Your alarm gives you just a few hours sleep before waking you for an important school test

A horrible screeching blasts your eardrums, rousing you from dreams of cock after cock plowing into you, stretching you to the limit before pumping gallons of goo into your well-used holes. You can't decide if it's an erotic dream or a nightmare.

Reluctantly you surface, the dream so real that you taste the cum in your mouth, feel the ferocious pain in your pussy and ass.

"Oh fuck!" you blurt, jerking upright, staring at the row of windows your bed faces as you realize it wasn't as much a dream as it was a replay.

The screeching continues until you blearily realize that it's your alarm going off, signalling another school day.

"Oh Godddd..." you groan, wanting to fling yourself back into bed, but knowing that you wouldn't be able to fall asleep. It doesn't help that you have a huge test today - one that you were supposed to be studying for yesterday. Or that every inch of you throbs with bruises, hickeys, scratches from dirty untrimmed fingernails, and - in the case of your pussy and asshole - feel like a log had been lodging in them leaving splinters in it's wake.

"Ow ow ow," you grunt, leaning over to shut off your alarm. "Stupid test," you groan, gritting your teeth as you slide out of bed on three hours of sleep.

On first try your legs actually buckle and you wind up on your knees with your legs spread-wide, facing the wall-to-ceiling panes of glass and the tenement building next door. Not that you haven't seen it every day as you get up, along with all the other ones lining the street. Jacob put your bed in the odd position of facing the corner of the room where the two glass-paned walls met. You didn't understand the appeal. It couldn't have been for the endless view of low brick tenement buildings it faced, could it?

Maybe it was to segregate the 'bedroom' from the rest of the room, but then why was the dresser against the inner brick wall? For that matter he'd put everything against the solid walls with nothing in front of the windows, leaving the apartment bathed in light all day. Unfortunately, while the streetlights outside were constantly broken there seemed to be some sort of aircraft warning lights (or something) lighting the roof, meaning your apartment was full of light at night too, leaving your bed in a veritable spotlight. At least you never had to turn on the lights to find your way to get a glass of water or find your robe so you could go to the washroom.

"Oh God, washroom," you groan, struggling to your feet until you glance again at the clock and freeze.

"That... that's not right..." you say in a voice made raspy voice by your late-night activities. "I... I set that to seven, not eight! Oh God, I'm going to be late for the test!"

Grimacing as you move you shuffle around the room, throwing things into your school bag before going to the sink. You don't have time for the thorough washing you need so you have to settle for putting quickly splashing your face and using a wet towel to gingerly pat yourself between your legs and down your thighs.

"Clothes," you direct yourself, and stare at your options. Simply looking at anything tight makes you wince, and much as you want to protect your tender parts with underwear you can't bear the thought of any of them. They're all too tight for your sensitive state, and most of your clothes make you wince at the thought of them rasping across your bruises.

Unable to bear the thought of anything tight or heavy you opt for the most comfortable. This means a light pleated miniskirt of the lightest fabric and an off-the-shoulders cropped tee with a message you don't stop to read. It's on the old side and stretched out, making it slide off both shoulders, but being frayed by age makes it both soft and light against your sore chest. The shoes come down to whatever's at hand that doesn't clash too horribly with the already somewhat eclectic outfit. Meaning three inch heels since you can never seem to find the running shoes or slippers you thought you'd brought with you from home.

With no more time you grab your schoolbag, groan, then drop it again, deciding to just take your little purse with you.

"This is gonna be close," you mutter, trying not to wince with every bowlegged stride as you exit the apartment.