It was stupidly late in the morning when the girls, almost in unison, gasped against the heat, the moisture, the slow suffocation of oxygen already used up and stale inside the tent.

It was poetically right when they stomped the dust of the path to the beat of Eye of the Tiger. Something ridiculous about the grace of finding a porta-potty.

Tommie couldn’t remember the last piss she took in something resembling a toilet. Her cunt hurt. Eira had fucked her. Four fingers. Full palm. Stretched her. She didn’t know she could stretch that way, didn’t know if she’d close again.

Eira looked down between her legs like her cunt had filed a complaint. One cock. She’d taken a single cock this whole trip so far. And it felt, somehow, like betrayal. She’d made herself promises: two a day, never the same one. Anything with a dick and a beat to fuck to.

She felt so utterly unfucked.

Anita was afraid to pee. Her knees were green, her mouth tasted like grass and dirt. Her cunt didn’t ache—it throbbed. Hungry. Starving.

Feed me.

Really, she admitted. I’m a slut?

Tasting a cock wasn’t enough. Sure, she’d puked—first time—but that was just because she was stupid. The way her throat had opened, like it wanted to devour him whole, felt almost shameful. If not for...

She’d leaked. Actually leaked. Blushed at the way her cunt had soaked her fingers. Being fucked into the dirt, her friends watching—that had done it.

She dared to piss, then.

They stood outside, studying Eira’s map. They didn’t talk about the night before; they just felt it in their own way.

“That way,” Eira said, pointing to the obvious flag marking the shower stalls.

There was a lineup. A queue. Guys to the right, girls to the left. And a couple who hadn’t decided what they were yet.

They were gorgeous—two-day stubble, faces pinned and ringed like pain was the price of existence, and beauty the consequence.

They hesitated, even when first in line.

Tommie held the door open, her arms scraped, her smile unbroken.

“Ladies,” she said.

And meant it.

Eira stepped into the narrow stall.

Towels, she thought. Another thing they’d forgotten to pack.

Shampoo. She watched the muddied water collect and swirl down the drain. She felt wrong washing her first Wacken off herself, but liked smelling clean. She knew she couldn’t scrub clean, but everything was about the illusion.

She pissed again. Standing. It just happened.

Toothpaste tasted foreign, and feeling her teeth without the film felt strange.

The girl with the scorpion tattoo on her shoulder let her gaze rest too long on Eira’s chest. Tits.

She didn’t mind.

Tommie leaned her head against the shower wall.

Fuck me, she thought, letting the water just rinse.

Every inch of her body was burned. Red. And what wasn’t—across her chest, her ass, her cunt, her calves—ached.

Her heart raced. Still caught on Eira’s fingers. Still pumping with that—

She didn’t know how to un-love Eira. But she figured it involved beer. Booze. Weed. Something chemical. And fucking enough cocks to forget.

Anita rubbed her belly, then her cunt. So what if she was a little round at the edges? So what if her tits weren’t vulgar like Eira’s or pinned tight like Tommie’s? She had a better ass than both of them combined.

She’d felt it—the way Roger had pulled her apart and plowed into her. Watching her ass did something to guys. Men. He was a man. She’d fucked a dude old enough to be her father.

Roger had finished in her hair. On her back. Down her crack.

Dirty slut, she whispered to herself. Cock-whore.

Anal? Did Eira take it up the ass? She wanted Eira to take it up the ass. Threesome? The taste of cum?

Why didn’t the water feel cold?

⛧   \m/   ⛧

The girls found themselves nestled in the shade of a Beck’s parasol. Hair still damp, but drying in the breeze. The empty cans scattered on the ground matched the parasol. It had done nothing about the pulse in their veins.

Tommie watched Eira’s sure hand applying thick lines of eyeliner. The girl behind the counter had promised it wouldn’t smudge or streak. She’d never lived under the Wacken sun. Or cried into the grass.

Eira handed Tommie the bottle of sunscreen, turned, and swept her hair aside.

“Do my back?”

For the chance to touch Eira without her snarling, Tommie was happy to oblige.

To Eira, it gave her a chance to be touched by her friend without coming across as needy.

