Amanda, the birthday girl, sat in front, Indian style, a t-shirt over her bikini top. Her exposed bottoms followed the curve of her cunt, riding high into the crease. The pants that matched my formal tails were baggy, so I didn't think my bloated penis was visible to the audience.I performed all of the standards - restore a cut rope, linking metal rings, even a guinea pig from a flaming pan. Mrs. Heller had given me the little rodent as a prop to surprise her daughter. Amanda hugged her mom and put the guinea pig in a cage her mom brought outside.For one of my more mature tricks, I had Amanda stand and face her friends. My hand was on her shoulder. I had to will myself to keep from letting it slide down and grope her. This was the "pull a bra out of a woman's blouse" gag. The bra was extra sized so the audience would laugh and the participant would get embarrassed, even though it isn't hers. Instead of turning red, Amanda thrust out her tits proudly at the audience.It was time for. I rose and stumbled to the bathroom and pulled down my pajama bottoms before falling onto the toilet ring. Implosion had left my muscles rubbery and ungovernable. I trembled, stopped, began to tremble again, and retched silently, hand over my mouth. Thank God, I hadn't eaten anything or drank the glass of Ovaltine. It would settle my stomach, though, I knew, when I returned to bed, and that was good. I peed, releasing what seemed a gallon of urine that jetted from me at high pressure. I have a child-size bladder and pee a million humiliating times a day. I wake up, several times a night to go pee. I never drink anything after ten p.m ... I remembered drinking nothing that day, so this was the last of the wine that we downed last night. I wasn't helped by my intense hangover.I brushed my teeth and made myself look in the mirror. This was what a felon looks like, I thought: ratty blonde hair, sunken eyes, gray pallor, a puffy, beaten-about-the countenance look. "No," I moaned, seeing.
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