Eira felt warm. Not from the air, though it clung to her skin like gauze, but from the breath of another body, the touch of a hand resting on her thigh that wasn’t her own. Then memory returned, slow and full. She could still taste the girl on her lips.

“Tommie?” she whispered.

She sat up, pulled a blanket over her chest like it mattered. Shook her head at nothing in particular. Of course Tommie had snuck out before anything could stick to her.

To her right, slick and slack like morning hadn’t yet arrived, lay a cunt still glistening, three silver rings catching the pale light. To her left, the blonde girl slept with a smile too calm to be faked, her lashes stuck together like she’d cried and come and fallen asleep in the same motion.

“Alright,” she whispered to herself. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Eira sat up slowly. Her shirt didn’t fit right—stretched or swapped, she couldn’t tell. She hadn't found her bra, and the thong in her hand smelled just enough like herself to count.

She crawled out, and the air didn’t smell lighter, just cleaner. She pulled on her skirt out in the grass, not caring who saw.

Water, she thought. I need water.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Anita woke up alone in their tent. Her first thought was worry. No Eira. No Tommie.

Then, Alessandro. She let her fingers trace the skin—bare, still warm.

She patted it as if checking if it was okay. If she hurt or felt different. If a cock inside it had made it ugly and gaping.

But it felt familiar. Tidy. Just slightly tender, like maybe bruised and swollen?

Tommie didn’t crash in like a tornado, but Anita still felt it like an intrusion. Like maybe she deserved a little more time with herself.

“You went to bed early,” the redhead said. Not judgmental, just soft and caring.

She handed Anita a burger dripping with grease.

Anita sat. Didn’t care that her tits were out. She grabbed the burger from Tommie’s hand and bit down with an appetite she’d forgotten she owned. She hadn’t allowed herself a burger in eleven months, two weeks, and three days. But who kept count?

“Where’s Eira?” she asked.

Tommie shrugged and instantly wished she could un-shrug and tell their friend she’d fucked her and left her. How she felt guilty and proud. For once, Tommie didn’t really know what to say.

“We stumbled into the wrong tent,” she finally said. “I don’t know if Eira…she’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Anita wasn’t really listening.

“You left her alone?” she said.

“I think I might be gay,” Tommie whispered.

“I fucked,” Anita finally burst.

“What?!” they gasped collectively.

“No! Fuck that!” Tommie yelled. “You first! When? What? How?”

Anita couldn’t believe how easily the words came.

“Alessandro,” she said. “The handsome one, remember? We walked, talked, drank. I don’t know, Tom—his hands were on my tits, but it didn’t feel close enough. You know, through clothes. And… I don’t know. I just stayed with him, in that. I was drunk, wasn’t I?”

Anita could use a drink. Water, beer—tequila, if someone had it.

“I was in his tent. He… Tom! He licked me. He didn’t just stick it in and tear me up or anything. I don’t think I bled.”

She paused. Looked at Tommie.

“Did you bleed?”

Tommie laughed—short, surprised, warm.

“And?” the redhead asked, voice softer now.

“I want to do it again! Fuck, Tommie! I don’t even know what I was so afraid of.”

Tomine Hansen had never been known for her tenderness or wisdom, but something about Anita’s voice—raw and lit from within—let her jagged edges soften for once.

“Butterball,” she murmured. “I cried the first time. It hurt like hell. I bled. I envy you.”

Anita frowned. Didn’t believe her. Not entirely.

“You told them to…” she began, eyes narrowing. “I heard you, Tommie. Your ass?”

Tommie blushed—not from shame, but from memory.

“Yeah,” she said. “That hurt. That first time? He didn’t even ask, just did it. I thought about telling him to stop, but—”

Anita didn’t want to hear more. Not really. But her eyes were already noticing things: how Tommie’s nipples pressed sharp against her shirt, how her voice wavered at but, how her eyes glossed over—not crying, just glazed with something Anita didn’t want to name. Just from talking about—ugh—anal.

