She escapes right into the cameramen, giving the quite the show as she gets out.

Amanda stared at him, and licked her lip, feeling the swelling of bruised lips. "More?" she asked the air, and realized dimly that if she didn't leave now she'd probably spend the night here doing the same thing for every guy at the party.

Thinking of the party brought a vague feeling of shame to Amanda, but she was too out of it from the potent **** and **** to really think about what everyone must be thinking.

Still clutching her breasts like they were life preservers in a tumultuous sea she stumbled toward the glass doors leading to the patio.

Two cameramen scrambled up in a panic as the door flung open and the barely clad teen stepped out, stopping almost on top of them. The two men stared up at the girl, who stared down at them and their cameras. For a long moment no one said a thing.

"Where's the parking lot?" she finally asked, to their astonishment.

One of them pointed over his shoulder to the clearly visible line of cars behind him. The other asked, "What's your name?"

"Amanda Fox," she said as if commenting on the weather.

"What's your number?" the other asked as she stepped toward the railing of the patio.

Amanda rattled off her cell number, and lifted one tired leg. With her hands still clutching her chest, which was a little disappointing to the cameramen, she hopped up onto the tall iron rail, gasping as her weight sank down on the embedded dildo, shoving it deeper into her. For a long moment she teetered, moaning, looking to the cameramen like she was going to orgasm again.

Finally she toppled over to the side. Without her hands to help and with the one-foot drop on the other side she fell onto her chest, gasping as it drove her fingers deeper still into her amply abused breasts.

After a long moment she rolled over, and it finally occurred to her to release the two mammaries. The thought was easier made than done, and slowly she pried the fingers look as the cameras watched.

"Where do you live?" one asked, and she rattled off her address, fingers and then nails reluctantly leaving her bosom as if they'd been fused into the claw-like form they'd taken.

A cameraman whistled at the deep bruises and red marks that had blossomed across her breasts. "You really like it rough, don't you?" he asked, and she nodded.

"The rougher the better," she lied, struggling to her feet and remembering to tug down her top and skirt as she staggered drunkenly toward the fanciest cars, the name 'Ross' her mantra.