“Red wine,” Eira mumbled, the headache hammering forward under the heat-stuffed tent.

“Whatnow?” Anita croaked, still tangled in the too-little-sleep fuzz of morning.

Tommie didn’t say anything. Just lay there. Breathing, at least. Same posture Eira had found her sometime in the night. Stark naked, crashed like she’d dragged her body bare through the whole campsite—knees scraped, something sticky matted in her hair.
There was a used look about her. In the way her hair clung to her scalp. In the way she was spread—open, offering.

She’d muttered something in her sleep. Jolted once. Growled. But for the past hour, she’d just been still. Breathing.

“When did you get in, Anita?” Eira asked, not really expecting an answer.

“I didn’t look at the time, Eira.”

Anita fumbled the words. Fumbled something inside herself, too.

“Eira?” she tried again.

“Yeah?”

Still too big. The words. Too much for her mouth.

Heh. Too big for her mouth. That thought made her blink once, twice.

“How many times…” she hesitated. “Is it normal… How soon after do you need to cum? Again?”

Eira was paused. Stopped tasting for the wine.

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t stop cumming. Can’t stop wanting to. I…they came in my mouth, Eira. And I swallowed. While I was cumming. Like—while.”

She stared up at the tent canvas. Hoping for shade. Answers?

“Broken.”

“Broken?” Eira echoed. “Girl, nothing wrong with wanting cock.”

She looked at Anita. Not judgmental—just checking. Like she was counting limbs, tracking breath, looking for bruises under the surface.

“Six guys, though? Really?”

“God, Eira! They called me… names.”

“Oh yeah? Good ones?”

“Slyna,” Anita whispered.

“Sssslynaa,” Eira breathed back, dragging the word like nails over a scab.

“Stop it! God. Fuck.”

Eira thought about it. She could eat Anita out. Call her slut. Get off on it. Suck her ass.

“Red wine?” Anita asked, as if reading her friend’s mind—but too afraid to want it.

“Oh, fuck. You heard that?”

“You hate wine, Eira.”

Eira hated the blush that crept up her neck. Hated the way her memory still stuttered. Blurry, like caught underneath freshwater in the spring.

“Um,” she said. “I might’ve taken a liking to it. Shit. It’s...vague. I met this couple. Went for a piss. I don’t know. She kissed me—”

“Wait, whatnow? Who?”

Eira felt the heat pulse up again.

“The woman. She came with me. Maybe just to make sure I didn’t faceplant. Anyway—I was pissing, right? For real. And then I wasn’t. I was kissing her. And then...her husband. He was just—his cock was in me. And I was on her.”

“You what?”

“Yeah. For real. I eat cunt now, apparently. Got a real craving for it, too.”

She paused. Rummaged through her pack. Found a bottle of warm water.

“Advil? Got some, Anita?”

More rummaging. A tray of pills. Dry as fuck. She had to swallow twice. It stuck. Went down wrong.

Finally, “No one’s ever fucked me that long before. My ass, nonetheless. At first. Shit. Did I really do that?”

“I knew it!” Anita blurted.

“Whatnow?”

“Eira Simensen,” Anita grinned. “The too perfect, too beautiful, too much goddess. Too raw for prom queen. Eira takes it up the ass!”

“Well—"

A pause. Maybe just to let the memory settle.

“Didn’t even remember the condoms until later.”

“The wine, Eira?”

“Much later. Absurdly romantic.”

She shuddered.

“Sprawled across her tits, drinking from a proper glass. He… I don’t fucking know, Anita. He massaged my cunt. Like it was full of tension. Knots. Nerves I’ve never teased. Oh, God.”

The kind of pause you make when you do remember something you tried to forget.

“And when I started cumming, she just took the glass. Wrapped my legs around my fucking head and held me tight. Squeezed my nipples so hard they’re still bruised. It felt like lightning shooting down into my fucking cunt like…no, not torture.”

Eira closed her eyes. Like that made it easier to face the truth.

“I don’t cum like that, Anita. Thrashing. Spitting. Fuck.”

No cockiness now. Not in that voice.

“Pissing.”

“I’d toast to that,” Anita said. Dry. “If we had anything but piss-warm water.”

She nudged Tommie’s foot.

Now, Tommie could’ve woken slow. Rubbed sleep from her eyes, blinked, let the morning find her gently.

But she screamed.

“Don’t—” Tommie jerked, kicking in the air. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Her back arched, fists swinging. Kicking. Fighting shadows still thick behind her eyes.

“Fuck!” Anita yelled.

Eira didn’t ask. Just dumped the last of their water straight over Tommie’s face.

The scream broke.

A gasp. Then breath. Chest heaving. Skin flushed and clawed. She blinked again—this time, seeing them.

