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On Saturday morning Heather opened her eyes slowly. She felt ill. She'd had hangovers before, but she hated them, and this was by far the worst she'd ever experienced. For long moments she lay without contemplating movement, just content to try draw her thoughts together. She realised quite soon, though, that she couldn't remember most of the night. She must have been plastered beyond belief.

A chill settled in her stomach, aggravating her nausea. She was in her own bed at least, even if she had no idea how she'd got there. Some good Samaritan must have taken care of her. Yvonne, perhaps.

As the Dean's daughter, it would be an enormous embarrassment if she had been placed in a compromising situation. Her parents had often warned her of the implications of inappropriate behaviour – it would compromise the college, and by implication his job. Thank heaven her parents were away: they would be all over her if they saw her like this. She hoped, prayed, that she hadn't done anything stupid.

Something about the sound of the birds, the angle of degree of light in the room, made her realise it was late morning. She would have to get up at some point, even if her nausea was overwhelming her. A shower would help her feel less grubby. She pulled off her blankets and turned hesitantly to rise, sitting with her palms down on the bed for long moments of recovery.

She stood up and walked across the floor to the mirror. She looked awful. Her green eyes were puffy and red, her skin bloated, her blonde hair tousled on her head, her shoulders slumped. Her mouth was parched, and when she opened it, her tongue was carpeted with a white, textured layer. She teetered on the brink of being ill.

Her summer dress was dishevelled. As she wandered slowly into the bathroom she unzipped it and let it fall to the floor to lie in a heap. She turned on the shower, closed the door and reached behind her to unclip her brassiere. As it fell away she glanced down to watch it slide off her arms, and a chill settled in her stomach.

The inside of each bra cup had a red circle of lipstick. She let the bra fall and raised her breasts: each nipple had been clearly painted with the same bright red shade. She closed her eyes, filled with a sense of intangible doom.

Then, wanting to get into the shower to wash the lipstick off herself, she reached down and drew her panties off; but she felt a shock as the same red tinge appeared in two areas of the fabric. Reaching down to explore, she confirmed her fear: her pussy lips and her anus had been smeared as well. Her hands were shaking, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. Who had done this? She would never have done this to herself! Who had seen her like this?

She clambered into the shower, as if she could wash away the events along with the lipstick, feverishly soaping herself down; but as the import of it all sank in, she slowly slid down to sit on the floor of the shower, knees open, head down, thinking: What have I done? What have I done?

The rest of the weekend was terrible: nausea kept on returning throughout Saturday and she still felt wasted on Sunday. She washed her underwear, determined that all traces would be removed before her parents return; and when they wandered in early on the Sunday evening, she managed to pretend convincingly that it had been an uneventful weekend. She was dreading Monday: somebody in the halls of the college would be watching her, remembering the events of Friday night; and she didn't know who.

When Monday dawned she wanted to feign sickness, but realising the inevitability of her situation she came downstairs, ate breakfast, climbed into the car alongside her father. Walking down the college corridors she felt naked – every greeting seemed to have undertones. Her cheeks were flushed with a shame that she couldn't express.

And yet as the day passed slowly without incident. Nobody made reference to the party, and by mid afternoon she began to wonder whether anyone would mention it at all. Perhaps it was all behind her. She relaxed enough to enjoy some humour with friends over a Coke. And then, reaching into her bag almost at the end of the day, she found a videotape and a note that she had not put there. The note was addressed to her, printed off an anonymous computer.

It read: You make a great actress Heather. I look forward to filming you again sometime. Don't let anyone see the tape. We'd hate it to become public. Wouldn't we?

She had to sit down to contain the nausea, but when her father arrived to take her home she feigned nonchalance. She had to watch the tape, but she felt afraid to do so. She sat through a quiet supper, and then retired to her room, explaining that she wanted to study. The door had barely closed behind her when she pressed the tape into the recorder, started it running and watched with a mounting horror.

At no time in the tape could she see the faces of any of her protagonists. She also could not recognise any of the voices aside from her own: although there were at least three boys present they all seemed much younger than her. She wondered whether they were even old enough to have intercourse at one stage, and their youth seemed to add to the humiliation.

From the beginning of the tape it was clear that she was hopelessly drunk. She was sitting on a bed in a room she didn't recognise, with muted party music in the distance. As she spoke she roared with laughter, moved with extravagant gestures, flopped back occasionally. She was drinking all the time. The camera focused only on her, but the voices of the boys could be heard quite clearly above the thump of the remote drumbeat.

She took a drink of something, when a voice came from her left.

Voice 1: You're really beautiful, Heather. Way too gorgeous to be the Dean's daughter
Heather (laughing): Thank you. I think so too
Voice 2: It must be a real drag though
Heather: What?
Voice 2: You can't have any fun
Heather: I can have fun! I have lots of fun!
Voice 3: But you can't ever be naughty, can you?

At this point she fell back onto the bed, sighing and laughing, then sat up to talk again.

Heather: I can be naughty if I want!
Voice 1: I'm sure you can.

