Breakfast was shy. A little awkward and draped in that silence only strangers who got too wet, too deep, and too honest can wear in the morning. The air was damp with the faint smell of rubber from tired crotches.

Nothing coffee couldn’t solve, nothing beer couldn’t salvage. Or so they prayed.

Øystein couldn’t hide behind beer, still the designated driver, still sober, still pretending he really hadn’t done the redhead. There.

Tommie was bothersomely unbothered, as always. She stole Sven’s toast, Gunnar’s beer, all while thanking the guys for the ride, never sparing a thought for how her tits bounced loose inside her shirt or how their scent clung to her skin like evidence. The kind you can’t burn, bleach, or pay someone to forget.

Generous, she called them.

Anita couldn’t get any of it out of her head. She wanted to crawl under the table and unimagine the night before. Eira’s bouncing tits. Her friend’s pussy, swallowing a stranger’s cock like it didn’t even matter. Coming like she did?

And Tommie? How many times did she come? How many did she fake? Did she really scream out… that thing, about her ass?

“Guys,” Anita whispered, still hoping for a way out.

Both her friends looked up—then groaned into imaginary pillows.

Caught.

Anita blushed again. Not from being caught, but from remembering how her fingers had felt different inside her. From being horny at breakfast. From thinking beer was a good idea.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

They threw their bags into the old Transit. Eira had won the draw and scored the seat next to Øystein, but now, as she tossed the bag with their tent into the back, maybe she’d lost.

It wasn’t even a sleeper van. Just mattresses thrown across the floor, two cases of beer, and an acoustic guitar with stickers peeling from ten years of Wacken history.

Tommie and Anita squeezed into the back, wedged between duffels, backpacks, sweat-damp jackets, and the guys. Somehow, Tommie ended up halfway into Sven’s lap. None of them seemed to mind. She was still in the same shirt, same skirt, but her tights had gathered a few new holes, a few new stains.

Øystein got to pick the music. The one perk of being the driver. King Diamond, Witchfynde—records they should all be too young to get off on, but there they were, nodding to riffs recorded before any of them were born.

They stopped at a store to fill the car with beer. Eira figured it was the tenth year in a row these guys had made the same trip, laughed at how the price of beer almost covered their tickets if only they stocked enough, and made the same jokes about the sagging suspension.

When they got back, Sven and Tommie seemed to test the suspension. Just to make sure.

Eira didn’t care. She swung into her seat and looked over her shoulder—just for a minute. Just long enough to wonder how many other girls had been fucked into that mattress like Tommie.

Then she couldn’t stop watching.

Tommie didn’t let it happen to her. Even pinned down, moaning like something hurt somewhere deep, she never gave up the rhythm. If Sven dropped a beat, let the tempo falter, she fucked back. Eira wondered if she rode cock the way Dave Lombardo played drums.

To Tommie, it was just about making it four for four. She didn’t even cum this time. Close, but not quite there.

Maybe that’s why she stayed silent and grumpy the rest of the ride, and let the guys high-fiving each other bug her more than it should.

Wacken was only forty minutes away.

Anita, on the other hand, couldn’t get the smell of her friend and rubber out of her head. It hit her the second she climbed into the back—wet and clingy, like the air had witnessed something it didn’t understand but refused to forget.

And it didn’t wash down with beer either. Neither did the stupid itch between her legs.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

The white van rolled in slow, caught in a tide of vehicles edging toward the checkpoint. The music wasn’t even loud—just seeping out of cars and campers, vans and wrecks—background noise with a low pulse.

The sun burned high. That kind of heat that only came at the end of July.

Free water bottles were handed out in exchange for tickets, wristbands snapped tight by volunteers in neon vests.

From the main festival site, the familiar echo rang out—“One, two. Ttttwo. Ttttesssttting”—cut off by something bass-heavy and strangely rhythmic.

Øystein followed the van ahead until it veered off, missing the perfect spot between two trees that could, if the sun tilted just right, offer something like shade.

They cracked their beers.

