Secret Sins Ch. 07

Chapter 07

Moose Jaw

To this day, I don't remember much more from that Saturday night at the Funraiser. I know I drank more. A lot more. The hazy, disjointed memories of people holding bottles to my lips as I lay on my back with my legs spread are among the few that I do still possess. That and the lines of hard cocks that Mrs. Success and I brought to squirting orgasm while sucking side by side on the couch.

I don't even remember how I got back home, or what time it was, only half waking several times in my own bed, hungover and sick with no recollection at all of the night before apart from the fact that I'd obviously gotten really drunk.

When I did fully wake up after having slept off just enough alcohol that some memories could begin leaking back into my mind, I stayed awake, squirming and playing with myself, masturbating to what I could remember with an astounded exhilaration until I fell asleep again.

The next time I woke up, things were different. It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon, and I didn't have near enough alcohol left in my system to create that astounded exhilaration. I rolled around in my bed, crying and moaning out loud while covering my head with my pillow. This was worse than any personal shame I'd ever felt, one hundred times worse, a thousand times worse. I could barely stand it, the knowledge of exactly why my pussy was so sore, the humiliation, the overwhelming shame and, for the very first time in my life, I considered suicide.

My head was still pounding, my gut aching and, when I got up to run for Tylenol and whatever was left of the vodka, I ended up making a quick detour to the bathroom so I could, as they say, puke my guts out.

After some minutes of slumping naked over the toilet with the dry heaves, I managed to get to the kitchenette, downing three Tylenol and grabbing the Vodka from the fridge. I estimated enough for one weak drink, but I was all out of orange juice. Grabbing the carton of milk, I used that, getting just enough out of it for some kind of mix, but not enough to keep me from gagging. I somehow managed not to vomit the precious elixir of inner peace back up, taking it slow even though I wanted to down it. I needed the insulation against my feelings that only it could provide so badly that I couldn't even stop myself from crying.

I was finally able to finish it, setting the glass down on the counter with trembling hands. Going back to the bathroom, I washed my face without looking at myself in the mirror. I didn't think I could stand to do that just then. Sitting on my bed afterward, rocking back and forth while moaning my misery into a bath towel, I waited only just long enough for the vodka to hit me a little.

When it finally did, I threw on a pair of work jeans and one of my Salvation Army polo tops without bra, or panties. As horrifying as the thought of going out and facing people was, I had to do it. Without even socks on my feet, I hurriedly put my sneakers on, grabbed my purse and hurried downstairs and out the front door where I was immensely glad to find my car waiting at the curb. Apparently, somebody was at least nice enough to drive me home in it the night before, but I went through a minute of wild anxiety until I found the keys in my purse. Accidently catching a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror, I noticed my hair was in such total disarray, it looked as though rats had been nesting in it, but that wasn't what startled me.

My eyes, apart from being bloodshot red, were so bright they seemed to almost shine with a sparkling quality like Donna's did. I stared for a moment, blinking at them as they stared back until I could no longer stomach the sight of myself. Quickly fixing my hair as best as I could without looking back to the accusing mirror, I grabbed my shades from the top of the sun visor and started the car.

Less than one half hour later, I was back in my upstairs apartment, making a beeline for my kitchenette with the biggest bottle of Smirnoff vodka that the liquor store sold and three large jugs of Orange juice with pulp. I couldn't get the first one into me fast enough, having mixed it weak enough so that I could bolt it before mixing another stronger one to take with me to the sectional. Cuddling up in the corner, I hugged my legs in the hot, non-air conditioned apartment, moaning, trembling and crying while I rocked myself. The sweat that had broken out all over my body had nothing to do with the heat, rather the toxins that my body was working to get rid of even as I was adding more.

A half hour later, I was able to stop moaning and rocking, though my body still trembled as I got up to mix another screwdriver to continue fixing myself with. I took that one to the bathtub, washing from my body the night before and all the sticky stuff that came back to my apartment with me. I stayed in there for quite a while too, long enough to stop crying while I kept drinking. By the time I was out and towelled off, I felt better about things, making my way back to the kitchenette for something to eat so I could maybe stop the trembling.