“Thanks,” she said, then glanced at her crisp-burnt friend. “A bit late, maybe, but—”

“Hell, no. I was born burning,” Tommie replied. Then she looked out across the shimmering heat of the campsite. “We should fly solo today.”

“Not unless it’s a competition,” Anita muttered. Not to her friends, not to the heat. Mostly, to herself.

Eira had to laugh.

“You think you can compete, butterball?” She arched her back, pushed her tits forward. “With this?”

Tommie just stomped off, hair chasing after her like it had somewhere better to be. She turned once, still walking.

“You’d better hurry if you plan on catching up!”

Then she disappeared—behind a tent, into the noise, swallowed by the crowd.

Anita wasn’t sure whether to follow, head the other way, or wait for some kind of cue from Eira. And why the hell was Eira smiling like that?

Eira was thinking about beer. About the way Tommie had made her cum like that. About the taste of cunt she still couldn’t rub from the back of her mind.

“She’s at a disadvantage, you know,” Eira said.

“What?” Anita blinked, snapped out of the heat.

“Both of you are.”

Anita frowned. “What do you mean?”

Eira laughed, her eyes scanning the tents before settling back on Anita’s.

“I’m blonde,” she said. “Tit-heavy and gorgeous. She’s skinny, skanky, and ginger.”

Then she looked directly at Anita. No malice. No venom. Just Eira being Eira.

“And you’re just learning to fuck, butterball.”

Anita was still looking for a comeback when Eira stepped in. She didn’t move. Could only watch as her friend took her hands and pulled her closer.

“How do you expect to keep up, babe?” Eira whispered, her breath hot on Anita’s face.

“Faster.”

Eira was cruelly beautiful.

“Harder.”

Her breath tasted like the memory of Anita's first joint

“Louder.”

Anita didn’t see her leave. Eira had already vanished—swallowed by the crowd. She just stood there, lips parted, still waiting to be kissed.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie tasted her own pulse as she stomped. Beers fresh from the mini-mart, tits aching like regret, cunt pulsing for revenge.

Dutch Village, she’d decided to call it—a tight cluster of tents tucked deep in D-field. Dutch flags flapping overhead. Orange jerseys. A pair of clogs hung from a pole like a warning or a joke.

Holland, choked on the H, like something lodged in your throat.

If anyone had weed, it’d be them.

The beer? Just her ticket in.

It was a circle of tents. She didn’t count them, but there were seven. And seven felt magical—seventh angel, seventh son, seventh son of a seventh son. Seven girls. Seven guys. Or close enough.

They were playing cards, fighting over Bluetooth, drinking beer, kissing. Rubbing sore eyes, blinking at the sun. But more than that—the drift of pot in the air, like incense. Like invitation.

Tommie dropped into the grass beside a girl just as burnt and ginger as she was. She cracked a beer and offered the other one.

“Got room for a girl with warm beer and a desire for regrets?” she asked.

The girl took the beer, let it sweat in her hand a moment before popping it open against her boot. She sipped, slow and sloppy, then gave Tommie a once-over without bothering to hide it.

“You got regrets already? That you want us to exorcise?”

She exhaled—long, lazy—and leaned back on her elbows, eyes half-lidded.

“Or are we supposed to help you build some new?”

Her pants rode low. Low enough that Tommie didn’t have to imagine the underwear, the dip, or the red flash of pubes.

“I’m Luna,” she said. “But it’s Robbie you want to talk to.”

She nodded toward the guy slouched in front of the opposite tent.

“If you fuck him, you might even get it free.”

Tommie grinned.

“Would you watch?”

Luna didn’t blink. Just took another sip, licking the foam from her lip like it belonged there.

“I’d hold your hair, sweetheart. If you asked nicely.”

She looked her up and down again, slower this time.

“But I bite when I’m bored.”

“I piss when I cum,” Tommie said, without blinking.

Luna choked on her beer. Coughed once. Laughed twice.

“Shit,” Luna said, wiping her mouth. “You’re dangerous.”

Tommie just smirked.

