Chapter 3: The Silver Convertible Beckons
The tingling on her neck hadn’t subsided; it had spread, a low current under her skin. Enya set her copper mug down, the clink too loud in their shadowed corner. She looked at Maryshka, whose eyes were still bright with residual adrenaline, and found the words waiting, blunt and strange.
“You know…” Enya said slowly, her gaze fixed on the smudged lipstick on her friend’s mouth. “…and I know it’s wrong but…I kind of liked the sensation of his hands. And his lips. It was still wrong and a mistake. But maybe, just maybe, I was indeed missing on the fun part of life.”
Maryshka’s grin was immediate, wide and knowing. “See-e-e-e-e-e!” she drew the word out, a sound of pure triumph. “Though, I still hated the guys, the kiss and especially his hand on my tits.” They laughed again, a softer, more conspiratorial sound, and drank more, the ice clattering in their emptier cups.
They laughed again, a softer, more conspiratorial sound, and drank more, the ice clattering in their emptier cups. A warm, male voice cut through the murky bar hum, coming from just beside their table. "Hello girls," said the young man who appeared out of nowhere, leaning a confident shoulder against the brick archway. He had messy chestnut hair falling into amused eyes and a guitarist’s lean frame under a worn denim shirt. "My name's Leo. What are yours? Never seen you before. And believe me, if I ever saw you two—I would remember."
Enya felt a genuine smile touch her lips, the first unforced one all night. “I’m Enya. This is Maryshka.”
“Leo,” he said again, as if tasting the name. He slid onto the vacant stool at their small table without waiting for an invite, his movements fluid. His presence immediately changed the atmosphere, pulling the energy from their dark corner into a tighter, warmer orbit around the three of them. “You two look like you’re plotting a heist. Or recovering from one.”
Maryshka laughed, a real one. “A bit of both. It’s been a strange twenty minutes.”
“The best kind,” Leo said, signaling the bartender for another round with a subtle lift of his chin. “This is my regular haunt, actually. Helped wire the stage speakers today. I’m playing later.”
“A musician,” Enya said, leaning forward on her elbows. The gin and the lingering thrill had softened her edges, made her curious. “What do you play?”
“Guitar, mainly. Scream into a microphone sometimes.” He accepted three fresh drinks from the bartender—whiskey, neat—and placed one before each of them. “And you? You don’t have the look of an accountant.”
“I am, actually,” Maryshka said, taking her glass. “Well, a junior analyst at a bank. Spreadsheets and suffering.”
Leo’s eyes crinkled. “Makes sense. You’ve got the posture of someone who endures nonsense for a living.” He turned his gaze, which was a disarmingly clear hazel, to Enya. “And you? The quiet intensity suggests artist. Or assassin.”
“Artist,” Enya admitted, the word feeling rusty. “Or, I was. Painter. I don’t do much lately.”
“Creative block?” Leo asked, not with pity, but with the recognition of a fellow traveler. “I get that. Sometimes the strings just feel like dead wire.” He took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “You should come watch later. Maybe the noise will shake something loose.”
He was openly assessing them both, his glance traveling from Maryshka’s smudged mouth to the line of Enya’s throat where the choker sat. “I have to say, the view from this table just became the main event. I was planning to circulate, but now I’m planted.”
Maryshka kicked Enya’s boot under the table. “Charming. And ambitious. You hoping one of us bites?”
“I’m hoping both of you do,” Leo said, his smile easy, unapologetic. “Life’s short. Parties are temporary. Beautiful strangers are a statistical miracle.”
Enya felt a flush that wasn’t from the alcohol. It was the directness, the lack of game. It mirrored the pact’s brutal clarity but wrapped in a wit that made it feel collaborative, not clinical. “You’re very sure of yourself,” she said.
“No,” he corrected, leaning in slightly. The scent of him—clean sweat, citrus soap, and cedar—wrapped around her. “I’m very sure I’d be an idiot not to try. The rest is just hopeful improvisation.”
The conversation flowed, a quick, smart volley. Leo was clever, his jokes self-deprecating and sharp. He talked about growing up in the maze of the city’s music scene, about the chaos of organizing shows where the power always blew. Maryshka countered with tales of banking absurdities, and Enya found herself describing the specific blue of a sky she’d once spent a week trying to mix, the memory of the pigment vivid on her tongue.