“Turns out I’m a slut.”

Anita tried not to laugh, but it slipped through. Tommie didn’t come with a reputation. It just followed her, one quiet nod at a party, one rumor whispered in the locker room, one boy left wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. The trail behind her wasn’t always loud, but it was there. It was real, and left you sticky even though you were innocent.

“I’m dying of thirst,” Anita said.

“I need to get high,” Tommie replied.

Anita reached for her hand, let her fingers fold into her friend’s palm. “Drink with me? First?”

Tommie sighed. Shook her head.

“Oh, the drama. You’d think you’d just lost your virginity or something. Want cuddles, too?”

Anita didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she said.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira felt lost among the tents and flags and legs and arms and bodies that stumbled, tumbled and seemed to be in her way. The black t-shirts all looked the same in the heat. She’d fucked a girl. A girl had fucked her. And it wasn’t like she could rub either of them off. She hated being sober and burnt. She hated that her phone was dead. Like her promises to be a good girl.

Mom, she thought. Mom would know what to do.

Then remembered she hated her mother, and did the opposite of what her mother would’ve told her. She ducked inside the mini-store, ordered three beers and sun lotion, and sat alone at a plastic table, letting the foam settle.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, like three beers didn’t already say occupied.

There wasn’t much snarl left in her that morning. Just the stale taste of cunt on her tongue, clinging like a stain to the carpet of her unbrushed teeth.

Both tits sucked at the same time, she remembered. My fucking clit eaten. Jesus.

She took a long gulp from the plastic glass. He was still standing there, so she nodded.

“You by yourself?” he asked, the German accent leaking through. “Didn’t you come with those other two? The redhead—”

“I’m lost,” she said. “I don’t know what the fuck is up and what is down.”

He laughed, low and amused.

“First time at Wacken, jah?”

“Fuck off,” she said, trying to recover her snarl. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

He shook his head. Took a step back. Reset.

“Hello, there,” he said, with a little bow. “My name is Klaus. Every other seat is taken. Do you mind if I sit?”

She glanced around. He was right—every other table was full.

“Eira,” she said. “Sure. Please sit.”

As he lowered himself onto the bench, she slid one of the beers across the table.

“Thank you,” he said.

He drank. Smiled at her.

“You know,” he started. “They installed pipelines. For the beer. No more trucks in the mud. Inside the site.”

He wasn’t handsome, not ugly. Tall, lanky. A pointy nose and intense eyes. Blue. A girl like Eira would be out of his league. If not for the metal. If not for the beat. If not for the German accent and his Helloween shirt, faded, worn with pride.

If not for the confusion of licking a girl still burrowing in her mind.

“Helloween,” she said. “They’re not on the bill this year?”

He blinked.

“Nein.”

Then, “Do you need help? You were halfway on the other side, B-section, yesterday.”

She nodded. Of course he’d noticed her, walking through the campsite, among thousands of girls and women. Of course, he’d noticed the blonde with the big tits and the infectious smile.

“This,” he said, pointing to the flag blowing gently in the breeze, “is H.”

He pulled out a pamphlet, folded and already worn in the crease.

“Here,” he said, pointing at the map, “is where we are.”

The pamphlet crinkled under his thumb, soft from beer and the humid heat of pockets and palms. His fingernail traced a blocky grid of fields and paths, labeled with oversized letters: A through L sprawling left to right, spilling outward like drunk geometry. H was a little to the north of center, tucked just beneath the main road that cut between the campsite and the sacred infield.

Eira leaned in, her eyes scanning the cartoonish icons—porta-potties, showers, the highway like a snaking limb on the far edge. There were stages marked like war targets, and beer tents with foamy steins drawn beside them.

“That’s why I kept seeing the bus loop,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

“You must have walked in circles,” he said, still smiling, but not unkind. “Some never find their tent again. Some sleep anywhere.”

