This is a work of fiction. It isn't fantasy, but it is fantastic. It is not a short read, so those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere. Enjoy.
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I pressed my face against the door. Cold waves of sweat danced across my skin. I'd had too much to drink, again—way too much. But hey, how many times do you turn 21? In my case, this was the third time I'd celebrated my coming of age with a night of partying. Or maybe this was the fourth? Whatever.
I just needed to catch my breath and let the pounding in my head subside. The wood of the front door felt cool on my cheek. My father certainly loved his wood; the double-entendre made me laugh, which immediately sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull. Shit. "Just breath," I said out loud. If I could just make it to my room, I might survive this.
I had plenty of time to sleep this one off; partying started early today. I hooked up with Derrick in the middle of the afternoon. Derrick was my current partner in crime, and occasional fuck-buddy. We were already on our fourth round of drinks when Derrick's rotating posse of glassy-eyed party animals showed up. By the time we stumbled out of the second club, I was good and truly ripped. And it was only 9:30. Early by my standards, but when you're cooked you're cooked, so I called it a night.
I had almost found a lull in the pain and the nausea long enough to attempt the next leg of my journey when the floor fell away. Correction, the wall fell away. No, the door I was leaning against opened. I didn't have a firm grasp on the whole "vertical vs. horizontal" thing at the moment.
I instinctively tried to take a step to catch myself, but that only served to propel me further into the entryway. I came to rest on my back, limbs at odd angles. The light above me was glaring. I turned my head so my cheek was against the floor. "Is this oak or maple?" I thought to myself, examining the inlaid wood that had so recently come into view. There's so much fucking wood in this house, you'd need a botanist to identify it all.
Instead of focusing on the floor, I probably should have been focused on the five people standing over me: three distinguished gentlemen in conservatively tailored suites, accompanied by two elegantly dressed ladies. I should have recognized that my father occupied one of those suits. I should have been concerned that my already disheveled hairdo had become unraveled, that one of my favorite "fuck me" stilettos had lost a strap in the fall, and that my shamefully short pink party dress had ridden up and was now well above my waist.
What should have been at the very top of my list of concerns was my traffic-sign yellow G-string with the words "slippery when wet" across the crotch, which was now clearly visible to all present. That thong was intended for Derrick, but he got too plastered to do anything about it.
No, I wasn't concerned about any of those things. My inebriated brain was actually worried that it would look bad for a professional party girl, such as myself, to be found sneaking into the house at the outrageously early hour of 9:30 PM. I hatched a plan. I would hop to my feet, make some witty remark, and stroll gracefully from the room.
What actually transpired was that I tried to stand with all the grace of a newborn calf. My rubber legs and disconnected shoe strap sent me right back down to the floor again, this time sunny side (ass cheeks) up.
And then it happened. The sudden fall, followed by my pathetic attempt to right myself, followed by another fall was too much movement, too soon. I could feel the freight train of nausea start at the pit of my stomach as it began its journey north. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew I was going to hurl, and I did. Jell-O shooters, some hot wings, and a lot of booze now covered several pair of expensive leather shoes, at least one exquisite pair of pumps, and the oak flooring. "Definitely oak" was the last thing I remember thinking before passing out.
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The light through the window was strong and bright. "It must be late morning," I thought, congratulating myself on my razor sharp deductive skills. I slowly took in my situation.
I was in my own bed. That was a huge relief. My shoes and dress were nowhere to be seen. A peek under the covers showed I was still wearing the G-string, but nothing else. I didn't reek of vomit and vodka, so someone must have cleaned me up. The bed was warm. My head hurt. I laid back down hoping the pounding would stop.
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I woke again an hour or so later. The pounding in my head was reduced to a low thrumming. I got up and assessed my condition in the mirror. My hair was a mess. I'd decided to go for shoulder length blond with kinky curls last year. The curls were more like clumps this morning, tangled and confused. It was nothing a shower couldn't fix. The rest looked pretty good. I was still the same height (about 5' 10"). I reached up and gave my pert B (almost C) cup tits a gentle squeeze, causing my small nipples to stick out a little in the cool air. No damage here. I think my breasts are, by far, my best feature and I worry for their safety.
It isn't bragging to say I had a knockout figure, but it wasn't from some vegan diet or days spent at the gym. I'm just young, energetic, like to dance all night, and tend to drink when I should be eating. I was naturally trim, a little pale, and sexy as hell. Hate me if you must.
I pushed the G-string down and tossed it across the room. My brunette bush—my natural hair color—was trimmed short and neat, but not sculpted or shaped like so many of the girls I knew. There was no landing strip, or heart, or "V." I didn't like it unruly (that would ruin my outfits), but I had no desire to be a porn star either. My college roommate, Kate, tried to give me the nickname of "Harriotte." It was supposedly a combination of "hairy" and "Charlotte," but thankfully that didn't stick.
My hips and ass were a little on the boyish side. I always wished I had fuller, more "womanly," hips like my mother did, so I didn't look so much like a stick with boobs. On the the other hand, it made it easy to wear jean skirts and tight dresses. And it actually made my tits look even bigger, so I couldn't complain.
