They didn’t wake up bruised, at least not emotionally, gasping for air, or caught in regret. Mainly because they didn’t sleep.

Tommie and Eira couldn’t stop touching. Whispering. Fucking.

As if they were high on something none of them dared to taste before, something none of them pretended to understand.

“You let him cum inside you?” Tommie had gasped. At first, when the night was still shy.

Eira had shrugged, muttered something sounding like fuck, and deflected it with a kiss, not wanting to be sobered by something too shattering and real.

“I’m on the pill. It—I should be fine.”

Tommie didn’t dare judge. Something flashed, not before her eyes, but in the back of her mind. So fucking vague, the memory of the black tent. She had no idea what she’d let happen to herself. Only that she’d pissed cum after.

Besides, Eira had one up on her. She’d remembered to take the fucking pill.

Tommie agreed with Eira on one thing, though: this wasn’t the time to sober on reality.

So, when Tommie rolled on top of her blonde friend, it wasn’t just to see if Eira would flinch, it was also to deflect…that other shit. The stuff that didn’t belong to Wacken.

“Your tits,” she said, “are unreal.”

“Do that thing…the one you did with the Dutch girls?”

Tommie had never heard Eira’s voice so cracked before. Trembling. Begging? Like the words took something from her.

“You want me to suck your cum-soaked cunt and make you what? Cum? Fall apart? Love me? How nasty do you think I am?” Tommie teased.

She’d done a lot of shit. Never eaten cum out of a cunt, though.

“Yes,” Eira whispered. That tremble again. “Yes.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Anita yawned. Stretched against herself, then against Eira’s thigh. A vague memory of Tommie eating her out flickered, almost like static, behind her eyes. She sat, laughed at herself, then found her friends tangled in each other, making Anita unsure of whose limb fit what body.

Not until she stood in line for burgers and beers did the tide of memory hit.

Yeah.

No.

Tommie had definitely eaten her out, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d cum so hard she’d forgotten to thank her.

She giggled again then.

Should she have thanked Tommie?

She’d just rolled over, planted her face in one of John’s condoms, and fallen asleep. Passed out.

God, she thought, I hope that condom isn’t still stuck to my face.

She did that thing, her hand grazed her face. Just to make sure.

Then another beat. John? What the fuck happened to John?

“Yeah, thanks,” she said to the girl behind the counter. “A bottle of water? One of those big jug things? You have that?”

“Rough morning?” the girl asked.

“Nah,” Anita grinned. “The morning is awesome. It’s the night that…you know?”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie and Eira loved Anita the moment she swung the tent flap open and kicked them alive. They grunted, but the smell of a bacon-wrapped burgers had them sitting up like a pair of well-trained puppies.

“Thank you, thank you. Thank you.”

Anita looked at them. Too naked, too unbothered. Too stuck to each other’s skin. Too…something. Fuck it.

“So. You guys a thing now?”

“Hey!” Eira arrested her. “You didn’t complain last night, did you?”

“Eira, sweetie,” Anita said, making herself all innocent and pretty. “It takes a woman to finish a man’s job. Apparently.”

Then, way softer, aimed at Tommie, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tommie answered, still licking grease off her fingers. “Bring me burgers like these, and I’ll make a habit out of it.”

Anita blushed. That off-guard blush you get when you forget you’re talking to Tommie.

Eira thought it felt like a sting, somewhere under the sweat of her left tit. Like something she was supposed to guard with teeth and snarl.

“I need a shower,” she said.

She pulled on a pair of shorts. Tucked her tits inside a narrow top that might have been Anita’s. Pulled her hair back in a dulled-pink hair elastic and grabbed her duffel.

Tommie let her go. Anita watched her leave.

Tommie scoffed. Pulled on her Slayer shirt. Looked at the still restless tent flap.

“And she wondered if I’d go girlfriend-crazy?”

Anita sighed.

“Did you tell her you love her?” she asked.

Tommie stopped braiding her curls. “Yeah?”

Anita looked at her. Not annoyed, not smug—just soft.

“Tommie… behind the snarl, the teeth. The tits and cunt. There’s still a girl who just got told she’s loved.”

No lights on. Just Tommie—caught there, sweaty, half-braided, not sure what to do with her hands.

