There are two sides to every story. Just like the city—the one behind me with its rotting piers and ferry horns, and the one ahead, all glass, steel, and clean lines pretending they were never poured over ash. It used to be the same place. Same bones. But now the skyline had been scrubbed of its filth and memory.

It looked nothing like Cobain’s Heart-Shaped Box anymore. No rot, no grit, no sex in the seams. Just polished concrete and promises. No more Vedder mumbling from a basement. No more dying silently like Laney, violently like Cobain. The new Seattle had a view. The old one had a voice.

I speak in that voice, move in it, even though I’m too young to have ever lived it.

It was one of those rare summer burns over Seattle that morning—a heatwave that had lingered too long, too tired, too damp. The kind of summer that doesn’t just settle on your skin—it sinks into your joints, your lungs. It sticks in your bones and waits there.

I never intended to turn twenty-six. Too much booze. Too many drugs. Too many late-night fucks in the wrong neighborhoods with the wrong names. There are tattoos on my body to tell each tale—some I still remember, some I’d rather not.

Most of my friends died young, but I lingered on. Cleaned up, or tried to. Scrubbed myself enough to walk through daylight again. I shouldn’t look as stunning as I do.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it?

Most of my piercings are now just scars. Faint ghosts where rings used to hang or pins poked like warnings. Not the one in my nose—still there, like punctuation. Not my left nipple—that one healed too perfectly. And not the one nestled just above my clit. That one, I still touch sometimes. Not out of nostalgia. Because Erin put it there, then overdosed two days later. Before she could suck it into her mouth and laugh like she used to.

No tattoos on my face. I never wanted it to be honest about the truth. That’s reserved for the ones who know me deep enough to read beneath the surface. The rest of me? That’s where my story lives—carved not in stone, but skin.

Each one tells a tale. A high. A low. Or something Erin dreamt one night and couldn’t bear to forget. So she made me live it before she inked it.

Her name sits on my left tit, crooked and defiant, just like she was. The only lines that aren’t hers. The only one carrying a rose full of bloodied thorns.

Ghosts, my friends call them. The ones close enough to trace the whole truth with their fingers.

I built a reputation back then.

The Train, they called me. I’ll let you imagine why.

But I almost come across as neat. Decent. Like someone you could date on the wrong kind of night, when you drank just enough to make me pretty. The kind that ends with teeth and stories no one’s sober enough to tell in the morning.

Erin’s parlor used to sit on this exact corner.

And that made it personal.

I watched when they turned it into rubble. Watched the excavator crush her hand-crafted marquee like it was nothing. Not even a whisper of memory. As if Erin’s ink didn’t cover the skins of Seattle—on arms, thighs, ribs, necks. And I see those lines every day, on bodies belonging to unfamiliar faces. But the excavator? It didn’t care.

We used to laugh on her brother’s couch, the one with stuffing bleeding from the seams. We joked about getting out of whatever it was we were into. We couldn’t name it, we just called it living.

Later, she kissed me, and didn’t shoot up. It felt like a promise. Like maybe she meant it this time.

The way she made love to me—

She always wore gloves. Always tender. Like touching me was an oath.

My cunt used to be covered in her art, and I wore it with pride. Three sets of rings along my outer labia. Then four pairs. Then six. All crafted by her, and put there by her.

I loved the sound of them when she—

Or when I paid off her debts. The shop was thriving, but so were her habits.

Or when she just wanted to watch. Me. Us. Them, riding The Train into oblivion.

The joke was, no one missed the train. Everyone rode. Everyone hopped off at their stop. Some rode it to the end of the line.

But the last ring—the one in the hood? The one slightly too heavy and forged like the serpent crawling up my neck?

That one stung.

It still fucking stings.

Because she never made it hers.

She was the last one to go.

I once heard a song on the radio, All My Friends Are Dead, they sang.

Nothing sober you up like dead friends.

Erin was a natural blonde, blue eyes, and angelically pretty, the kind of face that made people think she’d been spared whatever hurt the rest of the world carried, maybe because she let the rest of us hurt while she only rode the highs. It was a lie. The prettiness was real, sure; long lashes, delicate bone structure, lips like something from a stained-glass window, but it wasn’t the whole story. Not even close.

She moved like someone used to being watched, used to being wanted. Her body didn’t match the softness of her face—long legs, sharp shoulders, and tits too generous to be ignored, even when she tried to dress them down. She had that LA-and-back kind of thin: not malnourished, just carved. Every line of her tattooed skin told you she'd lived through something. Maybe started it.

There was something else, too, something just under the surface. A coiled tension in the way she smoked, the way she touched people like it meant nothing. A man’s shoulder, a girl’s tit. A cunt too inexperienced for what was inked into it.

Erin could be warm, sure, but it was the kind of warmth that made you check your wallet. That made you second-guess the things you’d just confessed. She had a mean streak she dressed in charm, a cruelty that came out only when she was sure you couldn’t leave. And by then, most people didn’t want to.

She didn’t need to raise her voice to manipulate a room. A glance, a laugh, a silence at just the right moment—that was enough. Erin was pretty, yes. But the mistake was thinking that was all she was.

I wept for a year. For Erin. For Annie. For Thomas, Glenn, and Alexander. But mostly for me.

And now?

Erin’s corner was scaffolding now. Cranes. Men in yellow helmets and matching vests. They dared to sweat into the ground where her shrine had stood, like her tomb had never even existed.