His hand, resting on the table, brushed against Enya’s as he reached for his glass. It was a glancing touch, but he didn’t pull away, letting the back of his fingers rest against her knuckles for a warm, deliberate second.
When Maryshka made a joke about her boss, Leo laughed, and his hand moved to her knee under the table, giving it a brief, friendly squeeze. Maryshka raised an eyebrow but didn’t shift away.
The touches became punctuation. A point emphasized by Leo’s palm on Enya’s shoulder as he leaned past her to point out the bassist now tuning on stage. His thumb stroked the bare skin of her upper arm, just once, before he settled back.
His fingers traced a slow, absent pattern on Maryshka’s denim-clad thigh as he explained a chord progression. They were high on her leg, near the hem of her skirt. Maryshka’s breathing shallowed, but she took a slow drink, watching him.
Later, as Enya talked about the hollow silence of her studio, Leo’s hand settled on her lower back, just above the waistband of her skirt. The heat of his palm soaked through the thin mesh of her top. His thumb pressed gently into the dip of her spine. “That’s where it gets stuck,” he said quietly, his voice intimate amidst the noise. “The weight of the quiet. You have to outrun it.”
His audacity was breathtaking, a steady escalation conducted with such casual confidence it felt inevitable. He now had one hand on the nape of Maryshka’s neck, his fingers playing with the fine hairs there as she laughed at something he’d said. His other hand was on Enya’s bare midriff, his fingertips just slipping under the hem of her crop top, resting on the warm, toned skin of her belly.
They were both allowing it, Enya realized. More than allowing. She was arching slightly into his touch on her back, her body humming with a live-wire awareness that erased the ghost of the drunk’s sloppy kiss. Maryshka had turned her head, letting Leo’s fingers massage the tension at the base of her skull, her eyes half-lidded.
He owned the space between them now, a conductor of this new, charged energy. His gaze swept from one to the other, his smile lazy and saturated with promise. “You see?” he murmured, his thumb making a small, slow circle on Enya’s stomach. “This is better than plotting. This is the plot.”
Leo took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving them. The noise of the bar seemed to recede, tightening around their table like a shroud. "There's this legend," he began, his voice dropping into a storyteller's rhythm, smooth and captivating. "About a tribe that believed dance wasn't just expression. It was a literal current. A magic you could channel through movement to remake the world around you, or the world inside you."
His left hand lay confidently on Enya's knee as he spoke, his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles on her skin before grazing upward along her inner thigh. His right hand performed the same deliberate dance on Maryshka’s leg, his touch through the denim firm and unquestioned.
As he continued describing the rhythmic ceremonies under ancient moons, his hands journeyed further, the teasing touches becoming bolder. They slid higher, past the hem of Enya’s asymmetrical skirt and under the loose fabric of Maryshka’s denim mini, his fingertips now tracing the sensitive skin of their upper thighs. Enya felt a jolt, a clean, sharp static that had nothing to do with the distant bass. Maryshka’s breath hitched, a tiny sound lost under Leo’s words.
They were both leaning into him, drawn by the cadence of his voice or the certainty of his hands—Elya couldn’t disentangle the two. The clatter of glasses, the shouted conversations, it all muted into a dull roar behind the intimate theatre of their corner. His narrative wove a spell, and their bodies were the willing parchment.
Feeling the hypnotic power he now held, Leo didn't ask. He took Enya's right hand and Maryshka's left, his grip warm and guiding. In one fluid motion, he brought both their palms firmly between his legs, pressing them against the rigid outline of his erection straining against his jeans. They didn't pull away. Their hands, almost of their own volition, began to move, rubbing and kneading the hard length through the rough denim, a synchronized, curious exploration.
Then Leo shifted, his storyteller's cadence unbroken as he hugged Enya closer with his left arm. His hand moved over her head, across her shoulder, and down, coming to rest possessively on her breast. His fingers slipped beneath the mesh and black fabric of her crop top, his palm finding the warm, soft skin of her half-naked breast. He squeezed gently, his thumb beginning a slow, insistent rhythm against her nipple, which hardened instantly under the thin material. Enya arched her back, a faint gasp escaping her as the sensation—so different from the clumsy groping earlier—speared through her gut.