“You can’t say that to a girl, then trade another girl’s cum for burgers.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira let the water rinse the stupid off her. She’d known Tommie for long enough to know everything that came out of her mouth was either a wise-ass joke, a dare, or just reckless stupidity.

Besides, watching her eat Anita out had been hot as fuck.

Just—

She didn’t have to make it sound cheap like that.

By the time she stepped out in the still-scorching sun, she’d forgiven Tommie, but maybe not herself. Especially not for being girlfriend-crazy.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Outfucked by a virgin. In love with a firestarter. Girlfriend-crazy.”

She let that final revelation stay inside her head. She’d always been quick to rage, quick to blow, quick to steam off. Once, she’d beaten a bully who made her snap. Blacked out, came to outside the principal’s office, blood on her hands.

She didn’t want to rage. Didn’t want to hate her mother. Not even that choice had been granted her.

But she did want to raise her body count. As if getting fucked properly could get her squared on Tommie. Not a revenge-fuck for pity’s sake, but to see if that itch for her best friend could be fucked out.

Something with a familiar language, but far enough removed from her Nordstrand home. Something too stupid to ignore. She ducked in under the banner, screaming Camp Bergen, the red, white, and blue of Norway waving proudly above. Ignored their annoying accents.

“Hei,” she whispered. “Jeg er kåt. Jævlig kåt.”

A flick of hair, top pulled low.

“Pikk?”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Tommie sat in the grass outside their tent, watching an ant crawl across her boot, looking just as lost as the anthill that was Wacken. At first, they look disoriented, confused, just spinning around. But study an ant for long enough, you see the patterns. Just like the crowd that spun by.

Anita sat beside her. Silent. Still horny. Still aching to cum. Again, and again, and again.

As if she’d been reduced to a pulse and a cunt, and everything else—irrelevant.

“Jesus,” she muttered.

Tommie glanced up and forgot about the ant.

“I’m getting my tits pierced,” she said. “Now. While I still have the cash.”

Anita gulped the last of her warm beer. Just the one, drank too slow.

“Tommie…” she started. “You think that’s a good idea?”

Anything aimed at Tommie sounding like a warning or plea, or a reminder of her bad ideas, washed off her like logic on stupid.

“Wanna watch?”

Anita remembered dreading the thought of pierced ears, back when nothing mattered but pretending to care about a collective girlhood dream. But the idea of watching Tommie’s stubborn tits with those sharp nipples pierced. Maybe dealing the redhead some well-deserved payback of pain?

She wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“Sure,” she said. “We should pick up more beer, too.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

The tattoo parlor was a pop-up. A tent, barely ventilated, heavy with sweat and disinfectant. A generator hummed in the background, barely masking the low, wet buzzing of needles.

Tommie stood shirtless, arms at her side, fists clenched, nipples taut from more than the breeze. The girl with the gloves looked younger than she probably was. Neon hair, rings under her eyes. Calm. Professional.

“Ready?”

“Just fucking do it,” Tommie said.

The clamps pinched first. Then the needle.

Tommie didn’t scream. Just hissed. Eyes closed. Lips parted, jaw flexing with every breath. Anita winced beside her, gripping the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

“You alright?” she asked.

Tommie’s reply came only after the second needle went through. “Better than alright,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

They taped gauze over her breasts, crooked and clear enough to show the metal beneath. Tommie stared at herself in the smudged mirror. Proud. Sunburnt. Pierced.

“Don’t twist them,” the piercer said, pulling off her gloves with a snap. “That’s old advice. Outdated. Just rinse in the shower. Mild soap. Pat dry.”

Tommie didn’t answer, just stared down at the tape like it might start bleeding secrets.

“No rubbing alcohol. No peroxide. No tea tree oil. No hands unless they’re clean. No mouths either. I don’t care how pretty they ask.”

“How long?” Tommie wondered.

“Six to eight weeks. They’ll crust. Sleep on your back.”

“What? No sucking? For six weeks???” Tommie gasped.

The girl just looked at her.

“I assumed you could read,” she said, pointing at the sign. “No lips, no hands, no nothing.”

“Fuck,” Tommie muttered, then sharper. “I read just fine. I just don’t understand rules. Just glad I didn’t do the cunt. Fuck.”

The girl didn’t blink.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Not at Wacken.”