Watching the screen, heather felt angry with herself. It was so clear that these boys were getting their juvenile jollies by flirting with her – she should have got up and walked out of the room. She should have treated them with contempt. Instead, she coyly placed her little finger in her mouth and said: I'm a naughty girl sometimes.

Voice 3: On your own, or with other people?
Heather: It depends
Voice 2: You've never been naughty with anyone. I don't believe it
Voice 1: Way too innocent for that
Heather: I have. I have. I promise you I have
Voice 1: Then what have you done?

She fell silent, and there was laughter around the room.

Voice 1: Nothing. I'm right, aren't I?
Heather: No (pouting)

She was so drunk now, that she was having difficulty sitting upright, leaning back shakily, slurring indistinctly as she spoke. A hand reached across and clasped her knee, but she barely seemed to notice.

Voice 3: Has anybody ever seen your tits Heather?

She drunkenly nodded her head, but Heather knew it was a lie. Nobody had gotten that far with her yet.

Voice 2: I'd like to see those tits. Will you show them to us?
Heather: Mmmm

Hands reached across now, unzipped the back of her dress, pulled it down over her shoulders. It was unclear whether she even noticed. As her bra was exposed, a voice commented: Oh yes…

Voice 1: What size cup do you wear?
Heather: C-cup…

Someone had moved behind her, was unclasping the bra. It was pulled off without ceremony, She must have realised what was happening at this point: she tried to raise her hands, perhaps to cover herself, but they were drawn away and up by the boy behind her; and for the first time her breasts were presented for someone else's view.

The camera moved in at this point, examining them from every angle, the lens almost seeming to touch her nipples as it got closer. Fingers were toying with her nipples, tweaking them, and the camera moved up to catch her face, eyes closed, lips pursed, sighing softly to herself.

Voice 2: Do you like this, Heather?

She nodded dreamily.

Voice 1: Do you sometimes play with your tits Heather?
Heather: Sometimes
Voice 1: When do you play with them?
Heather: Sometimes in the shower
Voice 1: Will you show us?

Obediently she raised a hand, stroking her nipple gently for the approving audience,

Voice 1: Do you ever play between your legs Heather?

She didn't respond.

Voice 1: Heather? I asked you if you ever play between your legs. Inside your panties?
Heather: Sometimes
Voice 2: You mean you touch your pussy?

She smiled shyly, nodded slightly, eyes still closed.

Voice 1: Heather – do you touch your pussy? We're asking you a question.
Heather: Yes.
Voice 1: Yes what? Tell us.
Heather: Yes. I touch myself sometimes.
Voice 1: What do you touch?

She frowned, aware even in this state that she was crossing a boundary.

Voice 1: What do you touch Heather?
Heather: I touch my pussy.

A sigh went around the room; it was clearly audible on the tape.

Voice 2: Will you show us your pussy Heather?

She shook her head, pouting again.

Voice 3: So you're not a naughty girl after all?
Voice 1: I'm going to take your panties off now. Is that alright?

She didn't move. It was unclear whether she had even heard the question.

Voice 1: Heather – I'm taking your panties off now. We want to look at your pussy. OK?

She nodded slightly.

Hands gently pushed her back to lie on the bed. I t was clear that everyone in the room wanted to be part of the action now: multiple hands pushed the skirt up her thighs, pushed her panties down and off, and then drew her knees apart. The back of heads could be seen, as the boys peered forward, reaching across to explore. The camera moved in and it was clear that she was being fingered, her hips moving slowly, her breath laboured and sharp. Panning upwards it caught a penis being drawn out of a pair of trousers and slipped between her parted lips: she sucked on it gently, moaning in response to the attention paid to her naked, spread-eagled pussy. She swallowed involuntarily as the cock suddenly jerked it's contents into her mouth.

Watching the tape, Heather wriggled, so ashamed that she could not express herself, moaning occasionally at the violation she witnessed. When the third cock orgasmed in her mouth she closed her eyes, too afraid to watch any more.

When she finally opened them again, she had been left lying on the bed, breasts sagging sideways, legs open, pussy lips moist and red. She had apparently not orgasmed herself: her fingers were openly pleasuring her pussy as she sighed softly to herself.

And now, hands appeared bearing her lipstick tube – HER TUBE – and began to apply it to her nipples. She pouted: Nnnooooo; but was ignored. As the hands moved across to her second breast she finally succumbed to the alcohol and seemed to drift away into a merciful sleep. The hands drifted down, and the voices could be heard laughing as her fingers were pulled away, and the stick carefully smeared across her pussy lips. Somebody shouted: Do her ass! And multiple hands turned her over, and pulled her cheeks apart, The lipstick was pushed against her anus, and rotated like a lollipop to the laughter of the audience.

The tape ended there. She never saw how she was finally dressed and returned to her home. It didn't matter. Heather sat for an eternity, afraid to take the tape out of the video. It was clear that she had made an immense mistake. Nobody must ever be allowed to see this. Ever.
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