He suddenly stopped his story.
The silence was abrupt, total. In this quiet, thick with anticipation and the smell of their sweat and his cologne, he just confidently reached across with his right hand. His fingers hooked into the neckline of Maryshka’s white t-shirt. With a soft, tearing sound from the strained fabric, he pulled it down over her cleavage, exposing the black lace bra beneath that wasn’t really closed much anyway. The cups gaped, and the shirt stayed bunched under her breasts, holding them exposed in the dim, amber light. Maryshka didn't flinch. She looked down at herself, then up at Leo, her expression unreadable.
She looked down at herself, then up at Leo, her expression unreadable. Then a slow, wicked smirk cracked her features. “You’re not shy, are you?”
“Waste of time,” Leo breathed, his gaze hot on her exposed skin. He moved his left hand from Enya’s breast, sliding it across the space between them. He put his hand flat in the middle of Maryshka’s chest, his palm and fingers touching both her breasts, the warmth of his skin a shock against hers. He moved his hand up and down there slowly, a possessive, measuring stroke.
Without breaking the touch he turned and kissed Enya.
It wasn’t like the drunk’s wet, clumsy assault. It was all confidence and heat, his mouth firm and knowing against hers. She gave in fully to the kiss, her hand still working him through his jeans, her other coming up to grip his denim-clad shoulder. The taste of whiskey and his own clean scent filled her, drowning out the stale bar air.
He slowly broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers. His breathing was already ragged. He looked from Enya’s dilated eyes to Maryshka’s flushed face, his right hand still cupping them both.
“What do you want me to do with my right hand?” he asked Enya, his voice a rough scrape.
The question hung in the humid air between them. It was a test, a transfer of power. Enya swallowed, the pact, the convertible, the older man, all of it coalescing into this single, pointed directive. She said it quietly, clearly.
“Put it under the right cup of her bra and play with her breast.”
Maryshka didn’t move. She just watched Leo, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Leo did just that. His fingers hooked under the black lace, pushing the cup down. His thumb found Maryshka’s nipple immediately, circling it, then pinching it gently. Maryshka’s head fell back, a sharp, gratified sigh hissing through her teeth.
Their hands on his groin started a wild ride, a frenzy of rubbing and stroking through the denim. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pleasure that vibrated against Enya’s forehead.
“Fuck it, just–” Maryshka rasped, her practical nature cutting through the tension. Her fingers found his zipper and yanked it down. Both their hands were instantly on his cock, freed from his jeans—Enya at the base, Maryshka working the top.
He was big. Bigger than they expected, thick and heavy and fully hard in their combined grips. He started moaning more, low, continuous sounds as they stroked him in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.
With his free hand, he removed Maryshka’s bra completely, the straps snapping loose. He tugged Enya’s crop top up and over her head in one urgent motion, tossing it onto the floor behind their stools. One breast of each girl was now fully exposed in the open air of the bar’s shadowed corner. They didn’t care if someone would or would not see it. The world had shrunk to this triangle of heat and skin.
He was grabbing and rubbing both girls’ tits, his hands rougher now, kneading and pulling, his thumbs rough on their nipples. They were clearly enjoying it, their own moans mixing with his, their hands a slick, busy tangle on his shaft. His breathing became more rushed and rugged, each inhale a ragged scrape.
Maryshka caught the exact moment, the tightening of his stomach, the sudden leap of a vein in his neck. Without asking or a hint, she dove down, her shoulder-length hair falling around his lap as she covered his cock with her mouth.
Enya switched to cupping his balls, feeling the tight, drawn-up weight of them in her palm, massaging gently as Maryshka worked him with her lips and tongue.
He came in Maryshka with a choked, shattered cry, his hips bucking off the stool, his hands gripping their breasts almost painfully tight. They held him through it, Enya’s forehead against his temple, Maryshka swallowing around him until he slumped back, spent.