Anita drifted through the tent, eyes skimming the flash sheets taped to the walls. Skulls. Snakes. Tits. A cartoon nun fingering herself. A pig with a halo. She paused at a simple, dark-lined rose.

She could do it. Something small. On her hip. Her lower back. A secret.

“You want one?” the artist asked, not looking up.

Anita didn’t answer right away. Just touched the waistband of her jeans and imagined tugging them down. Letting someone needle something permanent into her skin. Something stupid. Something hers.

She didn’t look at Tommie—not yet. Just swallowed the heat rising in her neck and said, “I was a virgin. Two days before yesterday.”

The artist didn’t flinch. Not her first Wacken.

“I see,” she said. “Tired of roses, honey.”

She turned, reached for a scrap of paper. A minute passed. No small talk. Just the careful scrape of pen on paper.

Then she held it up.

A honey jar, half-tipped. Viscous gold spilling slow over the rim. At the base, in tiny script: First opened at Wacken. Dated three days back.

Anita didn’t speak. Just breathed. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in her throat.

She nodded once.

“Lower back?” the artist asked.

“Inside my thigh. Where it dips…”

“That shit hurts,” the girl said. Then glanced at Tommie. “And if you plan on… exploring?”

A pause. A flick of the eyes.

“I’d suggest against it.”

“My hip,” Anita corrected. “Outside. That’s okay, right?”

She unbuttoned. Let the jeans slide down.

“Don’t wiggle,” the girl warned, gloves snapping tight. “This’ll hurt.”

“I know,” Anita whispered. “That’s why I want it.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

The tent was large. The kind you could stand in and still stretch for the ceiling above. And that’s how Eira felt. Stretched. She’d been a good slut at first—on her knees, trading the four cocks between her lips, one after the other. No deep-throating. That would’ve been unfair.

It was different being sober. Clearer, somehow. She even made them fumble with rubbers before she let any of them fuck her.

But now she felt stretched. The cock she’d been riding pressed deep inside her, tight and insistent, while another hammered her ass. Her hair was knotted in someone’s fist, yanking her head back—lifting her from the mess of bodies below and giving the cock down her throat full access.

They’d worshipped her tits at first. Sucked them. Kneaded them. But only before they discovered how wet she was. No tongues, nothing hinting at any reverence for a beautiful pussy. Just fingers pushing inside, and that Bergen arrogance bleeding through in their words.

“Fy faen. For en hore!“

Hore. The R caught in the back of their throats, cut and ugly.

The one in her ass came too quickly, and it outraged her. She would’ve snarled—if the cock pounding her throat wasn’t doing it just right. But he was close. She could tell. The way he gripped her skull, pulling like the fist in her hair gave her room to run.

Too fast. Too fucking soon.

At least the one in her cunt could fuck. Could last—for now. Until the next one lined up behind her. Another cock for her ass.

One down. Three to go. All of them too fucking eager.

And then—held still. A cock pulsing too far down her throat to even matter. To even taste.

“Useless pricks!” she managed, the words shredded as he pulled out, panting like he’d won something.

It only made the ones inside her fuck her harder.

Fine. She’d handle it herself. Rubbed her clit with the rhythm she knew would work. The dumbass below her thought it was for him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snarled, breath rasping around the pressure in her body. “I’m just making sure the job gets done right, asshole.”

Her ass clenched. Forcing the stupid cock to surrender its load like it was offering a discount. Like happy hour inside her.

She rode the life out of the one in her cunt, and when its owner rolled his eyes and shoved deep, she snarled. Kept bouncing until he slipped out—half-broken, half-spent—pressed against a cunt that still hadn’t had enough.

Eira slid up his belly, over his chest. Leaned back, felt every muscle spasm. Rubbed harder. Harder.

And didn’t care when she pissed. All over the place. Just slapped her cunt, flicked her clit, and let it out. Every anxiety she’d kept since—

Every idea she—

The image in her bathroom mirror of blue eyes, blonde, and beautiful. A Nordstrand townhouse and two kids.

A pregnant belly her husband would caress and call beautiful.

Pissed out in a tent at Wacken.

Let them be shocked. Let them be disgusted.

She just wanted to feel air in her lungs again.

Tommie, she thought.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

“I guess we’re seeing Metallica tonight,” Tommie mumbled as if the Americans were an afterthought. A Wacken booking for the name, the memories. Not the present.

