Anita’s scream burst through Eira’s phone so loud her mother thought Eira was dying.

“Shhh,” the seventeen-year-old hissed, bolting for her room. “Jesus. Mom’s here!”

“I got them! I got them! I fucking got them!” she was shouting like someone had ripped her phone from her mid-fuck, filmed her ugly orgasm, and now was teasing about handing it back to her. Just to hear her scream.

She didn’t need to say what.

Faster. Harder. Louder.

Wacken Open Air. Almost a year into the future, and somehow it already felt inevitable, like a clock had started ticking from the inside of the blonde's thighs.

“Campsite?” Eira asked, somewhere between laughter and a shiver.

“Every-fucking-thing!” Still screaming.

“Told Tommie?” she managed in between her friend’s ragged breaths and torn howls.

“You! First!”

That’s how it began. Actually, it started a few weeks earlier. Anita, Eira, and Tomine, Tommie for short, had sat in Tommie’s parents’ basement and wondered how to mark the end of high school.

Tommie had Hell Awaits on repeat and was slapping her thighs in sync with Dave Lombardo like she meant to bruise them.

“Slayer’s headlining Wacken next year,” she shouted. “Thursday.”

The girls nodded. Eira wasn’t deep into Slayer, but a metal festival that promised beer, boys, leather, studs, and spikes? She could find her kind of religion there. Anita preferred her music slower too, doomier—but with a slogan like Wacken?

Yeah. She was already packing.

You don’t wait for all the bands to be announced for W.O.A. You book your ticket before the destination is decided.

The girls had twelve months to shed their boyfriends or come up with lies that covered the bruises they’d return with. A year to stretch their stories into shapes their parents might still question, but unwillingly accept since the girls would all be eighteen by next August.

A full year to learn what condoms held best in rain, if it was dangerous to get mud there, if there was anything like true, waterproof mascara. Enough for the tears, the sweat, the rain. And whatever else were destined for their faces.

Iron Maiden were announced on the Saturday. Volbeat on Friday. Then Metallica were added. There’s not one single headliner in the mud of Wacken.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tomine and Anita stood impatiently on the steps outside Erin’s house, listening to the argument grow louder through its seams.

“I’m getting a tattoo,” Anita whispered. “I think.”

Tommie looked down at her boots. Her fuck-me-now-torn tights. Whispered something.

“Huh?” Anita asked.

“Piercing,” Tommie repeated. Audible now.

“Nose?”

Tommie laughed.

“Something like that.” She blushed, smiled without lifting her head, and went back to studying her boots.

“Naaah!” Anita gasped, clasped her chest. “Here?”

Tommie had always been skinny, and something wild had always run in her veins. Always the first into trouble and the last one out. Now, her red curls rustled in the wind as she met her friend’s eyes.

“I want it further south,” she finally said. “But not at Wacken.”

Eira’s voice cut through Anita’s gasps.

“No, Mom! Fuck you!”

Eira pulled the door open and marched past them, slamming the door shut behind her. A small duffel on her shoulder, a black T, and tight jeans. Boots.

They had all agreed on boots.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the curvy blonde growled as she passed them.

They rode the bus to the ferry. Cruise-ship, they called it. Party boat, but perhaps not on a Sunday.

“I’m so fucking getting a tattoo,” Eira snarled, dropping her ass onto the seat. “Bigger than Mom’s. Straight across both tits. A fucking dagger, too. Fuck.”

She looked at her friends.

“I just fucking hate her.”

Tommie and Anita burst out laughing. It always cooled Eira down.

“The woman who served us brownies in your room, Eira? And lied to my dad about me spending the night at your house in January?” Tommie asked.

Eira brushed blonde out of her face. “Easy for you to say, Tommie. She loves you.”

But the smile cracked through anyway. Brighter still when Tommie fished out a not-quite-cold beer from a crumpled Kiwi bag.

They toasted to nothing and everything. Then Tommie grabbed her duffel.

“Four pairs of panties, a spare shirt, and shorts. Toothbrush and paste. Three packs of condoms.”

She stopped.

“Fuck, that might not be enough.”