Eira jumped out. The tent village lay just ahead. That’s where they were headed—as soon as Tommie got over herself, her cursing, her calculations. Sven had been a decent fuck, but too hurried. Tommie hated nothing more than being brought just to the edge and not thrown over.

Eira would have to wait to ask her friend for a proper comparison.

Instead, Tommie lurched toward the tree. The spot that sat perfectly in the shade, the one Gunnar already imagined himself enjoying a beer under.

She didn’t pull her skirt down. Just tugged it higher. Squatted. Pulled her stained panties to the side.

If anything, piss is the true scent of Wacken.

Anita thanked the guys.

“What? You’re not staying?” Gunnar asked.

“Never intended to,” Tommie grinned, wiping a wet hand against his shirt. She kissed him—light, but not impersonal.

“Thanks for the ride,” she whispered. “All of them.”

The guys could only watch as the girls walked away. But they had the opening to their Wacken story written.

“All four?” Eira asked, aimed squarely at Tommie.

Tommie marched proud, one boot in front of the next.

“Well,” she started. “The weed was—”

She squinted against the sun. Flags were already flying high above the tents. She didn’t want to curl up too close to the Norwegians. Not the Swedes either. The Brazilians would be in campers and buses, and the English too close to the Scottish. There’d be fights. Her eyes caught a pair of Dutch flags, nestled between Italy and Germany.

She looked at her friends and pointed.

“There,” she said. “That’s our spot.”

There was something about the heat, Anita thought, following the thuds of her friend’s boots through grass and dust. She’d spent all winter, through spring, trimming her belly fat, tightening her thighs. Those same thighs now thudded forward, stubborn and proud. Her ass had always been fine—maybe too tight in her jeans—but now? Now she felt the stares burn across her backside. And she liked it. Maybe she, too, should ditch her bra. Let them jiggle. Sure, Tommie was smaller.

Really? she thought. Pierce her nipples?

No. A tattoo would be enough. A prize for herself. For when she finally lost her virginity, an anvil around her neck like an anchor dragging the bottom of her identity.

Yes, she concluded. This trip is about identity.

“Anita!”

Eira’s voice pulled her out of her head. The music returned. Then her friends.

“Huh?” she said.

“Where were you?” Tommie asked.

Anita didn’t answer. She just smiled—foolishly, maybe. Still wondering why she’d said she was good the night before. Maybe she wasn’t as ready as she wanted to believe.

“Yeah, this is a good spot,” Eira said, not even checking if the ground was soft, hard, or full of rocks.

She just heard the music spill across the tents. Saw the tanned bodies, the ink, the two girls riding a German flag dressed as nuns—chests spilling out like a dare. They were paler than her, but she could fill those habits just the same.

She nodded. Gave the devil’s horns.

Three guys, Scottish, helped them with the tent. Invited them over for beers and whisky. The nuns followed, just to make sure the sins were executed in the right order.

Bodies flowed across the plain like a gentle stampede of camaraderie. No one fights on the first Monday of Wacken.

The campsite didn’t offer beer tents or shade, unlike the festival site itself. Sure, the small mini-marts scattered across the fields looked shady from the outside—but the heat only seemed to gather inside, clinging to shelves and skin like it had nowhere else to go.

The beer was canned, German, and almost cool. But they were generous with the plastic cups.

They found themselves at a plastic table under a parasol that only shaded the ground beside them.

Scattered in that shade: arms, legs, and bodies that seemed to speak Italian.

“This is it,” Tommie declared. “We’ve made it, girls. Wacken.”

Eira pressed the plastic cup against her face. She’d be burned to a crisp before Thursday. She hadn’t packed sunscreen. And now it hit her—they had no sleeping bags either. Just the tent and whatever clothes fit in their bags.

Tommie didn’t worry about sunburns. She rode them every summer and let her skin peel in between.

But Anita? She was already lost.

Lost in the smell of it. In beers drunk too fast in the sun. In a two-day stubble, in gentle brown eyes that spoke in one language, while the broken English spilling from his lips said something that didn’t matter.

She wasn’t listening with that part of her body.