I spat onto the pavement. Twice. Then caught my reflection in the window of a parked car. Not bad. Half-decent, even. I’d never had a size-fuck-me chest, but what little I had, I knew how to play right. My ass was what usually caught their attention.

I kept it pinned tight in too-narrow pants that showed off its curves, and didn’t just hint at the crack.

Yes, my ass. Not the brown hair or brown eyes. Not the crooked smile. Not the sharp tattoo on my neck or the stubborn ring in my nose. Not the bare belly, or the long legs.

I loved my legs.

But they reminded me of her.

So I wiggled my ass and bared just enough chest to let them know I was listening. Not interested. Just listening. A holler came first, then a whistle—sharp, lazy, like they didn’t think I’d turn around.

Not yet.

“Yo, baby! Lookin’ fine!”

I kept walking, let my hips swing, counted the beats between their catcalls. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Boots scraped against gravel. Somewhere behind the noise, I heard the echo of Erin’s laugh. She would’ve turned around faster. Said something filthy just to ruin the moment.

Married men. Too-young men. Men still saving up for that marry-me ring.

Then came a short whistle. A ripe and sharp one. The kind that didn’t need to be loud because it had history behind it. The men who’d been doing this so long they didn’t even remember why.

“Show us your tits, baby!”

I stopped.

Four of them, pouring concrete near the edge of the site. Helmets pushed back, faces streaked with sweat and dust. One of them leaned on his shovel, sideburns thick, arms strong—the kind that had done real labor. A slight beer gut pushed against a soaked T-shirt, the fabric clinging to him as if it were the air itself.

I looked left. Then right. Then crossed the street.

The whistling grew louder. So did the calls. They fed off each other, like addiction between friends. Sweet at first. At first.

“Oh, baby!” the red-haired one hollered. He had Erin’s tattoo on his arm. Not a replica. Her lines. Her style. One of hers.

I walked up to the fence. Chain-link, rusted at the base, with a plastic tarp trying to keep the site polite.

“Hey,” I said, locking eyes with Mr. Sideburns. “Anything else on you as big as your mouth?”

“She’s looking at you, Tony,” Erin’s tattoo laughed.

Tony stepped closer. I let my fingers curl around the chain links.

He stopped, just briefly, at the ring in my nose. There’s an inscription on it, too small to read. Something about the Hammer of Thor. Then, at the serpent on my neck, the drop of sweat that trailed along the scar it covered.

“No trespassing, miss,” he said, voice gravel thick and sun-dried.

“I’m sure your ethical guidelines say no catcalling either,” I said. “But look at us now. Got water?”

He grabbed a bottle from the ground, handed it to me through the fence.

I took a sip. Then poured some over my face. Let it run down my top.

“Oh, look at me, all—”

I met his eyes.

“Wet.”

He swallowed.

Tony McTavish. Foreman. I didn’t need to read his ID tag to catch the title—it was printed all across his helmet like a badge he hadn’t earned.

“Thank you,” I said, then let go of the fence.

I turned halfway, then paused. Didn’t stop, not exactly—just turned my head and tilted it slightly sideways.

“Oh,” I said. “I almost forgot. You wanted to see my tits, right?”

I don’t know if it’s the tattoos, Erin’s name above my heart, the pin in my left nipple, or the dragon inked into the right. Maybe it’s the serpent crawling up my neck, or the poem etched beneath my ribs, awkward and backward, so I could read it in the mirror. Framed in hollies.

Hers.

I love you,
I never said it aloud,
but here it is
Never enough
Just like me with you
One day
You’ll love me too?

Inked into me when I was too high to notice or care. I was eighteen then. Or maybe older. But when I sobered, I read it. Again, and again.

That night, we made love for the first time.

So when I pulled my top up, they no longer whistled or shouted.

I pressed myself against the fence, gave them a good show—full view, full silence—tugged my top back down and strutted down the street.

The next morning, I didn’t cross. Didn’t press myself against the fence. I just let their hollers lick my back until the very last moment. I didn’t stop, I just turned and walked backward, faced them, and smiled. Then, I lifted my shirt and held their gaze.

The appraisal. The approval. It made me laugh.

The coffee vendor smiled back at me, and I winked.

How do I spend my days? It doesn’t matter. I lived for those mornings; everything else was just in between. At least, that’s what I wanted it to be.

On the third day, I abandoned the jeans—let them surrender to a tight leather skirt Erin always said made my ass sacrilegious. The kind that mocked God’s best work.

The heat simmered on, melting the soles of my boots to the asphalt. Even the seagulls looked too warm to fly. I didn’t even stand out. Not among the other women hustling through the city. Half of them were tits, ass, and sweat.

That day, I crossed the street. Before the intersection. My stomach turned. Right on the corner, her door had stood. I wanted to puke. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d held on to bricks and my life and emptied myself in front of her shop.

She was never high when she worked, but the back room? If it could have whispered, it would have screamed.

Their shouts made me warm. Wet. Horny. Not because I wanted them—the drywall boys, the steel frame team, the ones with neon vests and nothing behind the eyes—but because it was inevitable. I wasn’t going to fuck them. They were just background noise. The warm-up act.

It was Wednesday. I’d fuck them—Tony and his crew—on Friday. They just didn’t know it yet. Neither did the wedding bands on their fingers. Tony didn’t wear one, nor did the young one with the beautiful face, but the other two?

