The Drunken Kiss

Anya stared at the ceiling of her dark bedroom. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed a mocking three in the morning. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness offered zero relief. The visceral image of Dare’s naked flesh pinning Camille to the heavy wooden desk played on an endless, unforgiving loop in her brain. It was already Sunday. She still could not scrub the filth from her mind.