She nodded again. The taste still on her tongue a reminder.

He tapped the spot again, then drew a slow arc downward. “You see this? The roads have names. Some real, some just for fun. But they help. And your camp, it’s here? Near B?”

“I think,” she said. “We were by the toilets. And a flag. With a goat on it. Black and white.”

He laughed. “That’s helpful. A goat. That’s every third tent.”

She smiled back, faintly. The smile hurt less today.

“If you want,” he said, voice softer now, “I can walk you there. Or close. Just don’t disappear again.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s walk.”

“The beer?” Klaus said, nodding toward the still untouched plastic cup sitting there, just cold enough to feel damp to the touch.

Eira knew she shouldn’t, but if there was one thing she was good at, it was chugging beer. And never once did her eyes leave his.

Out there, when Klaus made sense of the paths, the roads, and guided her to the porta-potties just in time, she had a change of heart.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. Coy. A little soft, but without a hint of blush.

“Jah?”

“I think I want to fuck you.”

Glinting at the sun, then back at his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He just laughed. Not cruel, but deep and heartfelt.

“I’m flattered,” he said, then showed her his wedding band.

Eira cursed. Just inside.

“A blowjob?”

He hugged her then.

“If I were ten years longer,” he said, “and my wife didn’t offer them freely.”

He let her go, looked at her.

“Wacken,” he said, “It’s not about burning out early, it’s about making sure you have enough embers left. On Sunday.”

“Thank you,” she said. Then kissed him. Not on the cheek. “Do you know where I can charge my phone?”

He nodded to the booth tucked next to the porta-potties. Underneath the bright red Coca-Cola banner.

“Rent a power bank,” he said. “You can swap it when it runs empty.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-seven,” he answered.

Now she blushed.

“And you don’t have a son. My age? Unmarried?”

She found his laugh intoxicating.

“Nein,” he said. “A daughter. Sixteen.”

“Oh,” she heard herself say, “at this point, I’m not sure the gender matters.”

And for the first time, Klaus also blushed.

“There,” he said, pointing just down the end of the pathway. “B. The tent you sat at yesterday should be just to the left of the flag.”

She thanked him again. Kissed him again, and he held on a little longer this time. She liked that. Then she found the Coca-Cola tent. Rented three power banks and picked up three maps.

She wasn’t sure, but knowing Tommie, she’d be half-drunk, half-baked, but not too far off from their tent. Hopefully, Anita would be close by.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

“You what?” Anita gasped at Tommie’s story.

“I know…” her friend answered, still twirling the can between her fingers. Her eight of the early afternoon, but still slow-paced for her.  

“And now you think you’re gay?”

Tommie shrugged again. Number ten for the day, and none of them honest.

“I’ve had sex with girls before,” she admitted, “but that didn’t mean anything. After, you know?”

“How the heck am I supposed to know, Tommie? I’m still confused about…you know. What if something broke?”

That made Tommie laugh. And it felt honest to laugh.

“Butterball,” she said. “It’s kind of built for that. Only job it has, really.”

She raised the can, chugged hard, because the air felt lighter somehow.

“Did you suck him?”

Anita gasped. “Was I supposed to?”

“Hell yes,” Tommie coughed, spitting beer. “You have to suck him. Tongue curled under, teeth tucked in, unless he begs for bite. Let it push until you gag. I tried to throat once—

“Tommie! Fuck!”

Tommie just grinned, beer on her chin.

“Did you at least cum?”

She watched Anita blush, rising from her neck, up her cheeks, until her eyes drowned in it.

“I can’t remember,” Anita whispered.

Tommie leaned in, voice soft, but with her signature ruthlessness.

“Then you didn’t cum.”

She felt that taste in her mouth again, the foreign one reminding her of the night before. She wondered if it was the taste of regret, and if it was, she was happy she hadn’t tasted it before.

“Should I tell her? Talk to her?”

“Yes,” Anita said. Flat. Certain. She might not know what her cunt had become, but this—this she was sure of. “You have to tell Eira.”