They didn’t notice me at first. I wasn’t strutting across the far side anymore. I came up quiet, cutting behind the trucks and past the Porta-Johns, until I found them pouring concrete near the back lot. Tony leaned against his shovel, sweat running down his spine.

“Hey, Tony!” I yelled. “Lookin’ good, my man!”

Erin’s Tattoo glanced first, then his sidekick with the sick abs. The young one, last. Apprentice, I guessed—black, slick hair, too careful with his tools. They all had ID tags and names. But they didn’t matter. My eyes stayed on Tony as he turned and grinned.

He walked up to the fence, slow.

“You want a show?” I asked.

He nodded. Didn’t say anything.

“I’m feeling lazy today,” I whispered. Too low for him to hear.

“What?” he called out, half-yelling.

I motioned him closer. Just the flick of my index finger.

Men are easy. They obey.

I felt sweat slide down my ribs, but it was his I smelled.

“I’m feeling lazy today,” I repeated. “If you want a show, you’ll have to pull them free yourself.”

Concrete hands are rough in a strange way I like. Not brutal—just blunt. Scraping. Sometimes I feel like my body deserves to be peeled. Not raw, just easy—peeled and dry.

His big hands fumbled through the chain links, cupped me like I was two sizes too small, then pulled.

The pin in my nipple caught the fabric, and the pain pooled between my thighs. I didn’t mean to, but I flinched. Just a little.

He cupped me again, tugged at the pin.

“Who’s Erin?” he asked.

“Kiss her, and I might tell you the truth,” I whispered.

I pressed against the fence. He looked at me. Twice. Caught between Erin’s name and my eyes.

Then he leaned down and sucked me into his mouth. Greedy enough to make me moan.

It reminded me of this conversation—almost an argument. Erin was there, of course, but silent. Annie and two girls I can’t remember. We were talking about nipple sucking. Annie hated it. The other two weren’t sure.

Me? I love having my tits sucked. So I let myself be sucked. First, the left one, the pin. Then the right, the one that aches wrong. I get wet from it—too wet. From him, even. I leaned into it, until the links in the fence hurt just right, until my breath caught too tight, until I felt like pissing myself. Then, he let go, drawing one last, wet whimper from me.

Erin’s tattoo came next. Just to feel. Then the other two.

“Got water?” I half-moaned to Tony.

He grinned and handed me a bottle from his cooler.

I drank. Slow. Let it drip.

Every fifty feet or so, pale red signs warned of trespassing. Tucked between them, faded blue ones:

These premises are monitored by Augustine Securities.

External cameras. None inside that I could see.

I thanked him for the water, pulled my top back down, and tried to return to my nonexistent day.

“Hey!” Tony called after me. “Who’s Erin?”

I turned and smiled. Just quickly.

“Same place, same time, tomorrow?” I shouted.

He nodded. Waved.

I turned quickly, just fast enough for him not to catch the tears pooling at the corners of my eyes.

Erin is the girl who never got to grow up. Sure, she was twenty-eight when she died. Croaked on me and left. But Erin never really grew up.

And now? Her legacy was filled with concrete, steel, and sterile glass.

Yes.

This was personal.

Thursdays used to be filled with anticipation and anxiety. Getting high before getting high. Fucking someone to dull the wait or to pay for it. Drinking cheap booze, sitting around waiting for everyone to wake up or fall back into coma.

Erin pierced my nipples out of collective boredom. It was a Thursday, and I was only drunk. She did it after hours, still sober. Fucked me later while I was still swollen and aching.

One never fully healed.

It still throbs when I’m about to do things I shouldn’t. And that Thursday morning, it throbbed.

I strutted. Skin-tight skirt. Tits loose inside a worn sports bra that didn’t even fit me. Never did. It was Erin’s.

Hollers. Whistles. Compliments to my fine ass.

I grinned. Crossed the street and found Tony and his crew.

I pulled the bra off. Just stood there and let them watch—then stepped closer. Close enough for them to feel.

“Site shuts down early tomorrow, Tony?” I asked.

“Weekend starts at two,” he grinned.

He pinched my nipple the way I liked it. Not the sore one. The pinned one.

“Ever work late on a Friday?” I asked.

He just looked at me.

“Straight up to the cottage. Beers, fishing—”

“Jerking your cock all alone?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared. Dropped my nipple somewhere between a cold beer and a fishing rod.

“I’m horny,” I said. “How about you fuck me from two until the fish start to bite?”

He looked at his men. Erin’s Tattoo, Sick Abs, and Pretty Boy, who would cum just from watching.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m horny enough for all of you.”

They didn’t answer. Didn’t say a thing.

It didn’t matter. It was a date.

But just to make sure, I held his gaze as my hand slid up under my skirt. I pulled—tugged a little—freeing my thong from where it clung to sweat and slick. Let it fall to my boots. When I bent to fish it up, I caught the scent of myself.

I hadn’t bothered smelling myself in a while.

Intoxicating.

Then I hung the thong on the fence. Left it there.

I knew they’d take turns with it. Smelling me. Preparing.

Friday was slow. I wanted to shoot up, but I knew it was more memory than desire. Reflex, not need.

My loft is vast and dirt cheap. The occasional rats, but no roaches. The scatters in the basement come for free. The junkies on the first floor all have names.

I have a bed I keep tidy. Clean. Neat. It’s tucked away—three steps up, behind thick curtains. I’ve never slept but by myself in that bed. I intend to keep it that way.

My friends—business partners, if you like—sit in the large seating area. Den, you’d call it. Living room, perhaps, if my loft had actual rooms.