Then she smiled.

“Fuck,” she said. “That was great.”

She was fried. Eyes burnt like her skin.

“Jesus, Tommie,” Eira gasped. “Are you fucking okay?”

“I’ve got my girls. A bag of weed. It’s Thursday at Wacken. I’m not okay—I’m living the fucking dream.”

She didn’t mention the blue pills. No need.

She stretched. The ghosts left her eyes.

“What time is it?”

Eira checked her phone. “Ten-thirty. Ish.”

“Fuck,” Tommie muttered, rubbing her face with the back of her hand. “Strupetak’s on at twelve.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

The crowd moved in waves, cascading across the grass, spilling through the gates and flooding toward the stages.

Faster—where Slayer would rip the night wide open, if the girls made it that far. Harder—booked for Nightwish, thunder and operatics closing the dark. Louder—Judas Priest’s holy pulpit, sharpened to a scream.

But Tommie pushed against the tide. Against the heat, the noise, the blur of movement. Navigating upstream, toward the W.E.T. Stage.

“Strupetak? Really, Tommie?” Anita called after her. “For a guitarist you maybe fucked a year ago?”

“Bitch, shut up,” Tommie shot back. “They’re brilliant.”

The girls didn’t complain when they found the tent half empty, beer cold, and the air less pressing.

“First to the barrier,” Tommie scoffed. “Pretentious fucks. This is where the real shit happens.”

“If the shit means corpse paint, patchy beards, and no talent? Sure,” Anita muttered.

Tommie didn’t even turn. Didn’t care to listen.

She was the only one at Wacken who screamed her voice raw to Strupetak, the first Wacken-girl backstage. And the first girl fucked inside the heart.

Just a bathroom quickie. Nothing she’d cum from. Just a badge among girls who only bragged when the lights dimmed.

Not even enough for her friends to finish their beers and the second band to start screaming.

“You know it doesn’t count,” Eira teased, “when you already know the cock?”

“Let’s go, bitches,” Tommie grinned. “Aura Noir’s on Faster at one-thirty, Spectral Wound back here at three, then Wormrot at four. I don’t know what shit I’ll catch before Slayer, but—”

The bitches followed her lead.

It was a tight act to follow. Not Strupetak — Tommie. She dove through beer tents, grabbed five-packs of dewy plastic cups, chugged like she meant it, shared like she was loaded.
Well — maybe she was. The two blue pills were tucked safe in her front pocket. The weed? That was for sometime between Wormrot and Slayer.

They sweated through it all. Let the rhythm grind their bones, the guitars shred their minds, and the bass? Slow, growling. Yeah—right there. That’s the spot.

They found themselves the center of confusion. Of heat. Of slow beer haze. In the midst of Wacken. A group of guys crashed into the grass between them. Among them.

Canadians.

Tommie figured it was the right crowd to spark up.

“D’you guys check out Spectral?” she asked, kissing her blunt shut, slow and smug.

“Right on, eh?” the guy next to her yelled.

Eira and Anita nodded along, though Spectral Wound were as far from their taste as—whatshername? Aria? Ariana? Grande with the small tits.

Canadian bacon, though?

“You guys catching Slayer?” Tommie asked, lighting the joint.

It wasn’t a question. An invitation, made loud by the way she handed it over.

Three guys, three girls. An afternoon of Wacken. Bands no one cared for, beers spilled more than swallowed. The heat too thick to talk. The music too loud to matter. Innuendos passed between them like smuggled glances—harmless, until they weren’t.

Beating louder than the drums. Like heartbeats, asking.

D.A.D. at dusk, Sleeping my Day Away as anthem. Like they were all waiting for night to wake them up.

And only when the stage lights faded did Anita find the courage to speak.

“I want to catch Nightwish,” she said. “Might not make it to Slayer.”

“I thought it was girls' night?” Eira shot back.

“The night’s still young, princess,” the brunette grinned.

Then she grabbed John’s arm, spun on her heel, and vanished into the dark.

All ass. All swagger.

Tommie looked at Todd, sizing him up. Then at George.

“Well,” she said. “John’s getting fucked tonight. Not just because he has to suffer Nightwish.”

She paused. A final sweep over the guys, undecided but not unsure.

“Fuck. Just tell me, boys. Blonde, tits, and gorgeous? Or red, burning, and wild?”

Todd liked blondes.

George? He was full of sorrys. Full of regrets already half-shaped. Full of worry that his fiancée back in New Brunswick might one day find out that Tommie was simply too hot to deny.

Wacken rumbled by the time they found their spot. Just under the mixing tower, pressed against the fence.

“Best spot in the field,” Eira grinned. “Best sound. Best view.”