Then came the laugh—the borderline hysterical one that made her curls bounce and her nose snort.

Anita fiddled with her bag.

“I…” she started.

Anita had always been too cute for her brown eyes. Now her fingers brushed stubborn strands of hair from her pale face. She was slightly shorter than the other two. Tighter, somehow. And now she had to find the courage to untell a lie.

“I didn’t get condoms,” she finally let out, like a held breath released. “I couldn’t.”

She swallowed. Felt her friends watching. Found just enough strength to meet their eyes.

“I’m still a virgin, guys.”

Tommie stopped mid-snort. But Eira just leaned in.

“But… Anton?” she said.

Anita blushed rosier. Sweatier. The kind of blush you don’t put on, but that sneaks up and coats you in consequence.

“What was I supposed to say, Eira? The two of you bragging like… and me… them. Girls?”

It could have been that awkward moment between friends that didn’t keep secrets from each other, but Tommie’s blood was already running Wacken-wild through her system. She brushed beer froth off her lips, straddled Anita’s thigh and dry humped her as she kissed her.

“That,” she whispered, too turned on by herself, “Is about to change, baby doll.”

Anita wasn’t fully herself yet when they hopped off the bus, but the spillage of music coming from the docks let them know they weren’t the only ones hopping over to the continent early.

There was a steady stream of headbangers and hippies, hipsters and stoners, boomers and bloomers spilling down to the boat. In between, parents who herded their children, pensioners who’d picked the wrong weekend, and teenagers who just picked the wrong boat for the last summer party.

They looked the awkward trio. The skinny, pale, bra-less redhead marching in front—curls flying, tits bouncing, what little ass she had doing its best to keep up. The blonde with the gnarly attitude that didn’t match her pretty face—breasts strapped down because they had to be, less strut than smolder, seduction in her steps. The tight little brunette with the bouncy ass and the kind of walk that didn’t know what it promised, only that it would.

Yes, they were awkward. Which meant they fit right in with the rest of the strange crowd.

Metal crowds are an oxymoron. Leather, studs, black on black. Corpse paint, inverted crosses, piercings, and tattoos. Booze-heads, dimwits, teachers, bake-brains, and poets. In truth, just Woodstock with gentler chemicals.

And three girls bouncing in, dressed like they belonged? They belonged.

Metal chicks don’t share more willingly than other girls, but once you recognize their patches, badges, and tattoos, nod, and call out both the bass player and original singer, you’re good. You’re in. They might not like you, but they might fuck you before their boyfriend does.

Tommie shared what was left of the beer in the bag; in return, she was offered a shot of whatever-it-was. Eira was being eyed, not just by the guy who’d just offered Tommie the shot, but by half the crowd surrounding them.

Her mother was right to call her out on her outfit, telling her she didn’t condone her going to Wacken. Of course her daughter would get fucked. In more ways than one.

Anita, however, still tried to hide behind her friends.

To metal heads, the wait is the arrival. When they were finally allowed to board, they let the pensioners in first, then the families. Then, they marched.

They stretched in lines, first into the ship, then spread through stairways and hallways, until almost all of them found their cabins. Only to drop what little they carried and get on with the party.

The crew had prepared. There were Wacken posters and signage explaining to the other patrons what he fuck was going on.

And the three friends? They felt caught in the middle of a fairytale that was already in motion.

The bars, restaurants, and discos wouldn’t open until the ship was well into the Oslo Fjord. Nor would the tax-free, where there was already a line. And that line? It hurried to empty the contraband before the store opened.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

“I’m drunk!” Tommie shouted across the table.

The ship’s disco had been overrun by the horde. There were still pretty girls in pink, determined to make a night of it, but they had a hard time finding suitors. The men didn’t fit their image, but it was mutual. Too polished, too neat.

Too expensive.

Eira just laughed at her friend. She was used to her loudness, the loose t-shirt falling off her shoulder, the beat in her blood.

Rock and Roll All Nite was blasting through the speakers for the eighth time, and by now, everyone who hated KISS with a passion sang along.

“Looks good on you!” Eira shouted back.

Tommie just leaned over the table, tits loose inside, letting her girlfriend get a good look at what she wasn’t trying to hide.