“Tell me what?”

Their blonde, bombshell friend stood smiling, holding a five-pack of beer in each hand.

“Nothing,” Tommie darted.

Eira planted the beer on the table, sat demonstrably between her two friends, and pulled a plastic glass out of the cardboard.

Chugged. Burped. Crushed the empty glass in her hand.

“Tomine Hansen,” she said. “You’re a terrible friend. You’re an awful wingman. You’re about as stable as a virgin cock. You left me alone in a tent with two rabid lesbians who ate pills for breakfast and looked at me like I was a chicken wing.”

She turned, met Tommie’s eyes. The smile came, but didn’t soften the blow.

“But worst of all are your lies. So tell me, Tommie—what is it you need to confess?”

“I’ll sit this one out,” Anita said, rising. They watched her take two steps before she turned, snagged two beers, and disappeared into the crowd.

An ass like that? Yeah, it could mingle.

“What?” Eira asked. Tommie was clearly upset about something.

“I’m sorry,” her friend muttered.

The words didn’t sound right coming from Tommie’s lips, Eira couldn’t remember Tommie apologizing for anything.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I snuck out before they even woke. The pills? The chicken wing? I was just kidding.”

But something about Tommie stayed stiff, tangled in silence.

“Did you like it?” she asked.

“What? Fuck. The girls?” Eira blinked, tried to keep her voice light. “We were drunk, Tommie. I mean… I’ve fantasized. Wondered, you know?”

Tommie took her hands. Too tight.

“No, Eira. This is important.” Her throat bobbed. “Did you like it?”

“You sucked my tit. Jesus, Tommie!”

“Eira. Did you like it?”

She might’ve brushed it off, laughed it away, if not for the tear streaking down Tommie’s cheek. Sweat, dust—no, definitely a tear.

Eira ducked her head, like the words couldn’t survive full sunlight.

“It was… Tom, it was awesome. She made me cum like I’ve never felt it before. Then the other one—shit. I licked a cunt, Tommie. Fuck.”

Tommie ripped a beer from the cardboard. It was her turn to chug. Because she could lose her best friend in the breath of her next words. Maybe even the girl who made her realize she was queer. Maybe the one—

“Eira. I did it. I fucked you.”

“You?” she spat. “That was you?!?”

She jumped to her feet, like her skin had just caught fire.

“That was you?!?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Pushed away from the table, took two staggering steps, fist clenched, not to swing, but to hold something back. Like she might implode, and unless she clenched, she’d spill open and flood.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Tommie?”

The redhead opened her mouth, but Eira cut the silence in half.

“You fucked me? You let me think—Jesus!”

Tommie looked at the stares, the crowd that seemed to gather like vultures over rotting meat. Hers. The phones raising like privacy belonged in Wacken reels.

“Eira, please…” she muttered.

But she had touched the trigger, the red button, the fuck-Eira-up-knob.

“What?!” the blonde snarled. “We’re at fucking Wacken, Tommie. Norwegian’s hardly the first language. Hola! My friend made me a puta! Fuck off. Fuck off, Tommie!”

Eira’s rage was real. And it was quick. And it usually settled once the valve was busted open.

She sat again.

“Sorry,” Tommie sobbed.

Tommie had made mistakes in her life. None which she had regretted. Now, looking at the bombshell with the blown fuse, she regretted everything.

“No,” Eira snarled through clenched teeth. “You—I thought it was her! No, Tommie, you don’t get to give me the best orgasm I’ve ever had and hide it behind a girl we’ll never meet again. You don’t get to let me lie to myself about liking it and then be sorry.”

She chugged. Not one beer, but two. Teeth clenched, lips curling, foam frothing like spit.

“I wanted it to be me,” Tommie said. “It was. I think I’m gay. I think I fucking love you.”

Her voice cracked—

“And I’m so, so sorry.”

