Shane felt sick to the pit of his stomach. The drunken memories were hard enough to make sense. Their scrambling making more sense if he was Vanessa. The perspective snap, made her queasy. Bile rising in his throat, as her remembered sucking cock, rather than the hazy sensation of having his cock sucked.
The pride in giving a creamy tit-wank to a man behind the bar, the taste as he came over your face. Your night of wild sex making horrifying... whorifying sense now he knew the truth.
The contempt for the cum-splattered woman, was his contempt for himself. But, deep inside, pride still fought to the surface. He knew the pleasure he'd brought that man... that night.
Opening the fridge, Shane decided to get shit-faced. Surely if he was legless, she'd not be able to leave the house. Downing can after can, the pleasant buzz dulling those memories. Shane drank slowly the entire day. As the evening drew on, and the Sun set, he smiled drunkenly to his half-reflection in the TV screen. He'd made it without puking. Raising the can in salute to himself, a squirming sensation started.
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