Sure, Tommie thought. But no Lombardo. Bostaph. But fucking Slayer.

Yeah, things could’ve been worse.

Pressed against Eira. Sweat and skin. A horny Canadian cock grinding into her spine. A blue pill still warm in her pocket. Forgetting to piss before Slayer.

Shit felt real.

Seasons in the Abyss. A bold opener.

Eira knew Seasons. So slow. So low. Right in her gut. Todd’s cock felt big.

South of Heaven. Repentless. War Ensemble.

She glanced over at Tommie. Found her lost in it. Not just the music—the religion of it. The sermon. The fucking sermon.

Fuck, Tommie was hot.

Eira’s skirt had ridden a little higher. Pulled tight. Todd’s pants against her skin. She pushed back. Just a nudge. Just a whispered yes, legs sliding wider.

There was no need for Todd to rub her, but fuck—his fingers rolling over her clit felt—

Eduardo had massaged her pussy and drugged her with an orgasm so deep she felt older. Like a mother. Someone wise enough to spit life out of herself and yell at it to clean up its fucking mess.

God, I hate you, Mom, she remembered.

And Todd’s fingers, rubbing her clit all wrong, were exactly what she needed to shed the mother inside her.

But Dead Skin Mask. That’s when Eira lost it. She turned, ground herself against him, didn’t worry about condoms or prayers, just screamed along with Araya as Todd pushed in.

“Foreeveeer!”

Tommie snapped out of it. She’d never heard Tom Araya in that pitch.

Not Araya.

Eira.

God, how she was screaming—bent over, tits pressing against her T like they wanted to escape her body.

Flushed, like she was choking. And still screaming. Todd, behind her, caught in a strange, off-beat rhythm.

Dance with the Dead, Araya was screaming. Was that it?

“Fuck,” she yelled. “You’re fucking!”

Eira’s head turned, just slightly. Then she grinned.

And somehow, they found rhythm in the beat—even Bostaph’s.

Tommie had never seen anything that hot in her life.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tired of having cock rubbed against her back. Tired of waiting.

“Fuck me, asshole,” she hissed.

“What?” George yelled.

“Fuck me, asshole!” she screamed.

It could’ve been the accents. Could’ve been Slayer. But if you asked George, he would’ve sworn on the ring on his finger that she had yelled, explicitly, to fuck her asshole.

No lube, no mercy. Just a stubborn cock full of intent, and an already scorched hole giving way to the pain.

Tommie never used the Lord’s name except in vain. And now she screamed it.

So loud, Eira had to notice.

And the blonde? She’d seen Tommie’s fuck-face too many times to even wonder. But that snug top looked ridiculous on her.

Fuck, Todd was big.

She let go of the fence—just her right hand. Reached for her friend, careful not to get fucked over the barrier by momentum alone.

Raining Blood.

She tugged. Tore. Ripped. Pulled her friend’s tits free, let them bounce—stubborn and defiant.

This is how you fuck at Wacken, she thought.

Tommie, though, was desperate.

Raining Blood—second to last song. Not even close to fucking cumming. Not even close.

Her skirt was folded, bunched on her hips. The pocket. The pill. She managed to fish the small bag out. Dropped one. Kept the other in her palm.

Eira saw her. Saw the pill. Saw the shit that pushed Tommie into uselessness. She folded her hand around her friend’s. Made her slip. Drop it. Pulled her closer.

“Angel of Deeeaaathhh!” Araya screamed.

Tommie met Eira’s eyes like they were the only thing that mattered. The betrayal. The pill. The fucking pill. The orgasm. The Ride!

Eira’s lips. Lips.

George went frantic. Fucked her too good. Everything melted inside her. Eira’s spit and slobber. George’s cock. The vivid lyrics about the cruelty of mankind. The twin guitar breakdown. The frantic solo. The trickle of piss inside her thighs.

Eira had no idea why she was cumming so hard. She didn’t even enjoy giant cocks that much. But Tommie’s stiff nipple, her hungry mouth, the fact that she might have fallen in love with her best friend somewhere between Skagerak and Beck’s might have something to do with it.

The lips sucking her mouth dry and wet and numb and stupid—

Was Tommie pissing?

Eira didn’t want to, but her fingers let go of that deliciously sharp nipple.

Down between Tommie’s legs. Into the stream of piss gushing out of her friend.

Just like she had done. With Eduardo.

It all made her numb to how hard Todd was thrusting into her, smearing her hand across her face, licking it. Todd’s grunts came too low through the noise. Her body pumped full—just as everything went black.

And when Todd pulled out, she sank down, still locked to Tommie’s lips. Still sucking her friend’s mouth dry, as if cock had been the only thing keeping them upright.