Yawning, I walked naked to the bathroom. No one would be at this end of the house this morning. I took a long overdue piss and started the shower. The warm water was easing a lot of the pain. I shampooed the cigarette smoke, and other unpleasant smells, out of my hair. I rubbed soap over my neglected pussy. "Sorry," I told it "you're probably not going to see any dick again tonight."
After toweling off, I grabbed a short terry cloth robe and headed towards the main kitchen. The cotton felt good against my skin. I couldn't prance around nude in the main part of the house. I was likely to run into someone there.
There was, thankfully, no chance of running into my father. My dad was a "Captain of Industry" (que trumpet fanfare). He was up by 5:00 every morning, at the latest, and was out the door by 6:30.
I couldn't say that about dad's seemingly endless stream of "girlfriends." I don't know what else to call them, although they were more like call girls or one-night stands. Most I never saw more than once, while a few were repeat customers. There was never any wining, dining, or romance that I saw. As far as I could tell, they were just there for the sex.
On most mornings I could bump into a fashion model, or a sleeping-her-way-to-the-middle office assistant in a short skirt, bent over the sofa trying to retrieve her panties from between the cushions—assuming she came with any panties to begin with.
My dad didn't seem to have a type: tall, short, black, white, older, younger, it was all good. If they were pretty and had holes between their legs, they were fair game. I've come down to meet everything from a middle-aged businesswomen looking for her car keys to a Swedish tourist with an insufficient grasp of the English language trying, unsuccessfully, to order a cab.
I once saw a girl in a cheerleader's outfit disappearing done the front hallway. It was just a glance, but I swear it was Joanne, a former friend from school. I had just started college then. Joanne was a year behind me and, still a senior in high school, couldn't have been more than 19 years old. "Christ," I thought, "now my dad's fucking girls younger than his own daughter."
I smelled coffee as I rounded the corner. That meant that Kwan, our housekeeper, was around. This was no surprise; Kwan was always around, rarely seen, but ever present. Kwan lived in her own apartment attached to the south wing and she managed almost every aspect of the house: cleaning, maintenance, food, the wine cellar, decorating, you name it.
Kwan is a petite, exotic, woman in her (I'm guessing) mid-thirties. She's some mix of Asian and Latin, or maybe Hawaiian. She never talks about her parents, or her past, and changes the subject if you try. I've developed the impression that she's an orphan, or was maybe a foster care kid. Anyway, she's fiercely loyal to my father for some mysterious reason.
I poured a cup of coffee and sat on a barstool. The cold, hand-carved, mahogany was like a slap on my bare ass. I should have found a longer robe. I took my coffee into the day room and curled up on one of the couches. That was much more comfortable.
There didn't seem to be anyone else around this morning. I guess my dad's dinner guests decided not to stay after I retched on their shoes. I tentatively sipped the hot coffee.
My ass reminded me, again, of my mother. Mom died in a freak seaplane accident in Cuba several years ago. The incompetent pilot was landing in a bay and struck his wing on the mast of a sailboat. The plane lost control and crashed into the breakwater. They said she died instantly from the impact, but it still gives me nightmares thinking about it.
Dad did not take mother's death well. They were like two halves of a finely tuned engine. While my dad was the official head of the business, mom was just as involved, complementing everything he did. She spent most of her days preparing elaborate parties, going on trips, meeting clients at the airport, and keeping her "trophy wife" body in shape and in style.
Despite this, she always found time for me. That ended, of course, when she died. Dad was not there to pick up the slack. We'd never been very close, and drifted further apart after her death. That's when dad's girlfriends started showing up.
My senior year of high school I discovered expensive clothes, which got me into parties, which got me alcohol, which got me laid. Dad and I were hardly even speaking to one another when I left for college, so life didn't change much for either of us. The parties were a little bigger, there was even more alcohol, and now I had a sexy roommate that I could swap (or share!) some hunky college stud with. I thought life was pretty good.
I started out as a business major. I mean, what else are you going to study when your dad's been written up in Forbes? I did pretty well the first year or so. But after another night of partying, booze, and boys, it was really hard to concentrate on school the next day. So I just skipped class and slept in. Then I did it again. Then I was doing it a couple of times a week. A few months ago I stopped going to class altogether. A few weeks ago I just drove home. My dad's only comment was "back from college, I see." I've been living here since, hooked up with Derrick, and reestablished my party ways.
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I returned late from shopping. I figured I'd give the nightclubs a break, given the epic fail last night.
I was wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a silk halter-top that really shows off my tits. The silk is jet black and completely opaque. The silk drapes over my precious pillows like water. From a distance it looks quite modest. Up close you can see their shape, and every unconstrained movement, as plainly as if I were topless. And my little nipples look really cute when they got hard, which is often. It was the kind of top that most girls would only dare to wear to a dimly lit nightclub. I wore it to the mall, just to see the looks on people's faces.