As the afternoon softened into evening breeze, she drifted off the table and into his shade. She clung to his hand and let him guide her out of the same shade, into the afternoon glow.

Beyond the noise. Into something beautiful.

She let him kiss her. Let him fondle her tits through her shirt and bra. She smiled as her fingers fumbled behind her back. Unclasped herself. Let it feel like growth. Then kissed him again, guiding his hands beneath her shirt.

He didn’t say much as they walked toward his tent.

His friends—the ones from the table, who spoke in that same soft accent that made her pulse beat slow and fast at the same time—just nodded. Smiled. And made room for them.

Not until they were inside did it feel a little too tight. His hands. His kisses. That stubble burning her skin in a way she hadn’t even imagined.

“I…” she started.

Alessandro paused. His eyes flicked up to hers. Curious. Gentle, but still unsure.

“I’m…new—” she tried again.

He nodded. Kissed her tummy. Turned the music up—like volume might help her decide. His touch softened, a little.

She gasped when he unzipped her pants. So deep, he stopped again.

“No,” she said. “Don’t stop. Not now.”

She brushed his hair out of his face. “Please.”

She let him free her of the stubborn pants. Wished, just for a second, she’d packed the sexy underwear still folded in her bottom drawer back home. But he didn’t mind.

His breath warmed the inside of her thigh. He must have smelled her by now.

She didn’t blush from his touch, his kisses. She was still wearing the same panties from the kiss on the bus, Eira’s lips on the dance floor, her own fingers pulling wet from herself the night before.

And now? He rubbed his palm against her like she was the most delicate thing in his universe. Like she was the only thing he’d ever touched. As if—

She lifted her ass off the blanket. Let him tug. Let him see.

She was glad she’d shaved before leaving. She didn’t dare look down. What if he didn’t like her cunt?

She’d studied it in the mirror. It wasn’t a porn-pussy. Not wild, not open. Not obscenely wet. Just her. A small clit that hid in its hood, too shy for the light.

But his thumb pulled. Teased her out. Lured her.

And that tongue?

What if she tasted like piss and sweat? Stale girl-cum? Her hips jerked. Up and against him. She whimpered before she even knew she’d made a sound.

And he was only gentle. No fingers poking, just warm and tender.

“Oouf,” she heard herself moan as her fingers tangled in his hair. “Ah. Ah. Ah.”

Then he stopped.

Why’d he stop? Why did he sit up like that? What did she do wrong?

She opened her eyes and found him standing. He pulled his zipper.

Of course he did. He was going to make her suck him. Make her a slut. A cock-sucking whore. And she’d stay in that tent the entire week and be fucked—

He pulled his pants down. Folded them, then sat on his knees between her legs. He broke open the seal with his teeth. Pulled the condom out and rolled it—

He wasn’t big like she feared. He wasn’t small. He was—

“Are you sure?” he asked.

What an utterly impossible question.

Her body was sure. She felt her thighs give way, her chest perk, her breath catch inside her ribs. But her brain wasn’t ready to say a definite yes. It was caught somewhere in a maternal conversation. A Bible class. She was more Cinderella than Slayer, more Alice In Chains than Nirvana. More Baby Metal than Avenged Sevenfold.

“Be gentle,” she whispered.

Anita wouldn’t remember her first, just like Eira could never be honest about hers, or Tommie could barely remember. Pain, yes. There had been pain, even through Alessandro’s stubborn gentleness. But it had given way. She had been too tight at first, and that’s where the pain came from. But when Alessandro stopped, told her to breathe, and kissed her like she was special?

She hadn’t cum, and she didn’t care. Or maybe she did cum and couldn’t remember. Alessandro did, when he lay beside her and offered her a beer from a still-cold cooler. She’d taken the beer. Pulled her pants on, then her shirt. Left the bra and panties behind.

When she unzipped the tent, she wasn’t met with applause or stares. But the cute girl, the one with the braids and the nose ring, met her eyes. Waved with her fingers and let Anita disappear into the dark of night.