Anita laid the flyer across her lap, wiping ketchup stains off her fingers before pointing at the folded program.

“Did you want to see Sijjin?” she asked. “They were on at W.E.T. before noon.

“Fuck,” Tommie groaned. “They’re like…proto-death from Berlin. All analog grind, all attitude.”

“Gone,” Anita said, flat. “Terminalist as well.”

“Terminalist? The Danish thrashers with the space opera?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck.”

Anita flipped the flyer. Found one band she’d half meant to check out, another she’d only circled because someone on a forum called them “underrated as shit.”

“Overkill’s on Faster. In two hours.”

“Stupid Friday,” Tommie muttered.

Anita raised a brow. “Lull day?”

“Total lull. Yesterday was chaos. Tomorrow’s blood. But Today?”

Tommie crumpled the paper slightly between her fingers. “Friday is for wandering between stages, missing everything, then pretending we had the time of our lives.”

“Overkill’s decent,” Anita shrugged.

“They’re fine,” Tommie corrected. “But they aren’t Strupetak.”

Anita smirked. “You mean they won’t fingerblast you after soundcheck.”

“Don’t cheapen it,” Tommie said. “It was a bathroom, not a dressing room. And it wasn’t a soundcheck. Ever fucked a guitarist after a gig?”

Anita rolled her eyes. “Such romance.”

They stared at the bill again. Banger after banger, but none they were desperate for.

“You still wanna catch Brujeria?”

Tommie grinned. “Only if they throw fake heads into the pit again.”

“Friday,” Anita sighed. “The world's most metal filler episode.”

“Yeah,” Tommie nodded. “With Metallica as the post-credits scene.”

Girls don’t need to say more. They don’t need to carve out a plan. Sometimes, staring at a festival program, scratching their calves, picking their noses, and thinking about beer is just enough.

Just enough to take their minds off the sting in their fresh-pierced nipples or the burn of ink on their thighs.

“Is that—” Anita started.

There was no mistaking the blonde with fuck-hair, smeared eyeliner, and an angry stomp to her boots as anyone but Eira.

She was still fuming. Fucking had never felt so pointless, so stupid, so utterly unsatisfying as the Bergen-boys. And only four cocks to her count, not even capable of fucking seconds into her.

Beer, she thought. Beer.

She carried that thought over to the girls in the grass. Repeated it.

“Beer,” she said.

Tommie nodded.

“Overkill?”

“Beer,” Eira repeated. “Then over-whatever. I don’t care. I guess we’re suffering Metallica?”

Tommie jumped to her feet. Kissed the blonde.

“Beer,” she said.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

They ended up in a tent. Some post-grunge guys on a stage too small to matter. They’d caught the tail end of the Overkill set. Regretted being late.

The band tried to sound Seattle, but came across as California. A little sun-bathed, a little polished. A little too proficient, and double-kick, as if it belonged.

“They’re kind of hot,” Anita said.

Eira glanced. Her friend was right. Four guys. Marshall stacks. Hair like Vedder.

The girls just grinned at each other. Chugged.

Found their spots on the fence. They didn’t need to call for attention. They wore it.

Tommie made sure the bassist saw when she kissed Eira. Tried not to flinch when Eira went for her tit.

“What?” Eira slobbered into her mouth. “Pierced?”

“Stings like fuck.”

And when the band finished their set, the girls just hung at the fence. Ready and willing. The guitarist jumped off the stage first. Singer/songwriter vibe. Full of himself.

“Hey!” he greeted. “Thank you so much for coming and sticking it out to the end.”

The girls tried to giggle, like they were impressed or something, but it was still a Friday lull.

“Hadley,” he said, then, “Cecil over there, on the bass. David, our drummer.”

Then, almost spinning around to the dark-haired one with the jawline and troubled eyes.

“Freddie,” Hadley said. “Lead guitar.”

“Cool,” Tommie said. Dry.

He brushed his fingers through his hair.

“Listen,” he said. “We’ve got a party later. Once we’ve packed up. You girls—”

“Sure,” Tommie answered. “We’ll just hang at the bar. Drink ourselves—”

She brushed his sweaty chest with her fingers. Just three claws being as gentle as she could imagine.