“Also,” she added, “I eat cunt like it cures something in me. Like it’s a fucking prescription. Like it’s good for me.”

Luna didn’t say anything after that. Just stood, took Tommie’s hand, and led her across the grass like she’d been waiting for the excuse.

Robbie looked up as they approached. Measured them both in a glance. No surprise. No smile.

“Tommie needs to get high,” Luna said.

Robbie had seen Tommie’s kind before.

“How high?” he asked.

“I need to forget something,” Tommie answered.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira took the more straightforward route. She didn’t have to work for it like Tommie. She never really did. Her mascara was smudged just right, her confusion just convincing enough, and she leaned into being every bit as blonde as she looked.

They all spoke Spanish. Very little English. What they did speak was broken—and hot.

Didn’t matter to Eira. They spoke tits, ass, and cunt just fine. And a Norwegian bombshell like her crashing into their camp—half drunk, half stupid, and dramatically horny?

That needed no translation.

Eduardo grinned at his girlfriend. This was their sixth Wacken. Sixth Wednesday before the storm. They’d seen it all. But not quite like the blonde who’d just landed in Reina’s lap like a dare.

Eira glanced up. Olive skin. Brown eyes. Black hair. Tits strapped in too tight.

Perfect.

She let her legs flail just long enough. Let her skirt slip just far enough. Let him see. No mistaking the cunt between her thighs.

“Sorry,” she slurred, crawling out of the woman’s lap.

“Está bien. Siéntate,” the man said, offering her a beer slick with condensation. “Sit.”

Eira didn’t sit so much as collapse onto her ass. The beer was cold—ice cold. Too cold not to chug.

She tilted it back, let it spill down her chin, and made sure they saw.

And Eduardo? He just kept feeding the blonde beers—one after another, as fast as she could drink them.

His wife liked to watch.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Faster. Harder. Louder.

The words didn’t echo in Anita’s head. They shot down her spine, straight to her cunt. Down her thighs, into her boots—boots that thudded over grass, spilled beer, condom wrappers, and piss.

Faster wasn’t her plan. That was Tommie’s move. Tommie would score first, get fucked fast, get high, and chase another cock. Or a cunt. Probably both.

Eira? She’d land something cute. Safe. Slow.

Anita wanted a slow simmer. To get drawn-out-drunk. Numb herself stupid. Get fucked long.

Harder? Absolutely.

Louder?

Maybe even screaming.

So it was intentional—the single beer, the seat alone at a table too exposed in the sun. Something sad. Something abandoned. Something waiting to be seen. Something asking—not for help, but for mercy. Or attention.

So when the group of Swedish boys drew closer, she let them see how lonely she was. Let them read it in the slouch of her shoulders, the way she stared into her beer without drinking.

She let Sture be the one to ask if she was okay. Let him read her nod as a lie. Let him pause.

“Not really,” she said. “I had an argument with my boyfriend.”

There were six of them. All boys pretending to be men, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Same as her—maybe nineteen. They’d come in a van, parked out in the lot. Now they were just soaking up the last quiet day—before the bands, before the myths, before the legends.

“What happened?” Peter asked, handing her a fresh beer.

Anita forced a tear. Same way she had when Principal Svendsen called her into the office about her report card, something about slipping. Attendance.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

And then she did.

“He cheated. Two girls. While I slept in our tent. I got worried, went looking for him. Heard him.”

She drank. A little faster.

“I pulled the flap, and there he was. Cock deep in some blonde with tits like pillows. Her friend—redhead, pins in her tits, fucking shameless—was riding her face like it was hers.”

“Shit,” Svante muttered. “That’s fucked. I’m sorry. Jesus.”

Anita let herself break open. Cried like she’d just lost her virginity.

Sture wrapped an arm around her, let her sob into his shoulder.

“Anyone we can phone?” he asked. “Anything we can do to make it better?”

Anita looked up. Pushed herself off him, just slightly. Wiped her tears. Blinked. Twice.

“Better?” she said. “I’m not looking for better.”

She paused.

“I want to get even.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie wanted to believe in a god. Any god. Just so she could beg for some mercy. Robbie wasn’t the asking kind, and now her cunt was full of Dutch cock. Wrapped in rubber, but still.