“I want to get high,” she grinned.

Then, she was off again.

“Shouldn’t we keep an eye on her?” Anita asked.

Eira shrugged, still trying to find Tommie’s red curls in the crowd, but gave up. Took Anita’s hand.

“No, butterball,” she grinned. “I’m keeping my eye on you.”

Anita looked confused.

“I’m not the one who gets into trouble,” she said.

Eira’s grin grew as she waved the girl with the tray of tequila shots over.

“Exactly my point, Anita.”

Tommie could move in any landscape, but this is where she breathed. Swam. Bled. She found herself carried by the beat, the stares, the nods.

Four guys, tapping, nodding their heads to Run to the Hills, screaming along to the chorus. Fried eyes.

“Hey!” she shouted, downing the last of her beer and burping obscenely.

She didn’t need to scream to catch attention. She was it.

She was offered another beer. They offered a toast. It didn’t matter to what, but this time they agreed.

“Wacken!” they shouted.

“Got weed?” Tommie asked.

Maybe Eira and Anita should’ve followed her. Maybe they could’ve warned her not to sneak off with the guys. But she wouldn’t have listened.

Tucked under a flight of stairs, she got high and flashed her tits for the first time that trip. Gunnar, Øystein, Harald, and Sven just laughed, passed the joint, and asked what band she was planning to see.

Tommie’s list was long and impossible. Slayer, of course. Iron Maiden on Saturday, if she were still standing. But what impressed them was Aura Noir, because she looked too alive to know them. Spectral Wound, because they were Canadian. Necrowretch, Obliteration, Wormrot.

Strupetak, making their international debut. Besides, she—knew—the guitarist, said with a blushed wink.

“Wow,” Gunnar muttered.

“If,” Tommie breathed, not even bothering with blush and shame, “I’m not otherwise engaged.”

A hand brushed her thigh, no—it landed. Then, a voice too close to her ear.

“How engaged are you now, Tommie?”

She grinned. Chugged her beer.

“Still not high enough, Sven,” she giggled. “Yet.”

“How are you getting there? Harald asked. Mostly to cool the tension. And to pass her the joint again.

“Train,” she answered. “Me and my friends.”

Gunnar’s “Oh” landed like a badly hidden disappointment.

“My two girlfriends,” Tommie added. The emphasis was on girl, the ambiguity on friends.

There was room for a small silence, just enough for the guys to agree.

“We’ve got room in the van?” Harald offered.

Tommie smiled.

“And I’ve got plenty of time to get high.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira slammed the shot glass onto the table and watched as Anita tried not to gag. The tight brunette looked discomforted, disillusioned, and just slightly hesitant. Then, as if she remembered her phone call to Eira a year earlier, she slammed the shot back. Swallowed before it burned too hot, and fought back the tears.

“Enough sitting,” Eira yelled as her friend put her glass down. “Let’s join the party!”

Anita didn’t have time to think about it; Eira was on her feet, dragging her along before she could decide whether to get sick or not.

Eira wasn’t headed for the bar, but the floor. The music had become tighter and faster. Dirtier. It wasn’t a suggestion in the room anymore.

Rammstein—Pussy.

Yes, metal heads are gentle, poetic, and brotherly. They’re also horny. And Eira had the tits and pussy to match the beat.

But she was also a picky fuck, and still had a snarl reserved for anyone who touched her—or Anita—not wrong, but uninvited.

Eira had her own secrets she kept from the girls. She liked being touched. Ogled. Desired. It made her hotter than she liked to admit, which is why she always joined in with the Eews whenever they’d gone out drinking, ignoring IDs and morals.

Some nights, she rubbed herself thinking about it—something she only admitted to herself.

She’d cheated on her boyfriend, Stig. Twice. Depends how you count. Did a threesome count as two? Then three times.

Stig. She hadn’t quite broken up with him either. Something about having him accessible when that sudden need came knocking.

Rammstein faded back into KISS. Dirtier this time—Hotter than Hell.

It came fleeting, the way she stared at Anita. Maybe it was the tequila, but damn, she looked good. She looked hotter than hell.