“Stupid enough for mistakes.”

He jumped back on the stage, nodded to the bassist. A few thumbs up. The girls walked over to the bar.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Eira said, having ordered three shots and three pints.

“To stupid!” Tommie grinned, snapping back her shot.

“To fucking,” Anita said a little lower, still kicking back hers.

Eira drummed her fingers on the bar. Wasn’t even sure she felt like fucking. But hey, she had a body count to keep up.

“To bored-fuck,” she growled.

A post-grunge band that barely covered travel costs with their fee. No private backstage. No bus. Just a six-seater van crammed with the band, their gear, and a surprisingly sturdy picnic table. Oh—and their driver. Plus his friend.

The party the guitarist had talked up? It was the band. The two tagalongs. And three girls.
A Wacken volunteer, clipboard in hand, who made sure the band signed off that they’d had a good time.

A car stereo stuck in 1992.

“Jesus,” Tommie muttered, grabbed a beer, lifted her skirt, and smeared her tits over the table. “Fuck,” she muttered when her freshly stung tits objected, and braced herself on her elbows.

Eira sighed, but followed suit.

Bent halfway into her friend’s face, Eira felt stupid enough to admit.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Tommie winced, taking Hadley’s cock up her cunt.

She grinned, then snarled over her shoulder: “Wrap that thing up, bitch!”

Freddie stood, all wounded rockstar and ego, watching his bandmates fumble with rubber.

“Yeah, I ain’t dressing it up for you bitches,” he growled. Full lead-guitar-syndrome. Full bullshit.

Anita hadn’t caught all the way up—not with Tommie, not with Eira—just who to fuck first. Eira had a thing for bassists, and Cecil seemed to have a thing for blondes with tits. Freddie had just made the choice easy.

“Too bad, Freddie,” she smiled. Vinegar and venom. “Guess you’re bitchless.”

She took David’s hand—sweet, steady David with drummer’s wrists—and pulled him into the grass. Slid a leg over his face before he could speak. Stared down at his cock in a purple raincoat and figured the smell of rubber wasn’t that bad.

Eira had to laugh. None of this was sexy. She pulled her leg up, knee on table, just to make sure Cecil didn’t mistake which hole to stick it in.

She caught Tommie’s eye just as he slid inside. Grinned.

“Ficken,” she whispered.

“Ah,” Tommie answered, “so geil.”

But the girls just let their fingers braid, pulled each other closer. Kissed.

“I can get used to this,” Tommie whispered.

“Shut up,” Eria breathed. “Just…let me cum like this. In your mouth.”

They didn’t compete. Knew they’d lose to Anita, already sliding her cunt down David’s body. Yeah, she was gonna ride that thing. If not into the sunset, then straight into the grass.

But Anita wasn’t satisfied. She turned, locked eyes with the band’s driver and his tag-along.

“I’ll suck both of you,” she grinned. “And if David doesn’t make me cum, I’ll let one of you finish the job.”

Tommie thought there was something blasphemously sexy about her pale, naked friend, riding a purple-wrapped cock, sucking two others like it meant nothing. Something about the boots. Those big, leather boots with the silver clasps. And the way—

“Oh shit,” she moaned into Eira’s mouth.

“Already?”

Tommie swallowed. Just a tight bob in her throat.

“My tits,” she whimpered. “Pinch them.”

Eira thought it felt wrong. Tommie’s tits fit in her palms with room to spare, but even through her Slayer shirt, through the gauze, those pins—

She squeezed. Too gently.

“Harder,” Tommie panted, sucking her friend’s mouth.

Eira didn’t know how to hurt Tommie. Not now. Maybe not ever again. Maybe never palm-fucking her. Because she loved her.

“You’re ugly when you cum,” she whispered.

“Fuck,” Tommie moaned.

And when her lip curled, Eira pinched and watched her lover’s legs tremble, let her crash down on the table, and rub her tits sore. Let her be uglier than she’d ever seen her.

And still, Cecil kept rhythm, steady as fuck, proving exactly why Eira preferred bassists.

“Switch with me,” Tommie groaned.

“W—what ” Eira stuttered, not realizing Tommie’s orgasm had spread into herself somehow.

“Switch cocks,” Tommie pleaded.

Just when Eira felt her left leg tremble. Just when…of course she’d switch. Anything for Tommie.

