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I press a pillow over my head and try to catch a few more Z’s. It works to drown out the wails, but only for a moment. Soon enough, I hear them again, louder and more insistent than ever.
The girl has a set of lungs on her, I’ll give her that.
Fine, dammit. Guess I’m getting up.
I nearly blind myself checking the time on my phone. 7:34 AM: in other words, way too damn early. Christ, this hangover’s going to be the end of me.
“Alright, hold on,” I call out into the cavernous empty bedroom. My voice comes out hoarse like my throat is lined with needles. Thankfully, the morning sun hasn’t risen, so my hangover headache is at least spared the pain of dealing with the UVs just yet.
Too bad I can’t say the same for my mouth being spared morning hangover breath. The taste of last night’s alcohol clings to the back of my throat. I’d almost prefer throwing up.
I heave myself upright. Almost immediately, the room spins. I clap my hands over my face. It’s like I’m holding myself up and my brains in.
And still the crying keeps on going.
“Hold the fuck on, goddammit!”
I take in a breath. This is not how I envisioned this morning going. I thought I’d wake up, take Mandy for one more ride, then escort her gently to the door just in time for me to rinse off last night’s funk and make it to morning practice on time.
Instead, I’m barely keeping the contents of my stomach down. When I lurch to my feet, the floor starts trying to buck me off of it. A wobble to the left, a wobble to the right, then I’m pinwheeling my arms in mid-air, naked as the day I was born.
I steady myself and find a discarded pair of boxers on the floor. It’ll have to do.
My little puck bunny’s clothes are tossed everywhere. A glittery black bra, pink panties that are basically floss. I chuckle despite my hangover. I had a lot of fun pulling those off with my teeth last night. My cock twitches at the memory as I stumble out of my room.
“Hey, come on now, don’t be like that,” I call out.
Still no reply. I keep one hand against the wall as I stumble out of my bedroom and down the hall.
Downstairs, the crying is louder. It doesn’t stop at the sound of my approach, not even a little. It gets louder. Angrier.
What’s really confusing is that when I pass the kitchen, who should I see but Dandy herself?
And she’s definitely not crying.
Matter of fact, she’s completely naked, AirPods jammed in her ears, with a phone in one hand and a big slice of cold pizza in the other. She bounces around to the beat of the music, perky tits sashaying in every direction. I don’t blame her—I had fun playing with those last night, too.
But I’m a little confused. Partly about how she’s still functioning after consuming enough tequila to drown an elephant, but mostly about the lingering question:
Who the hell is crying?
She catches me looking at her, and wiggles her fingers at me in a seductive wave. Honestly, I’m tempted to just forget the crying and hoist her pretty frame onto the closest counter for another romp. But there’s no way I can power through a nice little kitchen screw while that damn crying is still going on.
Fucking mid-hangover? That’s doable.
Fucking mid-hangover with someone unknown wailing their lungs out? Not so much.
Groaning, I turn from her, shaking my head. The crying doesn’t seem to even be coming from inside the house. The front door, maybe? I make my way there to investigate.
“I dunno who the fuck you are, but I’ll call the cops if you don’t get off my?—”
But the words die on my lips when I wrench the door open to see… nobody. Cue confusion. The fact that my brain is being fueled primarily by vodka at the moment isn’t helping me make sense of things.
The morning beyond my front stoop is chilly, a little foggy, and quiet. Or at least, quiet enough—until that crying resumes again in full force.
From below.
I look down at my feet. There’s a beat-up car seat there, and inside of it is a very plump, very fussy, very red-faced…