Eira burped. A long-drawn man burp that didn’t belong on her pretty face, that shouldn’t come from her curves.

“Tommie,” she said at long last. “I can’t love you back, not more than I do, not in any other way than I do. But—”

To Tommie, that but sounded like the voice of everlasting love. Of vows made, not under God—God was dead, ask Slayer—but the kind of oath girls gave each other in secret and swore to keep..

“Be honest with me, and ask next time. At least let me know what you’re thinking.”

“Next time?”

Tommie wiped her snot with the back of her hand, then her tears.

“Oh yeah, babe. There will be a next time.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Tommie said, falling back into herself. “Sure you’re not gay?”

Eira wasn’t entirely done being angry, but Tommie didn’t deserve all her anger. Not all the blame. She knew she could have walked away the night before. Said she was sorry for the intrusion. But she hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to. Two girls sucking her tits, one on her clit. Who was she trying to fool?

“Do we need to label it, Tommie?”

They stared at the three remaining beers. Two girls, three beers, the math didn’t add up.

“She did it. Last night.”

Eira blinked.

“Shut-the-fuck-up!”

They scanned, but couldn’t find her tight ass anywhere.

“She didn’t come,” Tommie whispered. “Didn’t suck cock.”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Cock-sucking is the shit! Fuck me sideways.”

Her eyes widened. Tommie thought she looked caught—somewhere between a hallucination and a memory.

“When it slides past your lips and throbs against your tongue. When you drool all over that pulsing stick of meat and make it slick. When he starts pushing against the back of your mouth, and you let him. Just a little. Just enough to let him think he owns something, before you spill him out.”

Tommie wanted to rub herself.

“Then you lick it. The whole shaft, down to the balls, and pray he shaves. Let him think you won’t stop before eating his ass. But you stop there, because guys and their asses?”

Tommie decided a little rubbing wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t be noticed. Not with the music this loud. Not under the table.

“Then you slip him back in. He’s already oozing that slick pre-cum by then. And when he pushes—you open. They can’t resist the feel of your throat—”

“Fuck me, Eira! Your throat?!”

Eira blinked. Again. Like something had been pulled out of her too soon.

“What? You don’t—”

A pause. A slow, disbelieving shake of the head.

“Tomine Hansen,” she said, full of love and exasperation, “doesn’t even know how to throat a cock.”

“Doesn’t know how to throat a what-now?”

Anita just stood there—pack of beers in hand, question mark painted across her face.

“Sit, bitch,” Tommie laughed.” Tell Eira all about your night.”

⛧   \m/   ⛧

“So it’s settled,” Eira slurred, her beer spilling more than being drunk. “I’ll teach you sluts how to throat, and you’ll hold my hair when I puke. Forever.”

Night had fallen. They weren’t exactly attractive anymore. Three days’ worth of sweat, dust, beer, and fuck clung to them like flies to shit. Like the piss on the ground they stumbled across.

She’d given them each a map, a power bank, and another colorful tale of cock-sucking—and at this point, it all made sense. About as much sense as the shower they’d promised to take and already forgotten.

“Let’s go!” she commanded, stomping toward their tent.

“Hey,” Tommie called. Once. Then again, louder. “Hey!”

“What?” the blonde snapped back.

“Aren’t we missing something?”

“I’m beautiful,” Eira declared, striking a pose, then pointing to Tommie. “You’re b-beautiful.”

Then her eyes landed on Anita.

“And you! You! You’re beautiful. And fresh-fucked like a…”

There was nothing gracious about any of them.

“Beautiful like a fresh-open can of tuna! Let’s fucking go!”

Tommie was stubborn for a reason.

“The cock, Eira! We need a fucking cock!”

The blonde collapsed into the grass. Her friends didn’t bother picking her up—they just dropped beside her, wheezing with laughter.

“Fuck,” Eira muttered. “There’s eighty-thousand people at Wacken. At least seventy percent of them have cocks. We’re surrounded by—”

She tried to do the math. Slow.

