Lana a Life in pain

It was already late morning. Lana slowly came to in her bed and opened her eyes, but closed them again immediately. She was so blinded by the sudden brightness that she had to squint again. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, she lifted her eyelids until the images became clearer and she could vaguely make out her surroundings. Her head felt like it was about to explode. She took a diclofenac from the drawer and swallowed it without water. Somehow, last night seemed to have gotten out of hand, and too much alcohol had gone down her throat. She swore to herself she’d never drink another drop. Would she be able to keep that vow? What else was there for her to do besides drink? Her husband had started gambling and lost all interest in her. Things had just gone downhill from there. Debts were piling up, and she’d had to lay off staff. What was she supposed to do all day, all alone? What plans had she had for her life, and then this downfall in the little town of St. Petersburg on the Mississippi? Tonight, her husband had once again failed to return to their marital home. He’d probably gotten “stuck” with one of his mistresses again.
It was already quite warm. A leaden heat wave had been hanging over the country for weeks. She crawled out of bed slowly and unsteadily. A cup of coffee now—very strong, of course. Maybe that would perk her up, though she wasn’t sure if the effects would last. She sat down with her mug in the wicker chair that dangled from the porch ceiling. Slowly, she began to feel better. Now she could use a man; her desire for sex was growing stronger and stronger. Her lover was coming to visit her that afternoon, but unfortunately not until the afternoon. She couldn’t wait that long. Her almost transparent, flimsy top gaped open over her chest, revealing two full breasts. They were still quite attractive, which, given her heavy alcohol consumption, wasn’t really something to take for granted. Small beads of sweat had formed on her skin and merged into tiny rivulets that flowed down to her navel. Her nipples were deep red and stiff.
Slowly, she began to caress herself, which heightened her desire, even though that seemed almost impossible. But today she was in the mood for more—for something intense, brutal—that would numb her emotional pain. She reached for the bottle of Southern Comfort that was still sitting next to her from the night before and forced it inside her roughly, feeling a sharp pain. It didn’t matter—something had to prove to her that she was still alive. Slowly she began to move; her breathing grew faster and more ragged, and then the moment came. A powerful orgasm, the likes of which she had rarely experienced before, coursed through her body.
Slowly, her body calmed down. She sniffed the neck of the bottle and sucked on it. So this was how she smelled and tasted on the inside. Forgetting her good intentions from that morning, she poured herself a double—or was it even a triple?—of whiskey and drank it greedily in big gulps. After all, the brand was called “Southern Comfort.” After a while, her eyelids grew heavy; the glass slipped from her hand, and she fell into a deep, almost comatose sleep.