After two fried egg sandwiches, I put my Salvation Army polo top back on, mixed another drink and somehow forgot to put my jeans back on when I went for my laptop. A little porn was what I needed to finish getting my mind off things. Opening another of my faves, (Supergirl Forced), I took the first sip of a fresh drink and allowed my fingers to start playing in my pubic bush while I forced myself to sit through the whole first part of the video, where Supergirl is tied to a chair, the front of her white panties showing up her short skirt.

Monday morning didn't come quite as bright and early as it should have. I didn't even recognize Donna at first, wasn't even able to compute why or how she could be there, wherever 'there' was, looking down at me with her brow furrowed, a frown on her gorgeous face.

"Tara?"

" ... Du- Du-duuuh..." I croaked before rolling over to face the back of the sectional.

It was an attempt to hide my again badly hungover face from the sunlight coming in through the front windows of my apartment's living room. I had the very worst pounding headache of my life and my intestines felt as though they were in flames.

"Wh...? What the fuck happened to you?" she demanded, her voice insanely loud in the otherwise quiet stillness of my apartment.

"Gu-uhhhh..." I moaned, the feelings that I'd been running from the day before beginning their merciless return along with my awareness of where I was and why my assistant was there.

"Have you been drinking?"

I didn't reply.

"Tara!"

"Goway!"

"No, I'm not going away, I wanna know what the fuck's been happening!"

That's when I started sobbing uncontrollably.

She turned me over again and, totally incoherent and distraught, I tried to resist, to get her to just leave me alone, to stop looking at me and just leave me to myself, but she wouldn't. With a strength that surprised me, Donna forced me to a seated position on the sectional, bending at the waist so she could look me in the face, the very last thing my shame and self-loathing wanted.

"Tara, look at me!"

I could only sob, trying to look away in reply as my condition escalated until, gripping me by the shoulders, she gave me a rough shake, her tone becoming harsh.

"Tara! I said look at me!"

Somewhat distracted from my developing, full on panic attack, I did as she commanded, though more out of surprise than anything. It didn't matter why though. As soon as I did, as soon as I looked into her brilliant, sparkling depths of gold and green, my mind was taken from the track it was on, distracted by a subtly expanding darkness just beyond the brilliant colours until she spoke again, clearly and pointedly.

"Calm - down."

And I did to a degree. My mind slowed, the panic that was so quickly rising from within sinking as I found such temptation to simply wallow in her wonderful, loving eyes. Shaking all over, I found solace in the undeniable knowledge that Donna really loved me. She was all I really had and she was there for me.

After a strangely immeasurable time, she said, "Now, stay here and stay calm. I'll be right back."

The sudden absence of her face, those eyes of such depth and caring, came as a shock, like someone ripping a band aid off, but I knew it was important that I follow her instructions. Somehow mostly maintaining my calm, I sat there, whimpering and blinking in the unforgiving light of day. It seemed like an eternity, all alone with the man who was hammering at the insides of my skull with the sledgehammer until she returned, mercifully closing the blinds before approaching me with a glass of orange juice and a sympathetic expression

"D-Dunuu..." I managed.

"What is it, sweetie pie?" she asked as she settled beside me.

"Thik I'm gonna p-puke..."

In a quick, smooth movement that one would more expect from a cat than a human, she put the orange juice and three Tylenol down on the coffee table before grabbing me and heisting me to my feet for a rushed trip to the bathroom. I barely made it, violently disgorging the toxic contents of my stomach until it felt like it was turning itself inside out. The whole time, Donna was there, right behind me, holding my body up on its knees and my hair back as I reacquainted myself with the dry heaves.

When it was finally over, when we were both reasonably sure that my digestive system had completely purged itself, she easily helped me to my feet, guiding the crying, moaning mess that was me back to the living room. Once more sitting on my sectional, she personally popped the three Tylenol into my mouth before holding the glass of orange juice to my lips with a terse instruction to drink.

It wasn't just orange juice.