“Fifty-something-thousand cocks! There should be a cock growing out of the grass. Right here!”

“I could go find Alessandro?” Anita offered.

Eira understood. A familiar cock. You always fall back on a familiar cock.

“No,” she said. “We need a cock that doesn’t care. Not too big—not for girls like you, anyway.”

Her eyes caught an English flag above a silent tent. Small. Too small for a couple. Too tight for two dudes to share.

She crawled over, skirt riding high, ugly in all the wrong ways, clawing at the fabric like it didn’t have a zipper.

“Oi! What the feck?”

Just a voice at first, buried in sleep. Then a rustle. A zipper.

“What the—”

He stopped there. Blinked. Caught not just by the blonde girl with the red eyes pawing at his tent, but by her two friends collapsed in the grass behind her, laughing.

“Sho…sorry to bother you,” Eira slurred. “But we—”

She waved a hand over her shoulder, somewhere in the general direction of her friends. Nearly face-planted into his crotch.

“We’re horny. And my friends don’t even know how to suck cock properly.”

He could have been mid-forties. Maybe older. Older than her father. Bare-chested, hairy, in sagging boxers.

“And that’s my problem, is it?” he said. Not cruel. Just dry. English dry.

“I explained,” Eira blinked. As if horny and cock-sucking had somehow passed him by.

There was an awkward silence. Her friends weren’t laughing in the grass anymore. Maybe the joke had gone too far. At least, that’s how it pressed against Anita’s breath—like cold fingers tapping just beneath her ribs.

“You lot should get some kip,” he said. Voice flat. Just tired.

But he didn’t zip the tent. Didn’t turn away. Didn’t move at all.

Eira read it like consent.

“Ghood,” she hicked, her fingers already tracing the worn elastic of his boxers. Stroking him through the fabric.

Eira’s hands had never been denied, nor were they on a Wacken night that had turned into early Wednesday. She slipped her hand inside his boxers and stroked.

Eira loved stroking a cock. Especially when it wasn’t ready for her. The way it grew in her hand and crept in like a reminder of how wet she got. From sucking.

Her lips were cracked. Maybe burnt. Her tongue was too dry to do anything about it.

“Alright,” she said. Like she needed him to agree.

“Roger?” he blinked.

“Yeah, Roger.” She gave a half-nod, half-laugh. “Here’s what’s gonna happen—I’m gonna suck your cock now, then—”

She pointed behind her, found Tommie first with a crooked finger.

Then, as she tugged at the waistband of his shorts, fumbling a bit but not stopping:

“Anita’s never sucked cock,” she muttered, “so she gets to, like…watch. First.”

“Right,” he said, scratching his chest, looking down at the blonde in the grass. “So long as this isn’t a setup or some TikTok stunt.”

“Setup?” Eira grinned. “Not the kind you’d report. We might take something—but you won’t miss it.”

Anita didn’t believe her eyes. She’d known Eira as long as memory could last, but not this girl. Not the girl who knelt in grass-stained knees before a man—middle of a field, edge of a tent—taking his thick, hairy cock into her mouth like it belonged there. Not the one who pulled her shirt up, like her tits—

Fuck, to have tits like Eira.

Tommie, on the other hand, watched in awe. The way Eira spilled drool, the way her mouth seemed to just form around him, jaws slightly stretched, now.

Tommie had to get closer, pulled Anita’s stubborn hand behind her.

Eira caught them in the corner of her eye. Let him slip free—wet and waiting.

“Girls,” she whispered, voice thick. “Now you lick it. Like this.”

She pressed his cock to his belly with the flat of her palm and let her tongue drag slowly along the shaft, like reverence.

Tommie couldn’t stop staring. Her friend’s tongue looked absurdly pink against all that dirt—mascara smudged, cheeks streaked with sweat and dust, her eyes bloodshot and burning.

Anita’s disbelief was simpler. It was in how wet she suddenly felt.

