Was it Steve? No, Paul sounded right. Maybe Mike? God, I have no idea what his name is, if it's even him. I felt like such a slut.I felt his right hand running up my naked back as he fucks me, and I suddenly wonder where my clothes are. I can still feel my socks on my feet and up my calves, but I don't think that I am wearing anything else. I don't even feel my shoes. I gasp as he pounds into me particularly violently, and I struggle to remember what happened to my tie. I liked that tie.I don't remember anything between doing tequila shots with... let's call him Steve... and having his cock in my ass. Based on the slight taste left in my mouth, I assume I sucked him at some point tonight. At least I hope it was the guy fucking me and I haven't acted like even more of a slut than I realize.Shit, I hope he's wearing a condom. I don't let guys fuck me bare, but I don't even remember him taking my pants off, I certainly don't remember getting a condom onto him. I've never hoped that a. But we two had never become as physically close as my dreams encouraged me to be.Until four years ago I had still lived with my mum in her terraced house in New Town while I attended uni. I had my own room upstairs and Richard had never visited there. That's not to say it had not been a place of some sexual activity. It embarrassed me immensely to admit what I had done and dreamed about doing in that room. Just after entering uni, I had begun having these deeply troubling but compelling ideas running through my head.Not just troubling. They seemed outlandish. Macabre. Sometimes even grotesquely sensual.While sleeping I would dream of caressing myself in a way I never would have done while awake. It had always been a source of shame that I was so easily damp, even copiously wet, in my nether parts from a simple passing suggestion of something sexual. I often wore an extra pad down there. But why could I never achieve an orgasm from such self-touching?One reason I was so concerned was.
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