At home, with a bandage above your ass

When you wake up it's with a pounding head-ache along with an all-too familiar ache between your legs that tells you that you got lucky last night. Rather than pushing yourself into action you stay as you are, trying to remember what happened.

Obviously you drank. That would explain the headache. And you have a dim recollection of orgasms and men, so you definitely got fucked. You're just not sure by how many, or where, until you remember you went out to do the laundry. Try as you might you don't even remember arriving.

Giving up you try to push off the bed, only to have the bedsheets - which you always forget to take with you to the laundromat - stick, until at last it pulls free of your face and hair with a slight stinging sensation, leaving you on your hands and knees. That's odd, you don't normally sleep with your ass in the air. Shrugging it off you clamber off the bed, wanting nothing more than to reach the coffee pot.

With the kettle full and plugged in you start to take inventory, realizing that there's an all-too familiar ache between your legs that confirms your suspicion that you got lucky in a big way last night. But was it Jacob, or are those fuzzy images of men using you real instead of the remnants of some erotic dream?

Bending over to splash water on your face you notice the barely-there mesh micro-dress you'd worn yesterday on the floor, and lean over to pick it up. A slight tugging sensation in your lower back distracts you, and you reach around, puzzled, until your fingers make contact with bandage above your tailbone

"What...?"

Forgetting the dress you rush to the mirror, angle it down and turn around. A solid square of white stands out starkly against your tan-colored skin. In a daze, your fingers seem to move of their own volition, peeling the tape slowly from the tender skin, moving agonizingly slowly until the last of the tape peels free and the bandage pulls away from your body, baring a tattoo to the mirror. It takes a long moment for you to reverse the letters.

"Ride Me," it says, the 'v' in the M forming a slightly elongated arrow toward your crack.

"Oh no no no no..." you moan, tentatively touching it to confirm it isn't an illusion, and jerking your finger away at the last minute. Looking around frantically you try to locate your phone, searching by the door, the bed, and then the kitchen. It isn't until your feet - still in their four-inch fuck-me-pumps - kick the crusty clump that is your dress, that you find it, a solid lump under the exhibitionistic dress.

"Jacob," you tell yourself. "Jacob will know what happened."

Your finger is poised to dial his number when it occurs to you. He might not have been there.

"Oh damn it! Now what do I do? Wait, where the rest of my clothes?"

Staring down at the cum-crusted dress you realize for the first time that whatever you'd done last night it must have interrupted your laundry, leaving your clothes in the washer or dryer they'd been left in.

Putting your face in your palms you moan in despair.

"Does Jacob know about the tat? Was he there? Do I call him? Get my clothes? And how do I explain a tattoo if he doesn't know about it?"