“I feel like I’m watching porn,” Anita whispered. Not to anyone. Just to the night.

Eira took one of his hairy balls into her mouth, sucked gently, then let it slip free with a pop before curling her tongue beneath it.

Roger’s knees buckled. His thighs parted on instinct, and his hands slid to the back of her head. Reflex. Need. A low, grateful groan.

But Eira was done flirting with his cock. Done with the polite greetings, the awkwardness of a first meeting. She liked it. It liked her.

“Watch,” she said. It wasn’t drunk anymore. It was hunger. Or a different kind of intoxication.

Her tongue dragged up the shaft, slow and wet, circled the swollen head, then welcomed him back inside. He pushed—just a little—and a moan caught in her throat, trapped behind him.

Then, she opened.

Tommie couldn’t believe what she saw. A faint bulge on Eira’s neck, subtle but real.

Eira didn’t flinch. Didn’t gag. She braced with one hand in the grass and the other gripping his thigh like she was riding something bigger, faster, crueler than him. Then she took him. All of him. Just like that. Her nose touched coarse hair. Her breath stilled. Her lips pressed into his flesh like a stamp.

The sounds that escaped him. The way his fingers gripped her skull.

Tommie watched as if she were seeing an eclipse through smoke, something rare and unnatural that wasn’t meant for the human eye. Her mouth opened slightly, unconsciously, like her body needed an outlet just to mirror what it was witnessing. Her thighs clenched. Her chest barely rose.

Anita didn’t understand what she felt. Not fully. There was heat, yes—but not the usual kind. This wasn’t the slow tingle that came when she touched herself under the sheets or drifted too long in a fantasy. This was instant. Pulled taut. Like she’d swallowed something too big and it hadn’t reached her stomach yet. Her hand rested near her waistband without thinking. She didn’t move it. She didn’t dare.

Eira held it there a moment longer, eyes closed, lashes trembling. Then she pulled back with a sound that made Anita forget how to breathe. Spit and drool clinging to Eira’s chin, dripping down her tits. And the way the blonde panted?

Tommie whispered, “Holy fuck,” not to anyone, not even to herself. Just to the world for allowing this moment to exist.

Roger? Just a cock in the wind, still wondering if he was dreaming.

“Your turn,” Eira grinned, pulling Tommie by her hair.

“Fuck,” Tommie muttered, then crawled forward like a girl crossing into myth.

She wasn’t entirely sure if she was about to be blessed or devoured. Her knees sank into the grass, dew-soaked and warm from the heat of bodies. She kept her eyes on the cock—slick now, glistening, twitching slightly like it missed Eira already.

Eira leaned in, close enough for her breath to kiss Tommie’s cheek. “Don’t think. Just feel. Lick him like he’s yours, but you’re lending him out.”

Tommie wasn’t new to sucking cock, not at all, but now, it felt like a dare she couldn’t lose. Then her tongue darted out. A first, cautious flick, like testing a battery. Salt. Skin. Something alive. She flattened it next, tracing the length like she was learning a new language. Eira’s spit and drool still lingered, a tease of how her mouth tasted when wanting something.

Behind her, Anita sat with her legs tucked awkwardly beneath her, arms around her knees like she didn’t trust her own hands. Her breath came shallow, too fast. Something inside her wanted to close her eyes. Something else forced them open. She couldn’t look away.

Roger’s groan rolled low and surprised from somewhere deep in his chest. Tommie’s lips wrapped around him with less confidence than Eira’s, but more hunger. She wanted to prove she could. Not just suck. Take. Handle. Make him shake.

And he did. Just a little.

Anita swallowed. Her thighs pressed tighter. She still didn’t know what it meant—only that she’d never wanted to taste what someone else left behind until now.

“Loose jaw,” Eira whispered. “Let it come to you.”

Tommie tried, but her throat felt too narrow, his cock like the biggest thing she’d ever tasted.

