Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3 - Sex Stories

Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3

I woke up at midday with a mild hangover and my face burning from third-degree pash-rash. I pulled on my robe and trudged to bathroom, and as I sat on the toilet, I jerked in surprise at the crazy-woman looking back at me in the bathroom mirror. God help Emma Watson if she ever looked like this; I had bloodshot eyes, hair in a crazy tangle, and my lips and chin were glowing red and swollen. I looked like a meth-addict’s mug-shot. Stretching for the medicine cabinet while I peed what felt like an entire case of Victoria Bitter, I gobbled a couple of paracetamol and smeared cold-cream over my face without rubbing it in. By the time I flushed the toilet and brushed my hair, I was thinking about Kevin again and was on the slow path to recovering some of the previous night’s good cheer. Belinda was in the kitchen making coffee. “Please, please tell me you’re making one for me,” I pleaded, squinting as I shuffled into the bright daylight of the kitchen. “Regretting our actions of last night, are we?” she chirped, way too cheerfully. “Good God!” she squawked, turning around and seeing me for the first time. “What happened to your face?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” I groaned, sitting at the counter. “At least not until you’ve finished making me coffee.” She ignored me – as usual – and came over to inspect the damage. “Ouch! That hurts just to look at!” she sympathised, going back to work on the coffee machine. “I hope it was worth it. Do you want two coffees? Is he still in the ...

... bedroom?” “What? No!” I clipped back, probably a bit more vehemently than was warranted. “He didn’t stay … we didn’t …” I left the sentence unfinished, my cheeks burning with colour to match my lips and chin. “Bullshit!” she giggled. And then she called, “Kev! Get yourself decent and come out! Otherwise you’ll miss out on coffee.” “I’m not bullshitting,” I smiled at her playful presumption. “He’s not here.” “I’ve seen that kind of beard-burn before,” she leaned against the kitchen bench and studied me. “In the mirror, no less. It comes from an all-nighter of hot sex. Are you telling me you boffed him and sent him packing? ‘Cos that’s harsh, Jeannie.” “I’m certainly not telling you that,” I shot back, trying to get annoyed, but still blearily blissed-out with new love and wanting to share. “I’m telling you we kissed and then I sent him packing so I wouldn’t be tempted to boff him.” “What? When?” she sounded confused, but I think she was starting to believe me. “It’s midday now. What time did you go to bed?” “About six,” I said. “If you’re going to grill me, can you at least do it over coffee?” “But …” “Coffee!” I demanded. “No more details until I’m caffeinated.” She quickly finished frothing the milk; I could see her almost bursting, dancing from foot to foot like she was busting for the toilet. “Details!” she blurted, plonking the coffee in front of me and slopping a bit on the counter. She pulled her stool close and stared at me expectantly. “What, no chocolate sprinkle?” I ...