A half hour later, I was more coherent, my emotional landscape more stable as I sat there in nothing but my Salvation Army polo top, staring dully at the closed blinds while tears ran down my cheeks. My head still pounded, but it was getting better and my guts were settled to where I was sure I wasn't going to puke up the hair of the dog that Donna had mercifully administered. But I was far from okay. Up to that point, I'd had to refuse, adamantly avoid the place where my mind wanted to go, the memories I'd been avoiding all Sunday, and I wondered if I'd ever be really okay again.

In her tight, black designer jeans and satiny gold, supportive camisole top, Donna had been sitting beside me, patiently waiting for my partial recovery. Her nipples, clearly erect behind the thin, moderately low cut garment had actually played a part in my fragile recovery. They were a very pleasant distraction while at the same time encouraging the rational thoughts of how I should eventually have a talk with her about the necessity of wearing a bra to work.

"So," she began in a soft, soothing voice," why don't you tell me what happened?"

"Can't," I said simply in a small, defeated tone.

"Why not," she asked softly, comfortingly stroking my upper arm.

"(Sniff!) Can't think about it."

"I understand, but you have to let it out."

I only shook my head.

"So I can help you, sweetie pie."

"(Sniff!)"

"Tara..." she prodded, gently turning my face to hers so I could again look into her wonderful, deep pools of golden love for me. "Just tell me what happened. You know I love you, that I'll never judge you and that I only want to help. Tell me."

Jerkily nodding, I began spilling the events of Saturday night as I'd just spilled the contents of my stomach. I didn't go into any lurid detail, but enough so that she didn't have to ask any questions. And by the time I was finished, I wanted her, wanted to cuddle up with her as though she were a security blanket. I wanted to get under the covers of my bed in a sixty-nine with her so I could kiss and lick and suck her pussy forever while she did the same to mine, and the world outside my window could just go on without me.

More realistically, I was extremely relieved to find that, true to her words, she wasn't judging me. Of course, I should have known she wouldn't from the moment I looked into her eyes and saw the love she had for me. No, not a trace of accusation, derision or judgement lived on her face, only sympathy and concern for my feelings. She took me into her arms and let me cry some more while she made soothing sounds, rubbing my back for a little while until we separated and Donna got up off the couch.

"Wh- where you going?" I fretfully asked.

"Just to the kitchenette, baby. You need another drink."

"Yes," I readily agreed, "Another drink."

When I was about halfway through that one and starting to feel a bit better, maybe even a little embarrassed for having been such a mess in front of her, she got up again, holding out her hand. I only looked up at her, a silent, woeful expression of questioning on my face before she explained.

"We're going to your bedroom."

"Yes," I said, getting slowly to my feet with relief, the mental image of us in that sixty-nine coming back as an imminent reality as she led me towards the short hallway to my room.

But we went into the bathroom first, where she had me get into the tub. Standing there, I allowed her to remove my polo top, then use the large pitcher to pour warm water all over my body before soaping me up as I stood there.

I loved this. It was a turn on to stand there in front of her like that, all naked and soapy while her hands slid every which way, pampering me so lovingly as she explained in her soft, motherly voice that this was how people used to bathe back when the closest thing they had to a bath tub was a large wash tub for cleaning clothes and such. She even washed my hair and face, giving me little kisses here and there and telling me that she loved me.

And she enjoyed this as much as I did. I could tell as she ran her hands all over my lathered body, the hungry look in her eyes as she took her wonderful time with my soft curves and valleys, slowly washing my pussy, repeatedly flicking my clitoris with a slippery finger inserted up my anal flower until I orgasmed with soft, gasping cries as I caressed my own boobs. As she rinsed me afterward, helping me out of the tub to then dry me off, I had nothing but adoration for Donna, my perfect assistant, best friend and incredible lover. Only she could have made me feel better the way she had, with such a beautiful orgasm after what had happened Saturday night.

In my room, she sat me down on the edge of my bed before going to my dresser to dig around until she found a matching black nylon bra and panty set. The bra was pretty skimpy, the kind that's a lot more like a bikini top with black triangles that let the edges of my boobs show, the bottoms a thong. I put them on, thinking she'd want the fun of taking them off me but, while I did this, she went to my closet to search out something else. Whatever it was that she wanted, all she found was frustration.

