I don’t know why I’m writing this, but fuck it, here it goes.

It started at this party a couple of years back. Nothing too fancy—just one of those crowded house parties where the music is way too loud, the floors are sticky, and you end up drinking whatever cheap booze someone shoves in your hand. I was in a good mood, looking hot, feeling reckless. Everyone was in the same vibe: laughing, dancing, and bumping into each other in the hallway.

I don’t remember how many drinks I had, but I do remember making out with at least three different guys before the night was halfway done. It wasn’t even subtle—we were pressed up against the walls, on the couch, hands everywhere, people all around us. Honestly, the whole house was turning into one big makeout-and-hookup playground. Doors were closing, moans were coming out of bedrooms; couches were filling up with couples. Yeah, I was definitely going to get laid that night.

Then came the “party favors.” You know the kind. I wasn’t planning on it—I knew better—but drunk me said why the fuck not. I took one, swallowed it down with a swig of something that burned like lighter fluid, and kept dancing. Ten minutes later, I felt it. That buzzing, spreading through my whole body. My skin felt electric, every beat of the music was inside my veins, and my pussy? Screaming. Like, feed me now, screaming.

I ducked into the bathroom to pee, stared at myself in the mirror, and holy shit. My eyes looked dilated, cheeks flushed. I remember touching my own neck, like even my skin felt like it was begging to be licked. I should’ve found one of those guys and dragged him into a room, but when I walked back out, the vibe had shifted. Half the party had scattered. The smart ones had already paired off and disappeared. What was left? Two girls, hanging by the kitchen counter. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a problem, but let’s just say they looked more like dudes than the dudes did, and it completely killed the fantasy in my head.

FUCK. Just like that, my night derailed. I wasn’t about to force it, so I left.

The walk home was torture. My body was buzzing so hard I thought I might hump a tree on the way. Every step I took, I could feel the need between my thighs. I kept telling myself, just get home, just get home, because if anyone had offered me anything on that walk, I probably would’ve said yes.

Finally, I stumbled into my room, kicked off my shoes, and knew I had one option: handle it myself. Clothes came off fast—I think my bra is still somewhere behind that old dresser—and I grabbed the tub of toys I kept under my bed, plus a big-ass bottle of lube. Tossed everything onto the mattress, ready to go until my legs gave out.

And then I looked at the bedpost.

Now, let me explain this thing: a wooden frame, a footboard with these decorative posts. The one at the corner was shaped like three balls stacked on each other—small on top, bigger on the way down. I don’t know what possessed me, but the second I looked at it, my drug-fueled, horny brain went, yeah, that looks like a good idea. Spoiler: it was both a terrible and amazing idea at the same time.

I grabbed the lube, squirted a generous amount on my hand, and greased that post up like I was prepping it for an Olympic event. The only problem? It was too tall for me. So I dragged over this little stool, climbed up like I was about to mount a horse, and swung a leg over. My heart was racing—not from nerves, just from the insane horniness. I aimed myself down, lined up, and slowly let the first ball slide inside.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It was bigger than I expected, stretching me more than most of my toys ever had, but I wasn’t about to stop. I lowered myself until the second ball pushed in, and my whole body shivered. That one hit my g-spot just right, like the damn thing was designed for me. My hands grabbed my thighs, and I started rocking, twisting my hips, grinding down. Within minutes, I was orgasming on that post, riding it like it was built for this exact purpose.

I lost count of how many times I came. First G spot orgasm—squirting all over the wood, down onto the floor, soaking my thighs. Then again. And again. Thirty minutes had passed, and I was still bouncing like a maniac. My legs were jelly, knees weak, body shaking.

Then reality hit.

I tried to pull myself up and realized… I was stuck. No joke. The post had me impaled, and I wasn't tall enough to get enough leverage to lift myself all the way off. The stool I’d used? Out of reach. Panic set in real quick—my brain started screaming, you’re going to have to wake mom up to come get you off this thing. Can you imagine? “Hey Mom, can you help me off my bedpost? I got a little carried away.” Yeah, no thanks.

Of course, while I was struggling, my body betrayed me and I came two more times. Rocking, squirming, trying to free myself only made me grind harder. I had to stop, take a deep breath, and calm down. Once I got the panic under control, I thought it through. I braced one foot on the edge of the mattress, the other on the side frame, and used every ounce of shaky strength I had to push myself up. Finally—finally—I got high enough to slide off.

I collapsed onto the bed, sweaty, soaked, and laughing like a lunatic. Thank God I didn’t have to scream for help. My pussy was throbbing, my thighs were sticky, my arms shaking from holding on. And the buzz from the party favor? Still raging.

So I did the only smart thing left. Tossed a towel over the sheets, grabbed my trusty toys, and finished the night the way I should’ve started it. Toy after toy, orgasm after orgasm, until I was completely wrung out.

By the time I passed out, the sun was creeping through the blinds. My body ached, my sheets were ruined, and that damn bedpost looked smug as hell. I never told a soul about that night until now. But every time I glance at that old frame, I remember just how close I came to having the most humiliating rescue of my life—and how fucking good it felt anyway.