Silence pooled in their little corner, thick and sticky. The bar’s noise rushed back in—the laughter, the clinking glass, the relentless bass from the other room. Leo’s head was tilted back against the brick, his eyes closed, chest heaving. A thin sheen of sweat gleamed on his throat.
Maryshka slowly sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She reached for her whiskey, took a large swallow, and met Enya’s gaze over Leo’s prone form. Her eyes were dark, bright, triumphant.
Enya’s own breath was coming fast. Her naked breast felt cool in the bar’s air-conditioning, her nipple painfully hard. She felt raw, scraped out, and terrifyingly, electrically alive. The ghost of the turpentine-scented studio felt a million miles away.
Leo’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at them, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. “Okay,” he breathed, pushing his hair back. “That was… a better opener than I usually manage.”
Leo’s chest still rose and fell heavily, his smile lazy and satisfied in the amber gloom. His eyes, hazy and warm, drifted from Maryshka’s face to Enya’s. The focus sharpened.
He pointed a blunt finger at the corner of Maryshka’s mouth. “You didn’t taste it yet,” he said to Enya, his voice a low rasp.
He dragged his fingertip slowly through the faint, pearlescent streak on Maryshka’s skin, showing her. “You should.”
The command hung in the sticky air. Enya felt the aftermath of her encounter in the convertible—the raw, slick heat between her thighs, the tremble in her muscles—flare back into a full, submissive burn. Her thoughts were soft wax. She was pliant.
She stood slowly, her movements fluid, and stepped around the table to Maryshka. Her own black crop top was already back in place, snug and correct. Maryshka’s bra, however, was still undone, the black lace cups hanging loose, her breasts bare and exposed in the dim light.
Enya didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, her long dark hair curtaining their faces. Her tongue touched the corner of Maryshka’s mouth, a slow, deliberate stroke that collected the salty, distinct trace of him. Maryshka’s breath hitched, her eyes wide and fixed on Enya’s.
The taste was foreign, intimate. A completed circuit. Enya realized, with a jolt of pure instinct, that he would love what came next.
She didn’t pull away. Her hands came up, cupping Maryshka’s bare breasts, the weight familiar and warm in her palms. Her thumbs brushed over the nipples, already hardened from the earlier attention, and began to roll them slowly, gently. She closed the last inch between their mouths and kissed Maryshka deeply.
It wasn’t performative. It was curious, languid, a shared exploration of taste and sensation. Maryshka melted into it, her own hands coming up to grip Enya’s hips, her mouth opening under the kiss.
Leo watched, his eyes dark. He zipped his jeans slowly, the sound harsh in the intimate quiet. “Oh,” he said, the word a slow exhalation. “I’m gonna fuck both of you so hard. You will be screaming my name.”
The girls broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connecting their lips for a fleeting second. They didn’t look at each other. Their movements were synchronized, practical. Enya’s hands left Maryshka’s breasts to help her friend pull her bra straps back onto her shoulders and fasten the clasp. Maryshka tugged her torn t-shirt back into a semblance of decency. They settled back onto their stools, flanking him again.
Both of their hands returned to his trousers, palms flat on the denim over his thighs. “Oh, will you now?” Enya asked, her voice playfully challengin, but her eyes were serious.
“I will,” Leo said, utterly solemn. The playful musician was gone, replaced by something more direct, a calm intensity that brooked no doubt. “That’s a promise.”
He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over them like a sculptor assessing his material. “But first,” he said, nodding toward the throbbing main room. “I want to watch you both dance. Get on the dance floor. Be sensual and sexy. I want everyone looking at you. I’ll watch from here.”
A beat of silence. A shared glance between the women. There was no question, no protest. The pact had been their framework, but his voice now was the current pulling them forward.
They stood, a unified motion. Enya adjusted her choker. Maryshka ran a hand through her waves.
Then they walked, side-by-side, out of the dim corner and into the pulsating heart of the noise, leaving him at the table, watching. They moved through the crowd, not as victims or plotters, but as assertions, their steps in sync with the heavy, driving beat waiting to claim them.