A small kitchenette. No one’s fucked me on it.

I sat on the couch now. The one I rescued from Erin’s studio. I have boxes tucked away with her things. Her parents didn’t want any of it, except for a painting she’d meant to give them one Christmas, but got too wasted to remember.

I had nothing to do but prepare myself to be fucked. Royally, I imagined.

I’ve fucked since Erin. A lot. It comes with the territory of my line of work. It’s a big business, but I do it better than most.

Yes, I’ve let my body open. Taken cocks like they meant something. Sometimes I’d cum from them. It’s just the way my body is triggered.

But no. Nothing will ever feel like Erin. Never.

I imagine myself dying, still loving her.

Addiction feels like bugs under your skin. You want to itch. You have to. It’s the same thing that pulls you back to your computer or your phone, watching porn you don’t even like, jerking off to things that make you feel worse after. It’s the same itch that says one more beer won’t matter, even if it’s warm, even if it’s six a.m., even if it makes your hands shake by noon. It’s the lie that nicotine calms you down. That Adderall helps you focus. That pills balance you out—

Breathe

—that heroin was a phase. It’s the same voice that tells you it’s okay to pick at your arms, that the blood’s a kind of proof. That the ache in your gums is just stress, not rot. That the shaking is hunger, not withdrawal. That the taste of metal in your mouth is normal. It’s the voice that tells you the people you buried are better off dead. That you're the one who survived. That the needle would quiet it all, just once, just long enough to remember what silence used to feel like.

I cry a lot when I’m alone.

I masturbate violently. Not because I’m chasing the orgasm, but because substituting one addiction for another works, in a fucked-up way. I’ve had a lot of addictions—have. Hence the violence of my self-fucking. I’d fucked myself on Wednesday, after the sucking. I can’t suck my own nipples.

But now, I stayed shivering and wanting, because what I was about to do couldn’t be done with a fucked-out cunt, sore and aching.

I don’t loathe myself.

I just don’t think I deserve my love.

I was more than ready when I leaned against the fence. I’d showered before I left, but the Seattle heat was humid and wet, clinging to my skin like the regrets of what I was about to do.

It was one-thirty, but the lot had started to die down. Sweaty men poured out through the gates—just the one main, and an accessway on the far side of the site. The bugs in my blood drank me dry from the inside. But my cunt just throbbed. Hot, wet, anxious.

Another twenty minutes passed. The flow of fuckable men, fuckable girls, dwindled.

Then I heard his boots on gravel.

I turned.

I watched him enter the code, but I could’ve guessed it.

One—two—three—four.

There’s something about the way your fingers give it away. He wasn’t even watching the keypad. He was staring at my tits like he’d already decided they were an appetizer.

As soon as the gate clicked, I rose onto my toes and kissed him. His jaw. Possessive.  Pressed myself against his sweat-slick shirt, tasting the salt of the afternoon. Let my thigh curl around his leg.

“Fuck me,” I whispered. Wet, simple, inevitable.

He grinned like men do. Coiled like he had to stop himself from doing it right there. Not out in the open. Not yet. He took my hand.

A voice crackled through the PA, flat and distant.

All equipment must be locked down in the site containers at the end of the day.

I’d read it on the signs. Plastered every fifty feet. A horn sounded. Loud. End of day. As if the workers hadn’t skipped out early and weren’t already halfway into a cold beer.

He led me deeper.

Six containers, dead center. The old kind, painted over too many times to count, hinges bowed from years of weather and pissed-off workers trying to slam them shut or pry them open. Chain loops. Rust-bloated padlocks. And alarms—cheap, battery-sick boxes blinking red like that meant something.

They squeal loud enough to catch attention if you trigger them off. If.

The kind of security you asked for when you hired Augustine Securities. Enough to let the paperwork look clean. Enough to say, We tried.

Tony led me by the containers, up a set of rusty stairs. Foreman, the sign on the door said, and when he pushed the same code and pulled, the door just sighed.

Inside, the air was thick with sweating insulation and damp with the sweat of air. And lo, and behold.

Erin’s Tattoo. Sick Abs. Pretty Boy.

“Beer?” Tony asked.

I’d kill my mother for a beer. I’d hump a trailer hitch for a shot of vodka. I’d piss on Erin’s grave for—anything.

“Yes,” I said, too quickly. “No, thank you.”

I crossed my arms, dragged my nails down the skin—slow, shallow, enough to feel.

“Just fuck me.”

By that point, it wasn’t even a lie. It was a craving. I needed to be used—like the wooden boats along the old pier needed to swell. Left long enough in the water for the seams to close, for the hull to remember its shape, for everything to hold.

To float. I needed to float.

They moved too slow, and I was burning from the inside out. So I stripped, not even realizing how wet I was just from clinging to the fence and dreaming. Erin’s thigh. Her left one. Her perfect, heavy tits.

I dropped to my knees and demanded cocks.

Tony was first—half hard and ready. Erin’s Tattoo came next, quick to unzip. Sick Abs hesitated, unsure. Pretty Boy just stroked himself in the corner, like he didn’t even know where to begin.

My mouth’s always been sloppy. I don’t think men mind when I slobber over their cocks. Tony’s was warm with sweat, but I’ve had worse.

Way worse.

Not the girth I’d imagined, though. Then again, my imagination tends to run wild.