“You heard her,” she said, looking lazily over her shoulder.

Both guys were confused. Didn’t stop, didn’t pull out, just fucked looking confused at each other.

Eira had to push Cecil off. Then, pull Hadley.

She guided Tommie down into the grass, head down, ass up.

“I want to watch,” she said, positioning herself behind her girlfriend.

The guys were still confused. Maybe more so.

“Should we…the rubbers? We should change them, right?”

“Fuck off!”

Tommie, yelling into the grass. “Fuck her juices into me!”

Cecil did.

As if courage had given way to obedience. As if Tommie’s words were law, and fucking her right was a bigger trial than playing in front of three hundred people at Wacken. Fucking Wacken!

Then, Eira let Hadly take her—more for him than herself. Too much tits to be comfortable, too pressed to rub herself. It didn’t matter. Her eyes were pinned on the cock pounding Tommie.

Tommie’s cunt was strange. Not ugly, fuck no, but strangely tight. Eira had a puffy pussy, big folds that swelled when she was too horny. A clit that poked its head out too often. She’d been shy about it when she’d started shaving just after her sixteenth birthday, in the showers after gym class. Just like she’d been embarrassed about her tits.

But Tommie wasn’t vulgar and screaming like she was. Her clit didn’t scream for attention; it just stood there. Proud. Teasing.

But now it was throbbing as much as her cunt was clenching. And Tommie’d stopped screaming. Her thighs looked cramped, her boots pulled tight, heel to heel.

“Pull out,” Eira whimpered. “Cecil, pull out.”

Cecil looked at her over his shoulder, perhaps too close to register.

“Pull out,” Eira repeated. “I’ll suck you off.”

He pulled out, but a little too late, and not enough.

Tommie had been silent, as if her muscles had made sound impossible. But now? Now she tore open.

It started at her heels—a twitch, digging into the ground. Then her thighs loosened. Her ass jolted. Her knees slid deeper into the dirt, her back arching sharp, as if her body was trying to split in two.

Then her throat ruptured. A sound from somewhere deep, raw. Guttural. Almost pain.

Then her cunt.

First a trickle. Dripping from her clit, sliding past the small bump on her left labia, down the curve of her thigh. Then a spray—covering Cecil in heat until he flinched. Then more. Sharp. Violent. Splattering the grass.

One recoil hit Eira’s cheek. Then her lip.

She didn’t wipe it. Just held still, cunt still stretched around Hadley, eyes pinned to Tommie’s shoulders as they shook.

Another squirt. A deep, wrung-out sigh.

“Fuck,” Tommie exhaled.

“Tommie…” Eira half-mumbled, caught too deep in her own sting to reach further.

She licked her lip. Wanted Tommie’s cunt. Got Cecil’s cock instead.

Too dumb to pull the rubber off.

She felt that snarl build, just between the cramp of her orgasm, just above the sensation in her spine.

She tore once, missed, but skinned the rubber on the second fly-by. Didn’t care that her nails were too long and out.

“Stuff it in me,” she snarled.

He didn’t stuff it in. Just placed it in her open mouth and expected her to be able to do anything about it, barely keeping herself upright on failing arms.

So fucking close.

She spat him out.

“You have to fuck me, stupid!”

He caught on—sort of. Grabbed her hair, too gently, like he was still unsure if this was part of the act. Pushed his hips forward, hesitant, bracing for her to gag, to flinch, to stop him. But she didn’t. She just opened wider, deeper. He froze a second, dumbfounded. As if surprised her throat didn’t protest.

Still not full enough.

Still pathetically teetering, stuck on the brink, stuck on the ledge, as if afraid to jump off. Drool spilling from her mouth. She wanted her cunt to burst the same way.

Tommie?

Sliding herself between Cecil’s legs. Eira only caught her as she grinned her devil’s smile below her. Tommie’s teeth caught her swinging nipple, sent a zap through her ribs.

Oh fuck, yes.

Tommie wasn’t satisfied with nipple nibbling. She pushed between grass and Eira’s belly until she found a pocket of air between the pulse of Eira’s clit and the cock hammering into her.

“Use your thumb,” she hissed at Hadley.

“Huh?” the dumb fuck asked, too afraid to let go of Eira’s hips.