And when the lights came on, they refused to stop kissing. When they finally looked up, Todd and George were just standing there. Dumb. Done.

They half expected a “Yeah, sorry ‘boot that, eh!”—but didn’t care for one.

Dismissed. Thank you for your services.

“Tequila?” Tommie asked, still nibbling on Eira’s lip.

“Mhmm,” Eira answered with a half-nod.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

“Yeah, so—" Eira started, slamming her glass to the table and utterly unsure of how to follow up.

“Un-fucking-real, right?” Tommie blurted. Drunk on something. Not the booze.

“I—” Eira tried.

“Bostaph’s not half bad.” Dreamlike eyes.

“Tommie!” Eira snapped.

“Yeah?” Still lost in some dreamscape.

Eira sighed.

“I’m trying to say something. A little help?”

Tommie stroked her new Slayer shirt as if it were something sacred. Something earned. Not something she had to get because some bitch had torn her top apart mid-cum. Mid-piss. Mid-meltdown.

“Tommie! Fuck!”

Tommie snapped out of it. Her eyes found focus. She lost the beat thudding in her gut, but found a new one in that blonde face.

She’d thought Eira was stupid when she first met her. Loved her ever since.

“I love you,” she said. Flat. Unapologetic.

“Fuck, Tommie. Stop!”

Yeah, Tommie always thought, once she found out Eira wasn’t stupid, that she had a mean edge. A bite. Not cruel, just inherently evil.

And perhaps Eira caught that thought mid-air.

“No, Tommie. Sorry. Not like that. Not at all.”

Eira had never been one to keep her mouth shut. She’d told her mother to fuck off just before they left—but now her words came out tame. Dulled, somehow.

“You threw it at me. Saying you’re gay and shit. That you fucked me. That you love me.”

Eira never cried, though.

Did she?

“I just need, like… time? Okay?”

“Time?” Tommie muttered.

“Time,” Eira said. “To make sure I don’t love you just to piss off Mom, right? To make sure you don’t… you wouldn’t, though, would you? Be all girlfriend-crazy?”

Tommie laughed.

“You’re asking to fuck me and cock?”

Eira had no more beers. No more shots. No performance or tits to hide behind. Just the fucking impossibility of sitting next to a girl who somehow demanded honesty.

“Well… yes. Bi, right? That’s when you like both?”

“Labels, Eira?” Tommie grinned. “Doesn’t matter. All I heard was something about loving me. And cock.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie felt stupid stumbling back to the campsite. Holding hands with a ridiculous, sexy blonde. Then she noticed the other girls, wobbling their way back to tents. Girlfriends in leather, brothers of metal.

“You do it often?” Eira whispered.

“Huh?”

“The…fuck, Tommie. Are you really going to make me say it?”

Tommie was confused. Properly so. Just stood there, blinking.

Eira couldn’t help it. Pulled Tommie closer. Wrapped a leg around her—it always worked with boys—kissed her. Whispered.

“Pissing. You pissed when you came.”

“Oh, God…”

But Tommie didn’t blush, or push, or coil.

“Say it again,” she whispered, meeting Eira’s lips too wet.

“Pissing?” Eira whispered. A little too blunt.

Tommie took her hand. Closed her eyes. Guided her friend between her thighs.

“Softer,” she whimpered.

Tommie’s cunt pulsed warm against Eira’s palm. She rubbed. Soft.

“Piss,” she whispered.

And the trickle against her hand didn’t feel strange. Not even warm. Not gross. Just honest.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

There’s nothing still about Wacken, nothing un-raw, or silent. Nothing numb that isn’t supposed to be. It never sleeps, not really.

But the scream coming from their tent?

“Make me fucking cum, asshole!”

They looked at each other.

“She said she was virgin?” Tommie blinked.

It sounded like the kind of party that shouldn’t be crashed, so naturally, they pulled the tent flap open.

John tried. He really did try to make Anita cum. Again.

As if the spent condoms, three of them, wasn’t proof enough. But when Tommie and Eira crashed next to them, he gave up. Surrendered. Fell off her while she was still chasing it.

She didn’t thrash when Tommie took his place. She didn’t feel born-again-lesbian or overtaken by some religious revelation. In truth, she just needed to cum.

And Tommie?

She let Anita unravel exactly as she needed. Same skill, same cunt-whisperer, same clit-doctor. But now, she moved softer. Not trying to prove anything, other than understanding a friend’s need, what made her cunt growl right, what tipped her over the edge and let her fall.

She let Anita unravel.

With something so rare to Tommie’s myth, Eira forgot the cum still seeping out of her cunt.

Tenderness.

Care.

And finally, a girl reimagining what it meant to cum.