I’d done three men once. Before. Mostly because Erin dared me, promised a new tattoo to tell the tale. It’s nestled on my right calf, just beneath Gandalf. One of the guys was supposed to look like Aragorn, the one cumming on my face—I think that was the joke.

I might prefer girls when it comes to affection, but let’s be honest. Everyone would fuck Aragorn.

“Better than beer and fishing?” I asked, drool slipping down my tits.

I didn’t wait for an answer. Just kept jerking him as he struggled to catch his breath.

Erin’s Tattoo tasted less like sweat, more like throb. I like the pulsing ones. You never know when they’re going to burst.

I don’t enjoy sucking cock. I hate it when they cum in my mouth. But Pretty Boy needed the relief.

“Fuck me, Tony,” I whispered, spreading wide enough it couldn’t be mistaken for anything but an order. I pressed my face into Pretty Boy’s crotch—just to feel his excitement against my skin.

I always moan when someone sticks their cock in me. It’s almost bizarre how deep it starts. This time, it slipped out wet against the young one’s pants.

My cunt does this strange thing—Erin was the first to notice.

It pulses. Throbs. Then locks up tight, like she isn’t ready. But give her a moment. Let her listen, and she drools, loosens, opens wide. Like someone whispered friend in Elvish.

But only when something’s poked into her. Not when I’m rubbed, licked, or taken like I’m loved.

My hands moved fast against Pretty Boy’s zipper. Pulled. I’m good with zippers. Erin lost her pants by magic more times than I can remember.

“What’s with all the ink?” Tony groaned, spilling sweat onto my ass. “You think real men are turned on by it?”

“Shut up and fuck me,” I snapped, then slid the young cock between my lips.

It was already pumping. I don’t throat cocks—fuck that. I’ll suck them proper, sloppy, wet, but if they push too far, I bite.

I didn’t have to bite this one. Just bobbed ten times, and he exploded.

God, how I hate cum. I let it drip from my mouth, was just about to spit when Tony’s flat hand landed on my ass. A warning.

“Swallow,” he ordered.

“Fuck you,” I said, and spat anyway.

My cheek burned. He’d slapped the purple and green mermaid riding a shooting star, tits like buoys. A peculiar high I’d once told Erin about. She didn’t laugh at the image, only at my question.

“Where does a mermaid keep her pussy?”

Mine was tucked around a cock that fucked hard and intentionally. I knew I was going to cum. Not now, not instantly. But eventually.

Sick Abs pushed into my mouth, as if he had finally bent his wedding band far enough out of his mind.

He had the kind of cock that didn’t pretend to be horny. It was already spilling pre-cum like it was aching to feel me. I don’t mind pre-cum.

Cum is violent—thick, lumpy, disgusting. Salty. It comes with noise, with theater. That wet slick on a cock’s head when it’s just asking—just leaking—is different. It’s not a performance. Not a conquest. It just is.

And maybe I like it because it reminds me of Erin’s slick. Hers was thicker than mine, slippier. Odorless. Sweet. The kind of wet that coats without clinging.

Mine? Mine smells up the place. Claims it. Just like I was claiming Tony’s trailer now.

Red—with the fantastic tattoo—tried to fence with the cock already in my mouth. I don’t take two.

“Easy, cowboy,” I grunted, half a cock lodged in my cheek.

I wrestled my cunt off Tony’s cock, shoved the others back against the desk.

“I got an idea,” I said, letting it slip out wet, needy, shameless.

Told Tony to lie on the floor. Straddled him like my cunt was designed in his image. Forged for purpose.

“You got a ring in your cunt?” he groaned as I sank down on him. “Why?”

I rode him. Slow.

“Pull it and find out.”

He fumbled like my cunt was delicate crystal in his mother’s cupboard. Then tugged—too soft.

“Pull it,” I hissed.

He pulled it. Like a handle on a stubborn drawer.

Fuck. Fuck.

That’s why Erin put it there.

He felt me spasm around him—not cumming, just clinging on between pain and fuck. And then I drooled soft and long around him.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

I didn’t care if he found my cunt holy. I just wished Erin were there to watch. Perhaps she did.

“See,” I said, sliding all the way down on him. “Three cocks. Three holes. Be imaginative.”

I don’t love a cock in my ass. I don’t drool and plead helplessly to be ruined. But it’s better than two up my cunt. That kind of stretch is just discomfort. Something only Erin could make me do. Taking one in my shithole is logistics.

They looked undecided. Hesitant.

“Love your tattoo,” I said. It slipped out too wet, too needy.

He was soft around the edges—belly not quite flat, skin pale, red pubes. Her tattoo curled on his left arm, right between the elbow and shoulder. A naked girl, inked like sin. Cat ears. Tail. Back arched and begging.

I licked it. Sweat. Salt. Her.

“If you cum in my mouth, I’ll swallow,” I moaned.

I didn’t plan the line. I just heard it come out of me, loose and wild. Unhinged and too fucking close to losing it.

But it solved the logistics.

His hands shook as he twisted his fists into my hair and dragged me onto him while Sick Abs grabbed my ass like it was a bag of cement he meant to tear open. Then he poked at my dry hole like he’d never fucked anything but fantasies. Too sharp, too fast—enough to stall my cunt just before the brink.

“Shit,” I yelped. “Lube. Oil, spit—fucking anything!”

I snarled over my shoulder and caught him eyeing the grease gun on Tony’s desk.

“Fuck, no!” I shouted, half-panicked—but Tony thrust up and into me and stalled the protest.