“Loose,” Eira reminded again, gentler this time.

It might’ve been a touch of revenge. Or just a horny that had stuck too long, turned into something else. Either way, it made sense to Eira.

She traced her fingers down her friend’s spine, one hand still tangled in Tommie’s red hair. That skirt barely covered anything, and when she pushed it up, the girl’s ass was right there—tight, soft, trembling.

Tommie’s cunt was wet. Eager. Open in a way that felt like an offering.

Eira touched her. Two fingers first. Then more. Not in apology. Not in cruelty. Just a continuation of the moment, like the cock in her mouth and the moan on Anita’s breath had all been leading here.

Tommie burned. Gasped. Moaned. Came apart.

She was being fucked onto Roger’s cock, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it.

She gagged. Of course she did. Until she learned to relax.

Eira fucking fucked her.

She had no choice but to cum with a cock lodged in her throat. Piss herself, maybe, but not on Eira. Fuck.

Anita watched how her skinny friend trembled. Collapsed. Why shouldn’t she finger herself in a field? Why did she wear pants so stubbornly? She’d get a skirt the next day. Go naked. Get fucked on a table.

Her fingers curled inside her.

And the torturous sound of Tommie cumming on Eira’s fingers while her throat was fucked?

She rose to her knees. Pulled Tommie off Roger’s cock, pants around ankles, need in her pulse.

Alright, she thought to herself. I can suck cock.

It didn’t look monstrous. It smelled like promises. She wanted to fuck it—face in the dirt, ass gripped tight like porn. Plowed.

Alessandro had just been a gateway.

She parted her lips, let it fill her mouth, got greedy. Pushed too far. Didn’t gag—puked. Even that made her hornier.

Roger started to pull away, but those brown eyes staring up at him said it was fine. She was fine.

A little slower now. Wiping him clean of her guts.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

Behind her, Eira was still fucking Tommie. The redhead was clinging to grass and hope.

“You don’t get to fuck me that good,” Eira hissed, half her hand buried in her friend’s cunt.

“Eira—” Tommie gasped, hips shaking through her second orgasm. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m pissing—I can’t—fuck—”

Eira pulled her hand out, watched her friend coil on herself, pissing, cramping, thrashing. Falling apart.

Eira thought she deserved it, but didn’t kiss her before she lay broken in the grass.

And only then did they see Anita. Not throat-fucking, but getting her throat fucked. Rubbing her cute little cunt into stupidity.

Roger’s hands were knotted in her hair, holding her dead still. He drove all the way in, to the balls—using her mouth like a cunt.

Jesus.

Then he spun her around. Pushed her head into the dirt. Fucked her.

“I love cock,” she moaned. Over and over again.

Eira forgot she hadn’t cum all day.

It felt fine. Better than fine.

Because now she could do it herself. Finger-fuck, rub, get herself off stupid—just watching her best friend turn into a slut.

A gorgeous, headbanging slut with the perfect ass and those slow, lazy tits.

And when Roger pulled out and sprayed Anita’s hair, painted her back in too much cum—more than she could have expected, more than any of them had seen—it wasn’t just release. It was history. A man who came to Wacken for the music, who hadn’t even remembered to masturbate for weeks. It landed hot, messy, stringy, across her back and the crack of her ass, oozing down her thighs like regret.

Anita didn’t flinch. She arched. Took it.

And Eira? She let the show prolong her own release.

Tommie wiped her lips, blinked the dust from her lashes, and whispered, “Jesus, Roger.”

But Roger just stood there, hands on hips, chest rising like he’d survived a war. A man without shame. A man who just remembered what cumming felt like.

Anita rolled onto her side, smeared and glazed and glowing.

“That was…”

She rubbed herself.

“…God, I want more.”

Roger passed them all a beer, cracked open one for himself, and raised it.

“To Wacken,” he toasted.

The others followed.

“Wacken!” Eira and Tommie cheered.

“More…” Anita whimpered into the grass.