“Lick it, then shove it up her ass.”

Eira’s thighs twitched. He’d listened. Time to finish this.

She wasn’t there to ruin her. Fuck, no. Eira’s cunt was ridiculous—puffed up, swollen, begging—but it was that clit that held her. Like it knew. Not needy. Just there. Demanding. She didn’t need skill for a porn-pussy like that, pulled straight from a fuck-flick and already speaking its own language.

No. Tommie just needed to be devoted. Let herself surrender to that cunt. Let it fill her mouth.

Cecil came. Hard. But Eira hardly noticed.

She was full of something else. Something that stretched. That climbed. That—

She gagged. Tried to laugh. Failed. Too full. Too close.

Still held tight against a cock down her throat. She’d cum from that alone before. Or maybe it had been the bleachers. Athletics day. The boy who thought she loved him, when really, she’d just been furious with her mother.

And now? She couldn’t be fucked deep enough. Not by cock. Not by this. Not by anything short of the girl who’d made her so queer, nothing else could quite fill her. Not the cock hammering her, not the one she gagged on.

Because her best friend, who spent every other weekend and Wednesdays across town—her stupid, stubborn, firestarter of a friend—had wrecked her for good.

Getting fucked into the grass only felt like foreplay.

But the eager mouth on her cunt?

Tommie’s breath. That’s what cracked her.

Eira couldn’t remember when the cock had slid out of her mouth, when she started chewing grass, or when Hadley came, collapsed, and fell off her.

Just images now. A dam breaking. An avalanche swallowing everything. A waterfall cascading down her throat, a tidal wave washing over her brain, making everything fall apart. Her breath caught somewhere behind her teeth, and a faint taste of grass and mud.

Her cunt? Spasming at first, like it hadn’t finished deciding what the fuck to feel. Then again, just to see if it remembered the shape of orgasm. The third time felt like it tried to wrap itself around something too big, a hand, a leg, one of those rubber fists she’d laughed about online.

Now it was just strange, like wet paper towel that had lost the ability to absorb the leak.

Then boots, solid in her fists. The shape of calves. Tommie’s trembling thighs that had to be licked. Salt. Sweat. Something deeper. Something honest, bitter, and utterly Tommie.

Eira wasn’t fully herself until the shape of Tommie’s cunt wrapped itself around her chin, then swallowed her mouth.

And still…pressure.

“What the fuck, Tommie?” she moaned. “Fuck, Tommie! What—mphf.”

Tommie knew the spot. Rubbed it with care. Not frantic, not teasing—just steady. Eira’s cunt had nothing left to give, not really. Nothing to shove into, nothing more to wring out. But her body still twitched, still answered.

There was something left. Something deeper. Something Tommie had never asked for, but maybe always wanted. Maybe just never dared.

And Eira was too loose now, too open to stop her.

The first trickle was barely a tremble. Tommie felt it before she tasted it. Then she licked. Sucked. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

Eira didn’t moan. Didn’t buck. Just breathed. Shuddered. Let it happen.

Her cunt loosened again. That last surrender.

Then the flood.

It spilled down Tommie’s face, over her mouth, soaking her cheeks and hair and jaw. She tried to swallow, then to drown, then just let it happen.

And that was what broke her.

Tommie came.

Not ugly and rapid and firing on all nerve endings. No, soft, long. Complete.

It wasn’t a climax built from pressure, not the frantic kind, not the kind that came from being filled or fucked or edged or dared. It was the kind that bloomed. That unfolded from something honest. A slow spill from the center. One that made her toes curl not from tension, but from release.

No scream. No gasp. Just a deep, ragged breath. One she hadn’t known she’d been holding. One that finally let her be still.

Not breathless, but breathing.

For the first time since her parents gave up trying to parent the girl who broke every rule just to be seen. For the first time since her parents had said fuck it and split up. Since being bounced between houses like an argument no one wanted to win.

She was still crying when Eira rolled off her and kissed her—kissed her, not as if wanting something from her, but to tell her something she needed to hear.

Just a girl kissing love into someone who forgot what it felt like.

She was still crying when they rolled over and caught Anita. Still riding, now with a raw cock locking her jaw open.

David sat with his head in his hands. He’d dropped the tempo to A Girl Forgotten, and that was embarrassing. At Wacken, no less.

