"What the actual fuck?" Rachel muttered under her breath, staring at the sign in front of her. "Men, Women, or Sluts?" she read aloud, her voice laced with incredulity. The neon lights of the concert venue cast a sickly glow over the bustling crowd, all eager to get inside. She had scored tickets to see her favourite band, and this was the last thing she expected to see.
The line for sluts was significantly shorter, and Rachel's curiosity piqued. Her eyes narrowed at the tiny door next to the sign, a mere slip of an entrance that seemed almost too small to fit a person through. Rachel was dressed in a short skirt and a low-cut top, not exactly modest but certainly not something that screamed "slut" either. The bouncer, a burly man with a smug smile, nodded at her.
"Panties off, slut,” he said, his eyes lingering on her cleavage. "If you wanna get through the quickest way." Rachel felt a hot blush creep up her neck as she glanced around. The line of men and women looked much longer and less interesting. Rachel's rebellious streak flared up, and she smirked at the bouncer. "Why the fuck not?" she thought, slipping her fingers under the elastic waistband of her thong.
With a deep breath, Rachel stepped out of her panties and handed them to the bouncer, who snickered and tossed them into a basket next to him. He shot her a knowing look and winked.
Slut? Me? Her inner voice mocked the idea—she was just practical, adventurous. The shorter line meant less waiting, more time for music and cheap beer. The bouncer’s knowing smirk flashed in her mind: He thinks I’m easy. That I’d do anything. The thought twisted her stomach—not in disgust, but in something darker, hotter. What if I am?
The bouncer leaned over, his breath hot in her ear. “That's a good slut. Now crawl," he said, with a smack on her ass.
The cool evening air kissed her bare skin as she got down on all fours, her heart racing. The crowd's murmurs grew louder as she approached the slut door, and Rachel felt a thrill of both embarrassment and excitement.
Rachel bit her lip and did as she was told, her cheeks burning as her palms hit the cold concrete. The absurdity hit her first—*I'm crawling half-naked at a rock concert.* Then came the sharp thrill: Fuck them all. Let them stare. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the crowd's whispers.
The crawl was tight and uncomfortable, but Rachel's mind was racing with a mix of emotions. She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her, some shocked, some amused, others... lustful. She couldn't help but be aware of the sensation of the cool concrete against her skin and the way her skirt rode up, exposing more of her than she had planned.
Rachel's cheeks burned with both humiliation and arousal, and she felt a dampness begin to form between her legs. As she inched forward, Rachel's eyes met the bouncer's, his gaze unwavering. He watched her progress with an amused smirk, his eyes tracing the path of her body as she moved.
Rachel's breath grew shallower and her pulse quickened as she felt the first twinges of pleasure from the oddly erotic experience. The line of men and women outside grew fuzzy as the neon lights painted streaks across her vision. Why is this so thrilling? she wondered, crawling forward as the cool concrete scraped her knees. The stares should have felt violating—some were mocking, others openly leering—but instead, a fierce heat coiled low in her belly. I handed him my underwear. I’m crawling like an animal. And I… like it.
Rachel's skirt had ridden up so high that it was practically useless, leaving her ass and pussy fully exposed to anyone looking down at her. She felt a rush of air against her bare skin as she moved, and the thought of the bouncer and other concert-goers getting a glimpse of her most private parts made her wetter.
The other attendees in the regular lines watched her with a mix of amusement and envy. Some of the men in the line had their phones out, taking sneaky photos and videos, their eyes glued to Rachel's ass as it wiggled in front of them. Rachel felt a pang of humiliation mixed with something else—something dark and electric. They're filming me. Strangers seeing me like this. The thought should have horrified her, but instead, warmth pooled between her thighs. Her nipples tightened against the soft fabric of her top, rubbing deliciously with each crawl forward.
Then she felt it—a hand sliding boldly up her inner thigh from behind, fingers skimming the bare skin no longer shielded by underwear. Rachel gasped, arching instinctively into the touch. Don’t stop, her mind screamed as heat flooded her veins. She turned to see who it was, but the crowd pressed too close. Only the sensation mattered—rough fingertips tracing the slick seam of her folds, teasing her swollen clit. She bit back a moan, her hips rocking forward against nothing as the hand withdrew.
Why am I doing this? The question echoed uselessly against the roar of her pulse. She knew exactly why. The humiliation was molten gold in her veins, the exposure a drug. Every leer, every camera flash, every whispered slut fed the ache between her legs. She recalled the bouncer’s smirk as he’d tossed her thong aside—how he’d known she’d crawl. How he’d known she’d like it.
The crowd’s murmurs sharpened into distinct jeers and hungry groans. Someone shouted, “Faster, whore!” Another voice, female, laughed. “Look at her drip.” The end of the line loomed just a few feet ahead. Freedom. But the thought of standing up, of this raw, electric humiliation ending, felt suddenly unbearable.
No, she thought desperately, not yet. She slowed her crawl deliberately, letting her hips sway wider, arching her back so her exposed ass lifted higher. A fresh wave of camera flashes erupted. She felt the wetness slicking her inner thighs, heard the crude appreciation from the onlookers. "Filthy little thing," a man shouted close to her. She shuddered, pleasure spiking through the degradation. This was turning out to be the best concert ever.