“It’ll do just fine, doll,” he grunted.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it would work just fine. Regardless, my mouth was full of cock again, my hair twisted tighter, my scalp burning with every shove.

They greased me like a cylinder block, even filled the cavity. I figured I was about to get fucked compressor drill-style.

I don’t love a cock in my ass, but there’s something about the pain no grease gun can erase. The ache, the stretch—it lingers in a way I like more than I admit. Like having the ring yanked just a little too hard, or my nipples clamped until the ache turns molten.

I thrive on a little pain. I would’ve moaned—low and sickly—if my mouth weren’t already full. I would’ve screamed. The way Erin loved me to.

No, I don’t love a cock in my ass. But lodged tight against the one in my cunt? That’s different. Not virgin—not even close—but the pressure seals me. Packs me full. Fucked shut.

I couldn’t move. Pinned between them, locked in place like a bolt in a vice.

Then they fucked me.

Even my mouth was fucked. I think I liked it. Like some sick, twisted game of sucking lollipops and drooling like a rabid cow. The ache in my ass gave way to something else. Not pleasure, not at all. Not there. But my cunt?

Jesus, she was high. Taking a ride on the wild side of fuck.

I came like that.

I’m not proud of how I cum. It’s loud. Wet. Uncontrolled. I thrash. I spit. I jerk like a shorted wire and cry out like it hurts—which it kind of does. It’s not graceful. Not pretty. But fuck, it’s real.

They say it like it’s a compliment.

“Holy shit! She’s a squirter!”

And I still hadn’t landed.

“Fuck you,” I managed. But it was weak and out of breath.

And still. Fucked.

I’d forgotten about the cock grinding against my face. I opened. He resumed.

Then his arms pulled harder, twisting my hair until my scalp felt like it was tearing. Shoved. So deep, where no cock had been before.

I gagged, but didn’t bite. My eyes watered like they’d been pepper-sprayed, without the sting.

Once, Erin and I had stood on the barricades, kissing and flipping off the riot squad. That was when they tore down the first stage.

City Revival. Zone One.

It had turned ugly on day three. We were out of junk for our veins, too horny to care, and when they fired the gas bombs, we didn’t even know why we were crying. Just knew the sting, the snot, the wet crawling down our necks.

She’d kissed me. I know it was her lips. Then asphalt hit my face, and hands wrestled my arms behind my back.

I had gagged then, too.

Erin’s Tattoo exploded in my throat.

There wasn’t much to swallow, just a lot not to gag. Most of it shot straight down, thick and instinctive, and I couldn’t swallow with a throat full of cock. He was still pumping, twitching like he wanted more out of me. Holding me locked. Fists twisted in my hair, hips jammed forward like it wasn’t over.

I had no idea what my cunt and ass were doing down there. Just heat. Just friction. Just motion. All I could feel was my throat stretching around the last twitch of him. Everything else blurred.

He finally pulled out and stumbled back against the desk. I didn’t even see it—didn’t catch his face, just the heat. I was too busy screaming. It poured out of me like a busted valve. A raw, involuntary howl that cracked something open inside. Not pain. Not quite pleasure. Just everything at once. A barrel of repressed womanhood splitting wide and gushing loose.

“My fucking God,” I heard myself yell. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

And that’s all they did.

And it was too much.

“Fuck me on your desk,” I moaned. Groaned.

Addiction is a raw beast. And riding two cocks felt exactly like—

Sick Abs lifted me off the floor. Straight off Tony’s cock. It stood there, proud, pulsing, and—

Fuck, was that my wet on him?

He spun me around, cock still jammed in my ass, and dropped me on the desk. Fucked me raw.

Erin never poked my ass. She licked it because she loved it. Sucked it sometimes. Let men fuck it for money. She liked that.

I didn’t fucking believe it. I’d seen abs like his before—when I still gave a shit, when I still worked out at the gym. Some of the men I fucked for Erin had them, back when she was still picky. Before greed turned into indulgence, indulgence into need, and need into something pitiful. Before the middle-aged men with bellies and too much wallet started showing up.

I didn’t fucking believe I could cum from getting my ass fucked.

Couldn’t believe I rubbed myself raw and tugged the ring like it was a lifeline, the only thing holding me together. I don’t know if I squirted or pissed myself, if the wet down my tits was his or mine. Drool, maybe. I know I scraped his back. I know I broke a nail.

No one had ever spilled their cum in my ass before.

Sure, some threatened to bust a condom inside me, but most just came on my back. That was Erin’s rule.

I guess I forgot about the rubber.

His abs—six, maybe eight—tightened all at once. Like blisters forming and freezing under his skin. His arms pinned me to the desk. To the wood, the papers, the staplers, and pens. My legs curled around him, greedy. Like they wanted to feel everything.

He grunted. Low at first, then louder, heavier. Tried to kiss me. Ended up licking my face. Thrust one last time and held me there. Open around him. Panting, like I’d never been fucked before.

Then he pulled out. Slow. Let me feel the stretch of emptiness as my ass tried to regain dignity. Memory.

Then, Tony.

Between my thighs, poking at my wet hole but not pushing in. Rough hands on my tits. The right one first, the chronically aching one.

“Fuuuck,” I moaned at his touch.

Then the left one, gentler this time. Tugging at the pin, before pulling, before squeezing them both in his callused hands, dusted with concrete.

“Fuck me,” I groaned. “Stick it in me already. Fuck me stupid.”