His tent smelled like bullshit and lies. Of promises, sure. Bags of weed. Pills. Blue, yellow. White.

Luna smiled from the corner of her eye, rubbing herself, smoking that delicious joint.

“Rustig maar, Robbie,” Luna grinned. “Ze is een pisser.”

Robbie’s hand landed like a punishment. A reward. A warning, perhaps, on Tommie’s ass.

“A pisser? You piss in my tent, you lick it up. Cunt.”

It was enough to build too much pressure inside Tommie. Enough to make her realize she wasn’t among friends—this was business.

And if she made too many mistakes, maybe she’d find herself waking up in Amsterdam.

Luna’s cunt was too close. Maybe eating her out would earn her some reward.
Aside from the reward of eating her out.

Tommie couldn’t quite remember when she’d become a slut. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was the need to stay ahead. All those boys who’d acted too cute. Who moved too slow.

All the ones who’d been too afraid to fuck her into their girlfriend’s cunts.

“Fuck me into her cunt,” she begged.

Actually fucking begged.

Luna grinned, sliding herself lower.

“Yes, Robbie,” she said. “Fuck her into my cunt.”

Luna tasted like three-day stink. Wacken stink. Sweat. Cum. Piss

Enough to make Tommie use his name.

“Oh. My. God.”

Cracked. Torn. Almost like having Eira’s hand inside her.

Let it last, she begged inside her head, slurping a filthy cunt clean. Making it leak pure. Taking a cock up her cunt that didn’t care if she came or not.

She did.

Holding back the piss like a prayer forgotten.

Luna came too. Of course she did. Every girl came from Tommie’s mouth. Because she didn’t treat a cunt like something sacred or fragile. She was a mouth-fucker, a carpet-cleaner, a muff-diver.

But more.

A fucking cunt whisperer. A clit technician.

Jaw soldier.

She didn’t go down—she owned that pussy.

So when Luna’s legs wrapped around her and her voice was reduced to something pitiful and begging, it felt like victory. No matter how hard her own cunt was pounded. No matter how sharp the sting in her bladder.

Robbie grunted like all men did. Pushed deep. Hard enough for Tommie to leak, just a squirt. Nothing anyone noticed.

Enough to score her a small bag of weed. Three blue pills.

She squatted outside the tent. Didn’t care who saw her piss.

“Fuck,” she muttered, flicking a blue pill in her mouth. Swallowed.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira was properly drunk now.

“I need to pee,” she said.

Reina looked at her husband. He nodded gently, then took Eira’s hand to steady her. Eduardo followed behind, between the tents. Making sure the girls were okay.

“Here,” Reina said.

She crouched to help. Lifted Eira’s skirt with both hands, gentle as a nurse. No shame in her eyes. No teasing. Just offering.

“Here?” Eira echoed, confused.

Reina nodded again, slower this time. Reassuring.

It felt strange. Tucked between tents. Loud with life. Music. But she had to go, and Reina’s hands made it feel… safer.

Eira let herself crouch. Her knees trembled. Her thighs kissed. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t feel watched.

Yes. Better.

The world pulsed slower behind her eyelids.

A moment passed.

A splash. Warm. Too warm. Between her boots. On her boots. Boots getting sprinkled. Socks darkening.

Reina’s palm slid behind her neck. Just resting there.

Then lips. On her mouth. Soft, wine-sweet lips. Still pissing.

Why not?

She didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. Reina kissed like she wanted to keep her. And her breath smelled like berries.

The stream slowed. Just a trickle now.

Still kissed by a woman who knew how to make her mouth feel needed.

And when Eduardo’s cock slid into her cunt like it already belonged there, she just drooled into Reina’s mouth, until that slipped away. Let her fall, on tits, belly—

Into Reina’s cunt like she’d been falling all day.

All she wanted now was to eat her out.

Warm knees, soaked in—not just her piss—but the legacy of every girl ever fucked into the Wacken mud.

Reina’s cunt tasted like the same wine, same berries, same deceit that had brought her here. That had brought her down.