⛧   \m/   ⛧

Eira and Tommie barely registered Anita slipping away with the handsome Italian. They just grinned and drank faster. The flow of bodies in and around the mini-mart never really stopped, the ground never really emptied, it just swapped contents. The Italians gave way to Spaniards, then English, then just people being people. People bonding. Girls and girls, boys and boys, hippies and punks. People becoming friends.

Eventually, they found themselves increasingly less crowded. Even the English guys gave up fucking them.

They weren’t pretty when they stumbled into the night, didn’t try to be.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Eira mumbled.

Tommie hadn’t ever had time to stop and be sick, but she’d held plenty of hair while her friends puked. And when Eira buckled over, Tommie’s instinct was pure. She folded her friend’s hair into a ponytail, then gently steered her spray away from her boots.

“Thank you,” Eira mumbled.

They admitted they were lost. That they were unfucked and confused about that as well. Every tent looked the same from a distance, but foreign up close, tattered with stickers and stories that didn’t belong to them, but wanted to taste. Every flag waved in blurry colors. But the yellow tent in front of them? Yeah, that was theirs.

Tommie pulled the zipper, opened the flap, and guided Eira inside. It smelled like pussy. Not Eira’s. Not Tommie’s.

The two Dutch girls—judging by the language—stopped mid-fuck, but didn’t scream. Neither did Eira, nor did Tommie.

Sometimes, a stare looks like a question. Sometimes, an invitation. Sometimes, girls admitting they’re just as wet as you. Eira had never been with a girl before. She didn’t have time to think about it when the girls pulled her down.

Tommie? Another kind of ride, different flavor, same hunt.

Eira felt like an altar. Didn’t even notice how she’d slipped out of her shirt, the skirt, her panties. But the boots stayed on.  Two girls at her tits, one on her clit. She didn’t feel like puking anymore.

She was used to gagging on cocks. Sucked too hard. The odd sucking of her clit, tongues too eager to penetrate. Cocks that went from asking to pounding too quickly.

When the brunette let go of her nipple and smiled that smile at her, licked her neck, and kissed her, Eira wasn’t ready. Not when she continued to slide up on her, tits first, then belly. A thigh. Her cunt.

She was pierced. A ring in the hood, two in her soft lips. Eira had only ever tasted herself from her fingers and wasn’t sure what to do. But her lips did. And her tongue acted like it owned a memory Eira had never lived.

And when she felt two fingers curl inside her, her mouth opened wide, the rings grazing her teeth until she sucked on the one threaded through the girl's hood.

Tommie? She had wanted Eira since the moment she met her almost two years ago. When her mother left her father and moved her to the other side of the city. When she landed, dazed and sharp-tongued, in Eira and Anita’s class. She’d almost fallen in love at first sight.

Almost.

Tommie didn’t fall in love. Not with her boyfriends. Not with girls. She wondered if Eira knew it was her fingers inside her.

She didn’t mind the girl sucking her cunt, but she wasn’t overwhelmed by it either. What consumed her was her friend’s scent. The way her pussy folded. The way her clit pulsed. The way her breath caught between her belly and ribs every time she pressed against that spot inside her.

Tommie hadn’t planned on eating Eira out. But given the cards on the table, it didn’t feel like surrender. It just felt inevitable.

She didn’t even notice when Elise made her cum. It wrapped around her like a fever dream.

It was the first orgasm Tommie didn’t even register as her own. She just felt it like the start of Eira’s. Her friend’s thighs trembled, her voice—muffled inside another girl’s cunt—came out short, jagged, almost haunted. Eira had sick abs, she noted, and now they were tighter than cock in rubber.

Eira’s hands grabbed her own tits, pinched hard as her back arched, and her cunt tightened around Tommie’s fingers like it wanted to seal them inside. Tommie stopped fucking her. Just let her fingers rest, let Eira’s body decide how to come.

She lay there, Elise half-draped across her, watching Eira suck restraint out of the brown-haired girl. She came loudly. Wet. Ragged and torn. The words that spilled from her were foreign, but Tommie understood every one.

They collapsed into each other, let thighs be thighs, tits be tits, and the damp clinging to their skin be testimony.