled directly from your deepest fantasies of transforming him. You see him downstairs again, a twisted version of the doll you couldn't bring yourself to create, his hairy chest showing through the cheap lace as William orders him to serve drinks to the bar patrons.

Then, the panties. The scene shifts, and you are the center of it all, just as you always craved. You’re sitting on your own bed, dazed and pliable from the ****. You imagine CJ directing the women of the bar to approach you, one by one. “Show him you elect him,” CJ commands, and the words feel stolen directly from your secret thoughts.

You see Donna step forward first, her face a mixture of fear and a strange, narcotic excitement. She slowly reaches under her skirt and removes her panties, laying them at your feet like an offering. Julia follows, her goofy smile gone, replaced by a vacant look as she adds hers to the pile. Michelle, Jacklynn, Tran—they all do the same. They are creating a throne for their new sex goddess, anointing you with the proof of their submission, and you are too high to do anything but watch as your most private desires are made real and perverse in your childhood bedroom.

You open your eyes. The room is quiet now. Your ass still aches, a phantom pain that connects to visions of your father, of Jed, of William. The pile of panties sits there, irrefutable. You don't know what was real and what was a ****-fueled dream.

You come downstairs, and the world is offensively normal. The smell of coffee and bacon hangs in the air, a scent so mundane it feels like a personal attack. Your mother is at the stove, humming a tune from a morning show that’s droning on the small kitchen TV. Your father sits at the table, hidden behind the wall of the newspaper, making a soft grunting sound as he turns a page. William, your mother’s “old friend,” is there too, sipping orange juice and smiling at you in a way that feels far too familiar.

Your ass still aches with a deep, phantom throb. You can feel the ghost of the lacy bra against your skin, a phantom itch between your shoulder blades. You look for signs. A flinch from your father as he reaches for the salt, a knowing smirk from William, a flicker of disgust or pity in your mother’s eyes. There is nothing.

“Morning,” your mother says, her back still to you. “Sleep well?”

The question is a blade. You mumble something noncommittal. As you sit, your father lowers his paper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. You remember a vision of his cock between your legs, of him calling you his slut wife. His face is a blank mask. He nods once, a gesture of pure, unremarkable habit, and then the paper goes back up. William winks at you over his glass, and you remember the vision of you and your father on your knees, your tongues meeting around his cock. The silence at the table is louder than any accusation. They know. They have to know. But they have all agreed to act as if it was just another night.

By afternoon, the suffocating normalcy of the house drives you out. You practically crawl back to the bar, a dog returning to the scene of its own beating. The afternoon light is gray and forgiving, but the faces inside are not. They’re all there—Julia, Michelle, Jacklynn, Jed—all nursing drinks and talking shit like yesterday never ended.

You slide onto a stool and try to catch Julia’s eye. She sees you, and her usual goofy smile seems a little too bright, a little too practiced.

“Hey,” you say, your voice cracking. “About last night…”

“Last night was wild!” she says, already wiping down the counter. “You were the life of the party.” She laughs, a sound that doesn't reach her eyes, and moves on to another customer.

You turn to Jed and Michelle. Jed just gives you a greasy, knowing grin. “Dude, you were on another level,” he says, then turns back to his conversation. Michelle just lets out her high, cackling laugh, a sound that feels like a judgment. No one will meet your gaze for more than a second. No one has anything bad to say. They just keep calling it a "wild night," a shared joke that you’re not allowed to understand. The uncertainty is worse than any confirmation.

Then you see him, walking out the door. CJ.

You push off the stool and follow him into the parking lot. He’s already unlocking his car, that same expensive jacket making him look like he belongs to a different, cleaner world.

“CJ, wait,” you call out, grabbing his arm.

He turns, his expression one of pure, condescending boredom. “What now?”

“You have to tell me,” you plead, your voice raw. “What the fuck happened last night? What did you do to me?”

He pulls his arm away, brushing off his sleeve as if your touch contaminated it. “Why would I tell you? It was a party. You had fun. That’s all you need to know.” His eyes glitter with the satisfaction of a director who has successfully broken his lead actor. “Besides,” he adds with a shrug, “it’s better if you don’t remember all the details. Trust me.”

He gets in his car, the engine purring to life. You stand there, defeated, the shame and confusion churning in your gut. He rolls down the window, a final smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his tone casual, like he’s just remembered something trivial. “Almost forgot. Rosa met some old guy. They’re getting married.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You remember your jealousy of Old Man Alex, your fantasies of older men, and the core of your failure with her.

CJ watches your face crumble, and his smirk widens. “If you wanna meet him,” he says, putting the car in reverse, “they’re at the mansion”.

he engine of CJ’s car is a low, predatory hum, the world outside blurring into an impressionist smear of streetlights and dread. You’re trapped, your mind still reeling from his words—Rosa… getting married… at the mansion. The destination hangs in the air like a threat.

He drives with one hand, casual and controlled. With the other, he picks up his phone from the center console. He doesn't look at you, just taps the screen a few times before holding it up.

“Almost forgot,” CJ says, his voice smooth. “You owe me something.”

On the screen is a photo. It’s a close-up, slightly blurry, of a pair of panties held against a dark background. You recognize them instantly. The bright pink boyshorts with a faded cartoon cat on the hip. Julia’s. One of the pairs you found in a heap at your feet when you woke up from the blackout.

“What?” you manage, your throat tight. “Those are Julia’s. They were at my house.”

A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. “Are you sure about that?” He swipes the screen. Now it’s a video, and it fills the car with your own face—slack-jawed, pupils blown wide, a stupid, **** grin plastered on your lips. You’re in your own bedroom. In the video, you’re holding up the exact same pink boyshorts.

Your own voice, thick and slurred, echoes in the confined space. “Okay… here’s the bet,” you say, swaying slightly. “These… these are yours, CJ. You were wearin’ ‘em. And if I’m too fucked up… if I don’t remember tomorrow that these specific ones were yours… I’ll suck your cock. I promise.”

The video cuts off. The world is just the sound of tires on asphalt. You have no memory of this. None. It’s a black hole, a piece of your life that belongs to him now.

“A bet’s a bet,” CJ says, putting the phone down. He’s enjoying this. He isn’t just collecting a debt; he’s directing the scene, just like he wanted to in the mansion.

Your mind races, trying to connect this to the fantasies you wrote, the ones where he wore a red teddy and had a massive black cock. Is this it? Is he making it real?

He glances over at you, his smirk widening as he unbuttons his expensive jeans with one hand, still steering with the other. As the fabric parts, your breath catches. You expect to see your fantasy made real.

But what he reveals is something else entirely. It’s not a red teddy. He’s wearing a different pair of panties from the pile you woke up with—a skimpy, worn-out thong that could only be Michelle’s . The sight is a brutal shock. This isn’t your fantasy; it’s proof that the chaos of the blackout was real, a chaotic swapping of clothes and bodies that you have no memory of. He has curated your humiliation from the pieces of that night, and now he’s presenting you with the bill.

With a sudden, sharp turn, he pulls the car onto the gravel shoulder of the deserted road. The engine cuts out, leaving a ringing silence. He turns in his seat to face you, the thong stark against his pale skin, his own cock already half-hard beneath the thin fabric. His face is a mask of triumphant control.

He reaches over, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling you across the center console toward him.

“Open your mouth like a good girl”.