But they didn’t know that’s exactly what she’d come for.

“Condom?” she moaned.

“No,” he panted.

“Then fuck my ass.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

It wasn’t a dirty old van. It was a proper camper. A modern RV, air-conditioned. A tent outside. A big-ass bed in the back. Cold beers in the fridge. A perfect place for Anita to get revenge on her imaginary boyfriend.

The boys were riled up. Young and horny. Blonde, overconfident, and more than willing to take a Norwegian tramp on a Swedish ride.

“I love meatballs,” she giggled.

She tossed her top. Too pink.

Let her skirt drop. Too tight.

Left her boots on.

She climbed the bed in the back. Forgot who she’d ever been, and embraced who she wanted to be.

“Who’s first?” she asked, falling to her back, boots planted squarely onto the sheets as far apart as she’d split.

They stared at the black boots planted stubbornly into the mattress. The pale legs, the spread thighs. At her cunt. At themselves—unsure exactly how fast it had escalated. How quickly their momentum had dropped.

They couldn’t go home and tell the story of the girl in the camper they hadn’t fucked. How she’d stripped, spread, and asked to be taken. And how they’d all cowered out.

Sture felt almost sober.

“Me,” he said.

He unzipped, just tugged down enough. Slid on top of the girl on the bed.

“About time,” she smiled.

A cock just half-ready. Trembling with want, afraid of her smell.

“Want me to suck it?” the tight brunette asked. Casual as fuck. “Or do you need the curtains drawn shut?”

Both. He needed both.

Stood, pulled the curtain shut behind him, between them and they. Watched her glide toward the edge of the bed. Then, lips. Too warm, too hot, too eager.

The kind of lips that—shit, Angelica, her girlfriend never—fuck. Fuck.

The voice of male ego.

So tight!

He looked down. His cock was gone. All of it. Lodged somewhere inside a girl—something starting on A—Anne?

And then she just pulled off. Slobbered. Stroked him intently while staring at his eyes.

“Got condoms?” she asked.

“What? Fan…okej…wait..”

Anita sighed.

Her skirt was in the cabin. She pushed him aside, strode into the listening crowd, bent—vulgar as fuck—and picked it up. Fished out the condoms.

“I only have three,” she said, stomping back. “You’d better have brought plenty.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie’s heart drummed like Lombardo—wild, precise, too fast to follow. Her cunt pulsed like Rammstein. Heat and static. All rhythm, no mercy. Colors bled together. Red lips, orange tents, pale thighs.

Her skin couldn’t breathe. Her tits felt too big, overexposed, swollen from sun and sweat. The beer had made her soft, the weed had made her stupid, but the pill—that fucking pill—had made her electric.

The sun sucked her tits like punishment. Her ribs itched. The air was too sharp to swallow. The world tilted, spun, moaned. Maybe she was underwater. Maybe that dark shape in the distance was a void. Or a mouth. A mouth with teeth.

A tent. A black fucking tent. It didn’t shimmer so much as ache, radiate. A fuck-tent. That’s what it was. Full of cock and noise and promises. It called her like prophecy. She peeled off her top. Stepped out of her skirt. Her pussy pulsed its own language, a rhythm syncing to the beat pounding from inside.

Her boots scuffed grass and tarp and lost condoms. She was nothing but pulse and tits and cunt now, dripping into the mouth of the beast. The inside of the black tent smelled like sulfur. Like fireworks. Like warnings.

She couldn’t count how many. Didn’t care. Ghosts. Demons. Hands. Everywhere. One held her hair. Made her bow to the beast. Another one pushed in her mouth. One slapped her ass just to hear it echo.

On her knees? Held suspended? Pressed between cocks and bodies?

They didn’t care how much she pissed. How much she howled. How much she let her body be hers and hers alone. They gnawed her tits, fucked her ass. Let her slurp cum off her own face.

Let her piss.

They liked it. Cheered it.

Held her wider. Fucked her deeper.

No mercy. No aftercare. Just rhythm and pressure and spit. No gods. No rules. Just the rhythm.

And she was pushing them. Daring them to keep up.