They moved through the crowd, not as victims or plotters, but as assertions, their steps in sync with the heavy, driving beat waiting to claim them. The main floor was a crush of bodies, a sea of shifting shadows and strobing light. They found a pocket of space near a vibrating speaker stack, the air thick with the heat of a hundred strangers.
Enya caught Maryshka’s eye. A silent question passed between them, followed by a slow, deliberate nod. They began to move.
At first, it was just a sway, a gentle roll of hips against the tide of sound. They faced each other, a hand’s breadth apart. Enya’s hands drifted up her own torso, fingertips tracing the line of her ribs beneath the black crop top, then sliding down to grip her own hips. Maryshka mirrored her, her palms smoothing over her denim skirt, her head tilting back to expose the line of her throat.
The tempo shifted, the drumbeat fracturing into a faster, jagged rhythm. Their movement sharpened in response. Enya turned, pressing her back against Maryshka’s front, grinding slowly, feeling the heat of her friend through their clothes. Maryshka’s hands settled on Enya’s waist, then slid upward, mapping the curve of her sides.
They broke apart only to come together again, now a mirror image. Their hands were everywhere—sweeping through their own hair, dragging down their own necks, then reaching for each other. Enya’s fingers threaded into the hair at Maryshka’s temple. Maryshka’s thumb stroked the sharp line of Enya’s jaw.
The music built, a relentless, pulsating wave. Enya dropped to her knees, the hard floor vibrating through her. She arched back, her hands sliding up her own thighs, pushing the white skirt higher. Maryshka stood over her, then bent forward, placing her hands on the floor, her head level with Enya’s. The denim skirt rode up her thighs, revealing the black lace of her panties fully to the heated air.
From her knees, Enya’s hands went to the hem of her own top. She tugged it up slowly, just for a second, letting the cool air and the gaze of the room brush her bare stomach and the underside of her breasts. She let the fabric snap back down, a fleeting reveal. She did it again, higher this time, and the shadowed curve of a nipple, pale and tight, was visible in the strobe before being swallowed by black fabric once more.
They were a circuit of pure, raw display. Maryshka crawled a slow circle around Enya, who now rose to meet her. They moved together, a fusion of limbs and rolling backs, hands sliding over toned stomachs, down the backs of thighs, over the swell of their own asses. It wasn’t for Leo anymore. It was a language spoken between their two bodies, amplified for a hungry room.
A current ripped through the crowd around them. A man to their left, his eyes glued to the sweep of Maryshka’s hand inside her own shirt, unzipped his trousers. His hand moved in a rough, jerking rhythm under the cover of the pulsating dark. A couple near the wall, the woman pressed against the brick, shoved her hand down her boyfriend’s jeans, her mouth on his as he groaned into her hair.
It spread like a spark in dry grass. Another man, then another, hands furtive in pockets or brazen on their zippers. A woman pulled her partner’s face to her chest, her other hand working the bulge in his pants. The dance floor became a theater of urgent, proxy gratification, all orbits pulling toward the two women who moved like a single, devastating flame.
The song reached its screaming, synthetic zenith. Enya and Maryshka were chest to chest now, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air, their hands flat on each other’s lower backs, grinding in a final, desperate circle.
Then silence.
The track ended with a digital screech that faded into nothing. The house lights flickered up to a dim, mundane wash. The spell shattered.
Hands flew away from crotches. Zippers were fastened. People coughed, turned away, pretended to scan the room for a friend. The raw, collective hunger vanished behind a veneer of normalcy, leaving a thick residue of sweat and shame in the air.
Enya and Maryshka stood still in the sudden calm, their chests heaving. A faint, triumphant smile touched Maryshka’s lips. Enya smoothed her skirt down with deliberate slowness, her chin high. They walked back through the parted crowd, which refused to meet their eyes, and returned to the shadowy arch of their corner.
Leo hadn’t moved. He looked at them, his expression one of pure, undiluted awe. He let out a low, breathless whistle.
“Geez, girls,” he said, his voice raw. “That view was better than from a convertible on 100mph.”
Something flicked in Enya and she asked with hope : "We've seen a bmw outside. Is it yours?" He chuckled "Oh, I wish! But believe it or not, it's that guy's" and he pointed to a lonely guy covered in acne.