But being fucked empty, humped limp, and swapped for the driver? That was sickening.
There was no rock or roll in that.

And Anita—he’d never forget her, no matter how hard he tried.

“She really should learn to take it up the ass,” Tommie snorted. That crazy laugh—still riding through snot and tears.

Eira agreed.

“She’s got the ass for it,” she murmured, a little dreamy.

“Sure,” Tommie said, reaching for a beer. “But I meant logistics. That shit takes too long.”

They let Anita ride it out. She came twice more.

Freddie? Possibly off somewhere beating off. Or dressing up for a cunt. Just not Eira’s. Or Tommie’s. Not Anita’s, although she’d let him if the other two weren’t watching.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira found herself tired of fucking. Emptied. She liked stumbling between stages, bands, and beer tents—as long as Tommie’s fingers stayed braided into hers.

They sat now, just minutes before Metallica, and she chugged another beer. Drunk, yeah, but mostly thirsty.

“Queensrÿche surprised me,” she said, holding back the burp. “Todd’s better than Geoff. Same voice, none of the creeper attitude.”

The burp came out anyway. Loud. Like she had balls she’d never shaved.

“Pretentious fucks,” Tommie muttered. But she smiled. Kept twirling her finger in Eira’s palm like she couldn’t stop.

“Cliff Burton,” Anita said, then chugged.

She didn’t need to say more. That summed up their feelings about Metallica. But silence crept in anyway.

Anita didn’t just feel like the third wheel. She lived it.

“I think I’m a nympho,” she said. “I can’t stop it.”

Eira and Tommie didn’t say anything.

“I want to fuck all the time. Even now. I’d rather not sit with you and your stink of cunt and piss, but fucked. Over and over. Doesn’t matter how much I cum. Right?”

Then, “I’m seeing Metallica.”

She grabbed Tommie’s beer. Chugged.

“Yeah. I’ll catch Metallica with you guys. Then find someone older. And fuck.”

A shrug.

“Yeah. I think they fuck better.”

A beat. Something mean hovered in the air. The kind of mean that made sense at Wacken—sweat-slick, cunt-stupid, high on freedom. But that wouldn’t survive the walk back to Nordstrand.

“How much do you hate your mother, Eira?”

Eira didn’t blink. Didn’t think. Just frowned at the question like it was oddly phrased math.

“She’s an uptight bitch. A fucking witch. Thinks being a principal somehow applies at home. Why?”

Anita glanced at the table. Then at her two friends. Tommie, beautiful in her sunburn, skin flaking from her nose, ears, the back of her neck. Eira, all tits and symmetry, blonde hair curling where the sweat dried.

“Your dad’s fucking hot, Eira,” Anita said. “I want to fuck him.”

“Ew,” Eira said. Dry.

Tommie grinned. Firestarter-like.

“Your dad is hot, Eira. I wouldn’t fuck him, being queer and all, but  it’d piss your mom off, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” Eira grunted, but it came out lazy. Like maybe she liked the thought of someone stirring that pot.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Metallica’s set felt rehearsed. Repeated. Some of the songs they tried to mix in were unfamiliar. Sounded like shit. They rocked out to the old stuff.

Utmost respect for Trujillo. It wasn’t his fault Metallica died on a patch of highway in Solna in ‘86.

No, Trujillo was the kind of bass player Eira would fuck and only beg his callused fingers would scrape her like he meant it.

Still—Nothing Else Matters.

Eira pulled Tommie close. Danced a dance none of them understood. Then pulled Anita into it.

“Wacken,” she whispered.

“And nothing else matters,” Tommie answered.

Anita drifted.

Got caught on Eira’s hand. Pulled back. Into a kiss that only meant I love you, no matter what.

“If you fuck him,” Eira whispered, “let me know so I don’t have to try and unhear it.”

Anita swallowed. “I…”

“And when you do?” Eira’s voice barely moved. “Her bed. Her side, right side. Her underwear, bottom drawer of her dresser. Your scent. Make sure she knows it wasn’t a dream. Make sure you rub your cunt in everything she thought was hers.”

She’d wanted a bloodied dagger tattooed on her tit. Something to warn. To promise pain.

She didn’t need it now.

She’d handed it to Anita.

With instructions—where to cut, when to twist, how to make the bitch bleed.