I’m the demon slayer, she thought. Maybe she screamed it.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira wanted to cry. She had lost count of the ways she’d cum on Eduardo’s cock, without even getting her cunt fucked.

The bluntness and clarity had shocked her at first. No condom? Fuck my ass.

And he did. Again. Again. Again.

She’d come from it. From the stretch, the sting, the way Reina kept her steady with fingers in her hair, soft voice in her ear. Whispering, kissing, holding. Letting her fall without breaking.

Reina dug her fingers into her scalp again. The second time. Maybe third. Eira wished she’d just pull her in. Let her get lost in that cunt. Let her crawl inside and stay there.

Reina tried to. She really did. Pushed her hips forward, guided the beautiful blonde’s mouth, pressed her face into her cunt like she needed her husband’s cock to finish the job from the inside out. Like she wanted to be filled through the girl.

And she came.

Not screaming—no, Reina was too fucking elegant for that.

She gasped, maybe. Shuddered. Let the pleasure catch in her throat like a secret. Let her thighs close around Eira’s head and hold her there.

He pulled out then.

Eira gasped.

She gasped again when he spun her around—strong-fuck-arms, no hesitation, no question.

She tried to gasp when he pushed into her mouth, but there was no room left to breathe. Just fullness. Pressure. Maybe another orgasm—or was that just her body giving up?

No.

She was pissing herself.

He didn’t fuck her mouth. Just pushed in. Finished.

Let her fall into the grass.

Panting.

Growling.

“I’ve got condoms,” she said, sitting up. Pulled her tee off with both hands. Legs open, waiting.

Eduardo was feeling like maybe the blonde had come with purpose. Should have come with a warning.

Reina grinned.

Her voice low, hot. Dangerous.

“Hazla primero. A mí después. A ver si me lame.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Anita didn’t have time to think. They had condoms. She was stuffed full. It had taken them a while to get started.

Faster, she’d yelled when Sture was still hesitant.

Harder, when all he carried was speed.

Louder? That was all her, breaking open on his cock.

Now she was getting it from behind. From in front. Like a bitch, fucked into sweat and noise and music. One of them had come in her mouth. She hadn’t had time to taste it.

Ride.

She’d never ridden a cock before. Didn’t know how. But she was determined to learn. Just needed the one in her mouth to finish — to paint her throat, coat her stomach.

He grunted, shallow and twitching. She knew what that meant. Held him in place. Let it happen. Didn’t even gag. Maybe even liked it. Her cunt did.

She let him pulse until it died, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“My turn.”

She pulled off Peter and told him to lie down. Straddled him before he had time to look surprised.

She lowered herself. Awkwardly.

The one with the stubble—the real stubble—climbed the bed.

“No ass,” she said, grinding down as she pinned Peter’s shoulders. “No fucking way. Off limits, assholes.”

She found her rhythm. Awkward at first. But she caught the bounce. The tilt. The roll.

And when the others watched—she let them. Let them see how she learned. How she took. How her body didn’t flinch or stutter. How she didn’t ask.

Until her mouth felt empty. Until her throat begged for something more to swallow.

How she made it hers.

“Vilken jävla slyna,” she heard.

“Slyna?” she asked, slobbering on a cock almost too big.

“Slut.”

Yes. That. So delightfully that. And all the ways she could cum.

“Again,” she whispered.

“Whore.”

Filthy, they called her. And she came.

Greedy, when she swallowed her third load.

Cocksleeve. That made her skip a beat. Stopped breathing. Just cunt.

Useless. That one was all hers, and not about herself. Just a verdict when she pulled up her skirt and looked at the ruin she left behind. Six spent bodies, emptied. Condoms scattered like victory-wrappers. To her, they smelled like too-soon surrender.

She stepped out of the van.

Dialed Eira.

“Where you at?” her friend asked.

“Wacken. You?”

“Anita. It’s fucking morning. Where you at?”

“Six. At least twice. Does that count as twelve?”

Sunrise over Wacken. It felt magical, even without the rain. She crouched halfway between the camper and what should be their tent.

Masturbated violently.

Fast.

Hard.

Loud.

And entirely hers.