“Who’s Erin?” he asked, leaning in and licking her name.

There was a digital clock on the wall behind him. We’d been at it for—

It had been almost two hours since he’d opened the gate. Time flies when you’re kept busy. But there was a thermostat reading underneath, in smaller letters. I had to squint.

Ninety-two.

Burnt insulation. Moist air. I felt dried out and soaked at the same time.

“You still good on that beer?” I asked.

He grinned. Rubbed his cock against me. The ring. The impossible wetness of me. I moaned—liquid and stupid.

He reached to his right. The fridge opened toward me. Phone numbers taped to the front. Direct alarm. Rounds every hour.

“Here,” he said, twisting the cap off his cheap beer.

Water clung to the glass instantly. I filled my mouth. Just enough to rinse the taste of Red out of me. I wanted to swallow. Just to feel that clean burn—

But I spat, poured it down my face, my tits, cooling me enough for the ride.

“Fuck me,” I yelled.

He pushed in. One thrust. All the way.

I moaned. Every cock makes me moan when—

My nipple stung. Twisted and pulled between his fingers like a cheap rubber toy.

“Who’s Erin?” he asked again, slow-fucking me.

“A dead girl,” I whimpered. Cried.

Something happens to men when they fuck a cunt who prefers girls. Erin used to crack jokes about them.

“All men think they can fuck you straight,” she’d say. She wasn’t even high then.

It was August. We were clean. We’d taken the train out of the city and stayed naked in the grass, promising ourselves this was it.

She pierced my clit a week later.

OD’d forty-six hours after that.

Yes, all men try to fuck you straight. Especially when you cry.

And Tony tried his best to fuck me straight.

He’s the foreman. If he decides to cum in your cunt, he will.

It’s fine. I can’t get pregnant. Something in me rotted early. Maybe an infection I let happen, maybe just a twist in the womb from when I was born. The doctor said it like a mercy. Explained it while I wasn’t listening.

I only heard the verdict.

No life will ever come from this body.

I couldn’t make myself cum for him. Just let him finish.

They drank beers, smoked, and watched me curl up on the desk.

Pretty Boy didn’t smoke. Drank slow, like he needed permission.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Want to try a ride on the ghost train?”

He swallowed.

I know. A fucked-out girl isn’t a pretty sight. I was leaking from both holes. Not what you imagine your first to be.

“Come here.” Still whispered.

He sauntered over. Hesitant. Shy. They watched him.

I sat up. Guided him between my legs. Took his hands.

“The tattoos,” I said. “They’re just inked skin. Here.”

I let him touch the serpent.

“What do they mean?” he asked. Soft voice. Innocent.

“Everything,” I said, guiding his hands to my breasts. “They’re not your porn fantasy, but they’re honest.”

They perked at his touch, as if they’d forgotten what stillness was. I liked his hands. Soft.

“You can suck them. If you want. It’s okay.”

He could have been eighteen. Nineteen. Perhaps twenty.

He was pretty in a way most men forget to be, once they’ve tasted a girl.

His lips weren’t greedy or needy. Just curious.

“Take your cock out,” I whispered, curling my fingers in his hair. “Rub it against me.”

It’s not like he had a choice. Not with them watching. Not with me remembering what gentle used to mean. It wasn’t elegant or sexy, but it was hot in its own way—how he fumbled with his zipper, how his pants dropped to his ankles like it surprised him.

How he didn’t know what to do next.

And it felt good. Guiding a virgin cock inside me.

I moaned—because cock in cunt. Internal wiring. Something fucked up.

“Don’t expect the next one to be this sloppy,” I told him. “Hope she’s tighter. Cleaner. Makes you work for it.”

He still moaned like I was the best cunt in the city.

Well. I am.

Just not when I’m already fucked open.

He found rhythm. I helped him. Sat up, peeled off his sweaty t-shirt, pressed myself against him—tits to skin, skin to heat. But my eyes stayed over his shoulder, on them. Still watching.

Even when his pace quickened. Even when my pulse caught up between my thighs. Even when my breath snagged in my chest.

“You’re making me cum,” I whispered. Loud enough to fill the room.

They were watching. I let them. I let myself.

A cock that’s never been inside anything but his owner's hand is something else. He didn’t fuck like he knew how. He fucked like he felt it. Every inch. Every shudder. Every stupid heartbeat pounding into mine. How my wrecked cunt gave room for him, and when I squeezed, his grip on my butt tightened. Pulled me onto him, almost lifting me off the desk. Bodies pressed the way the Bible almost meant. My throat caught. His breath came in low, desperate grunts. My pussy throbbed. His cock pulsed.

I whined—and I didn’t mind how I came. Let it be ugly. Let it be loud. Let it be wet, thrashing, breathless, and seen.

I let it happen.

I came for them. With him.

I was clean. Five years now. And for once, fucking felt new.

I even loved how he spilled inside me. Too fast, of course. But it wasn’t about how fast. It was that we got there. That I got there. First.

I was loud at first. Then quieter. Breathing again.

“They don’t all squirt,” I whispered. “Sorry about that.”

He wasn’t all there yet. I think he thanked me—soft, breathless, in my ear.

“That was awesome,” I said, sliding off the desk. A paper clip clung to my thigh. “Unless you want another round?”

No takers.

I could’ve fucked through the night. Wouldn’t have been good for me, but I don’t always do what’s good for me.

They watched me dress the same way they’d watched me peel.