Eira wondered what her tits tasted like. They’d blossomed this past year. Just like her ass. Fuck, those brown eyes.

“What?!” Anita yelled, squinting at the way her friend was staring.

Eira felt the tequila burn surge straight to her crotch. She didn’t know what else to do but kiss her.

“Mmphf.”

Then silence. And mouths meeting wet.

It could have turned into something other than admiring stares from the crowd if not for Tommie. She crashed in like a tornado holding a leash of four young men.

“I’ve fixed us a ride,” she slurred.

Erin and Anita had caught her too many times to count. By now, they moved on instinct and memory alone.

“Whoa,” Erin steadied, still tasting her friend’s sweat and hope on her lips.

The boys introduced themselves, names already slurring, and they crashed at a table too far from the bar, not far enough from the noise.

Gunnar fixed beers. Shots. They smuggled them into the hallways of the ship, where hoarse voices had long since lost the strength to whisper.

“Sure,” Øystein said to a question no one had really asked. “There’s more than enough room in the van for all of you. Us.”

Tommie was sprawled across the floor, skirt riding high, shirt low.

“But man,” she said. “I was so looking forward to riding the train.”

She giggled.

Eira sighed.

She knew that giggle. Knew it meant trouble. And by the time Tommie sat up, her eyes burning wild already, the point of return was somewhere behind them.

“Here’s an idea!” she near-shouted, slurring, spitting a little. “Eira, you take Sven, right?”

There’s no pulse fast enough to derail Tommie when she’s got an idea. She just scanned the other three, quick and hungry.

“Then you three drive me like a train!”

She stopped, looked at Anita.

“Unless—”

“I’m good,” Anita said. Too quickly.

Eira looked at Sven. He didn’t stand out in this crowd. No one really did. Hair slightly too slick, too black. Impressive jawline. Tight muscles under black leather. Callused fingers.

“Bass player?” she asked.

“Sure am,” he said, slightly impressed.

“I like that,” she whispered, crawling onto his lap. “Rhythm.”

She kissed him.

“Beat.”

Guided his hands to her tits.

“Stamina.”

Rubbed herself into his crotch.

“Got condoms?”

She expected him to answer, even with his lip caught in her teeth. He shook his head. Of course he didn’t. Not yet. Not still at sea, beers still foaming in their bellies.

“What are we waiting for?”

They let the party die behind them, down stairways and hallways too alike to tell apart. Tommie lost her shirt somewhere halfway. Anita made sure to pick it up.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Anita pulled the pillow tighter over her head. She’d taken the top bunk, but the angle still gave her everything. Every slurp, every grunt, every flicker of movement in the bunk across. Eira was such a dirty slut. She’d sucked that cock so long, so hard, never flinching when Sven busted in her mouth. Just grinned, wiped her chin, and told him he better last longer when he fucked her.

It hadn’t taken too long either, before he—

He had an impressive cock. Eira had impressive breasts. Not like she didn’t know that already, but the way they’d spilled back and forth under the force of his thrusts? The way Eira had wrapped her legs around his body, then caught Anita staring? The way she’d grinned at her before her eyes shut tight?

Those thrusts, though. So hard. Violent. Deep. The way Eira’s voice had cracked against his grunts.

But that was nothing. Nothing against the sounds coming from the bunk below her. Tommie had always been loud, but this?

And then—

“Fuck my ass,” she’d yelled. And from there, she’d just kept screaming. She’d screamed about cumming, then whispered it.

Maybe Anita was happy she couldn’t see what was happening below. The slender redhead, pinned between skin and cock, all three holes plugged. And still owning every beat. Every fucking beat.

And still, that was nothing.

Because Anita found herself horny like she’d never felt it before. And she didn’t dare be honest about when it had started. Not even with Eira on the floor, her tongue in her mouth. No, not even on the bus with Tommie.

Tommie. Now slobbering on a cock Anita tried not to imagine.

No. If Anita was honest with herself, it had started when she punched in her dad’s credit card number the year before. Just before she phoned Eira.

She tried to be silent about it as her fingers curled inside her, but that moan when her thighs gave in. They must have heard.

They must have.