"Geez... sweetie pie, don't take this the wrong way, but your only good clothes are your underclothes. Here, put this on, I guess."

It was an old pair of relaxed fit blue jeans, followed closely by another polo top, this one red and without the usual Salvation Army shield above the left breast. More prominent in my mind was why she'd want me getting dressed anyway, and my expression conveyed this question.

"We're getting out of here," she explained.

"Uhhh, I don't think I can handle-"

"I know how you feel, but staying cooped up here isn't good for you. What you're suffering from, in part, is what you might call, post alcoholic depression. You may or may not know this, but alcohol is a depressant. It may not seem like it when you're drinking, but it is, and the longer you hide out here, the harder it will be to get out there and face the world when you eventually realize that you have to because, depression or no, life goes on."

"But I can't handle going out," I said, shaking my head. I can't handle other people. I don't want to look at anybody else, and I don't want anybody looking at me, not today. Please, Donna?"

"Nope. I know what I'm talking about here, and besides, I'll be with you. Everything will be fine, I promise."

Even with my dark sunglasses on, belted into the passenger seat of Donna's Acura, I felt vulnerable, spotlighted for the world as we raced down Lewvan Drive, heading south. I wished it was at least night time and only took comfort in the fact that she was there, her company enough to keep me from visiting the twisted places of self-loathing in my mind, the places I couldn't handle just then. After a quick stop at the liquor store for a pint of Smirnoff, (something else for me to take comfort in), we kept heading south until we made a right on Gordon Road, turning into the Walmart parking lot shortly thereafter where she parked her car and I began to fret again.

"Donna, I really can't handle a place like this today," I warned.

"Yes, you can," she opposed. "Besides, you have to."

"But, why?" I practically whined as she opened the door.

"I told you why," she said. "Your clothes suck. C'mon, sweetie pie, it'll be okay."

Less than fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of a small changing room in a pair of light blue, high waisted stretch jeans that fit me almost like a second skin. Mostly covering my upper body was a little white, cropped top without shoulders that showed no cleavage other than what one could see through the keyhole cut. It was also a snug fit, prominently showcasing my boobs with a short, stand up collar. Along with the black heels she'd picked out, there was nothing outwardly indecent about the outfit, but it was sexy and provocative enough to imply such, and I wasn't sure if this was my style, especially after the Funraiser.

"These jeans are too tight," I complained as she leered at me.

"Turn around."

I did as she told me to, looking back and over my shoulder as she just stared, licking her lips.

"They're too tight, Donna."

"No. They make me wanna tear them off you with my teeth and lick your pussy till you cum in my face."

A nearby clerk, a woman who looked ready to retire, gasped with dismay at this as I felt my face turning red. I really didn't need that, yet I felt complimented just the same.

"And I love that top on you. Your titties are just so perfect, sweetie pie."

"Oh my god," I muttered, looking down and covering my face with my hands.

"You!" she said, assumedly to the offended clerk in the blue Walmart vest as I tried to find the nerve to turn around, "Take the tags off her; she's wearing them out."

I was still trying to recover from Donna's verbal indecency when we left the store. Remembering how she'd treated the cashier and manager at Value Village, I'd decided not to bother saying anything. She seemed often to have a very short way with people. Besides, I was becoming more and more distracted by the overt leers from men as we went. As a pretty girl, I was used to being noticed, but this was something very different. Every one of them practically stared, especially at my crotch, and this too made me blush because I liked it.

And then we were on our way, once again heading south on Lewvan Drive, but only briefly before taking the onramp to highway one, west.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Moose Jaw."

" ... Moose Jaw?"

"Moose Jaw," she confirmed.

"I have to work today," I informed her. "So do you."

"You're in no condition to work today, and taking care of you is more important than my job. Don't worry about Hurdle. If he finds out, I'm sure he'll understand if you need a day or two. He should know why, and I'd be surprised if he had a problem with it. If he does, he can go fuck himself and, no offense, but the hood will get by without you. It always has."