The afternoon heat hadn’t let up. It clung as Tony walked me back to the gate.

“Fishing?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said.

He punched the code. Didn’t even care that I saw it. Fucked stupid.

“See you next week?” he asked, grabbing my arm like it meant something.

“Sure,” I said.

I didn’t stop or look back. Just walked, as dignified as my thighs would carry me. But I paused at her corner.

Cried. Told her I was sorry.

Somewhere in slut-heaven, she’d clank her beer against the other sluts’ bottles, grin that crooked smile, and tell me it was okay.

She’d got to watch.

“He came in my ass,” I whispered.

She shook her head, called me a rookie, and reminded me.

“You let a virgin cock make you squirt.”

Then she got high and wasted. My nipple throbbed.

The left one.

It only ever throbs when she’s gone.

There are two sides to every story. The one they see, and the one I hide. The one where my days weren’t spent teasing at a chain link fence. Where I studied the blueprints, the images on my phone. Where I talked in silence with my girls at some coffee place that insisted Cobain was still alive.

The one where we pulled up in stolen vans with blinking lights, parking in plain view—not of the cameras, but in their blind spots.

Andrea nodded at the uniformed car from Augustine Securities. Her yellow helmet and vest gave her authority. He didn’t even glance twice. Victoria, more stealth and quicker, had quit her high-tech job three years ago. She moved like sin over a preacher’s lap—fluid, invisible.

There was nothing invisible about the way the Seattle night broke open with lightning and thunder that snapped almost as quickly as the lights broke down. It didn’t sneak up from the distance; it just opened above us, soaking us in what only felt like release.

The card was in Tony’s pocket. I’d rubbed my phone against it when I pressed close, kissed his jaw, let the corner of the cell slide over his thigh. It scanned clean. Victoria printed the clone, no questions asked. I never asked how, just watched the way her ass clenched when she crouched.

One-two-three-four.

She cut three wires. Blinded them.

“Old camera systems,” she muttered. “Dumb as fuck.”

“Fifty-eight minutes,” Samantha reminded us.

They’d been kind enough to tuck all the gear into one neat, confined space. The battery alarms? Quick to squeal, but easily drowned in a bucket of water. Prying the containers open was more about keeping it silent than cutting the chains. We checked the lists. Robbed them blind of everything that translated to quick cash. Even managed to relieve them of two brand-new backup generators.

Victoria goofed Tony’s trailer into thinking it was still intact, emptied the fridge, even if the beer was cheap, and erased the hard drive’s memory of the girl at the fence. Her face, sure, but her tits. The way her eyes scanned the site. The way she let herself be sucked wet. The way every line of ink on her body would identify her.

Men didn’t easily tell of the girl. Especially if there was no proof of her. Apart from her scent.

“It stinks of pussy in there,” she grinned.

“Enough to get you horny?” I asked.

Victoria is pretty in a different way. And all Andrea’s.

“Ever wonder what the H in my name stands for?”

Victoria H. St. Alexander. Never inked to my body, just my mind. Jealousy, perhaps. Craving, maybe. Itch? Fuck, yes.

We had to wait for the Augustine car to return. Not because it was important to be seen, but because it was important they knew what they’d missed.

Enough time for me to—

I crouched at her corner. Rubbed myself. Just a little. Almost cried. Fiddled with the pin, slid it out, and let the ring fall into my palm. Kissed it. Put it down where an old welcome mat had warned visitors about entering.

The Augustine car was only fourteen minutes late.

Andrea nodded. Flashed the lights. Climbed in.

We ditched the stolen vans under the bridge. Samantha wanted to torch them—said she’d seen it in some dumb movie.

We shifted everything to our own vans. Trucks. White.

Sixteen minutes later, we pulled into the lot behind my building. That’s why all the junkies on the first floor have names.

George. Peter. Alexis. Anthony with the split lip. Sandra. Alexander. Dennis.

I treat them right. Get them what they need. They watch over my shit until it’s sold.

“When are you moving out of this dump?” Andrea asked in the elevator.

“When they lock my cunt up,” I said.

They cracked beers. Andrea and Victoria kissed too long. Got naked too fast. I offered them my bed.

“Still no beers, Holly?” Samantha asked.

She unzipped her black hoodie. All the way. Milky white. Untouched by ink.

“Never,” I said. “Can’t.”

My eyes lingered. Too long. Caught hers before sliding down to the pale skin of her chest.

“Still trying to seduce me, Sam?”

“Is it working?” she teased.

It was working. Had been for three years. I just couldn’t allow myself.

“What gets you off the most, Holly?” she asked, tipping the last of her beer. “The intel—that’s what you call it, right? The heist? Or watching the ghost of yourself on the news?”

Ride the ghost train.

“No,” I heard her whisper, from the back of my throat. “I’m the one who died stupid for a last high. Ride the living, Holly.”

“How?” I whispered.

“Huh?” Samantha blinked, confused.

The radio DJ flicked a switch inside me. Alice in Chains – Down in a Hole.

Sam let herself slide closer, nestled her body against mine. I closed my eyes.

“I won’t deny you your wings,” Erin whispered.

I cried when I kissed her.

I smiled when she tickled Erin’s name.

“We loved her too,” she whispered. She lifted her pant leg and showed me the tattoo on her ankle.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But not like I did.”

She smiled then.

“So let me love you differently, Holly.”

And I still came ugly.

The Fucking End

I had it tattooed three weeks later. On the back of my neck.

***

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