Thigh Pillow Part 1

Thigh Pillow

Sometime in May, Freshman year—
I woke up on the floor of some dude’s house with a screaming headache and one ear smothered against someone’s skin. I opened my eyes and saw the polyester rug staring back at me. I tilted my head slightly and saw that I was lying half on some chick’s inner thigh. I stared ahead at her landing strip bush practically shoved in to face. I could tell this despite the general dimness of the room. I breathed in the plastic-tangy smell of a recently sexed vagina. I raised my head and looked over the rest of her body. She was snoozing on the floor, a pile of clothes as a pillow, completely naked. Attractive enough. A number of other people were sprawled out beyond her, along the floor leading up to the couch, on which two figures seemed to be trying to get busy under a large blanket.
I didn’t remember anything. I stood up. I realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I looked on either side of myself and didn’t see anything resembling one of my shirts. I reached under thigh-pillow-smelly-vag’s head and yanked out a white t-shirt. She stirred, but didn’t wake up. I put the shirt on. It seemed manly enough.
I found my sandals by the door and wandered out of the house. Thrash-Metal music played at a soft volume as I opened the metal door with a screen on it and stepped in to the morning. I licked my lips and swallowed to see if I could taste anything remotely like pussy in my mouth. I couldn’t. I wiped my mouth and a spindly black hair came off my lips. It was obviously not a hair from somebody’s head. It had a female twist to it. That’s the best way I can put it. I spit and imagined what percentage of vaginal fluids you might find in my saliva if you did an analysis. Probably 25% regular saliva, 25% pussy fluids, 50% Jameson.
There was a strip of orange running across the rooftops below dark clouds. It looked like the sun was overflowing from a bathtub in the sky. I wandered home, my headache failing to subside.

I made a ton of booty calls later on that day. Chicks I’d banged a long time ago and hadn’t spoken to in months or over a year, girls who I was just friends with, but who probably wouldn’t want to be friends with me after receiving my strongly flirtatious text messages, and two chicks who I kept around, who I’d been seeing recently, obviously nothing serious. Of these two, the second chick, Emily, said she wasn’t doing much and she’d come by later on that night. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to just watch a stupid video and resort to calling on Ms. Palm that night (Ms. Palm is my hand, by the way).
Emily was tanned, half-Hispanic. Curly black hair. A Sophomore. She wore a fake gold necklace everywhere that she claimed to have bought in Cancun. At my request, she rode on top of me. At her request, I let her chug from a bottle of wine while fucking me. It was incredibly hot. She looked down at me between swigs with the same smile she keeps on her face when you’re telling her a joke, except with moans coming out of it. She shook her hair out of her face, cocked her head back, and took a swig. She offered it to me once, but I shook my head. I bounced her up and down with one hand squeezing her stomach from the side of her torso. With the other hand I reached in to the space between our genitals and rubbed at the upper part of her clitoris with two fingers, the part that had escaped penetration by my cock, bobbing my hand up and down in sync with her body. Her vagina started sucking on my fingers after I got them deep enough and I didn’t have to consciously move my hand up and down any more. She looked straight ahead through squinting eyes—not at me, at my door—and made a lot of noise and raised up the wine bottle in slow spasms and took a huge swig.
I’m sure she didn’t intend to cum simultaneously with wine glugging down her esophagus, but it was hilarious when she did. Her knees knocked against my ribcage and the bottle popped out her mouth and smashed on the floor behind the headboard of my bed. She vomited all the wine in her mouth on to my face and pillow and the sound it made was a really strange combination of female orgasmic noise with guttural throat sound with liquid splashing on fabric with, of course, the bedsprings creaking. Someone needs to record it. Play it in reverse and maybe it will say ‘Paul is Dead’ or something.
I came. Emily groaned with a ecstatic expression on her face, her eyes fully shut, her mouth curved open in a super-smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, peering down at me, freezing in place while my dick throbbed inside of her. She laughed a high pitch laugh and flung her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Dennis.”

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