Chapter 1: Take What You Want
The bass was a physical thing, a deep synthwave throb that moved up through the soles of Betty’s shoes and vibrated in her ribs. The air tasted of spilled vodka and dry ice, a sweet chemical sting. Neon splashed the writhing mass on the dance floor in pulses of cyan and magenta, glinting off sequins and sweat-slicked skin.
“God, I needed this,” Wendy shouted directly into her ear, her voice cutting through the wall of sound. Her hand was warm and firm around Betty’s wrist.
Betty laughed, the sound lost to the music. “You needed a crowd of strangers dripping on you?”
“I needed to feel something that isn’t my fucking spreadsheet,” Wendy corrected, her green eyes flashing. “And so did you. Don’t even try to pretend.”
Betty couldn’t. The confident arch of her spine, the defiant lift of her chin—it was armor. Inside, the week had left her feeling scraped out and hollow. The club’s sensory assault was a welcome acid bath, burning it all away.
Wendy didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled, and Betty let herself be led, parting the hot, damp bodies until they were swallowed by the core of the dance floor. The press became immediate, intimate. A man in a too-tight shirt ground against Betty’s back; she shoved back with her hip, a wordless dismissal, and he melted away.
Then it was just Wendy in front of her. Wendy, with her wildfire hair sticking to her temples, her GG breasts straining against the scarlet silk of her top. The music shifted, the beat deepening, becoming more insistent.
They moved. It wasn’t dancing, not really. It was a conversation. A hip roll met by a counter-roll. A sway answered by a lean. Wendy’s hands found Betty’s hips, fingers splaying possessively over the black lace of her dress. The touch was electric, cutting through the numbness Betty had been cultivating.
Wendy closed the last inch between them. Their bodies aligned, breast to breast, stomach to stomach. Betty could feel the heat coming off Wendy’s skin, smell the salt and vanilla of her perfume. The crowd pulsed around them, a human tide that shoved them even closer together.
Wendy’s lips brushed the shell of Betty’s ear, her breath a hot spike. “Tonight, we take what we want.”
A shiver, totally unrelated to the chill of the AC, raced down Betty’s spine. The words weren’t a suggestion. They were a permission slip. The last of her restraint, that carefully maintained glamour, frayed at the edges.
Betty’s hands came up, sliding over Wendy’s shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles there. Her thumbs traced the line of Wendy’s collarbone. In response, Wendy’s grip tightened, pulling their centers into a firmer, more deliberate contact. The thick seam of Betty’s jeans pressed right against Wendy’s core, through the thin barrier of her leggings.
“Someone’s going to see,” Betty murmured, but she was already arching into the pressure.
“Let them,” Wendy breathed, and her mouth trailed down the side of Betty’s neck, not a kiss but a claiming, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point.
A low sound escaped Betty, swallowed by the music. Her head fell back. The lasers painted her vision in blinding streaks. Wendy’s hand left her hip, sliding around to the small of her back, holding her steady as her other hand came between them. Wendy’s fingers, confident and seeking, found the zipper of Betty’s dress and tugged it down an inch, then two.
Cool air hit Betty’s overheated skin. Then Wendy’s hand was there, slipping inside, bypassing her bra to palm her bare breast. Betty gasped, her own fingers digging into Wendy’s shoulders. Wendy’s thumb circled her nipple, already hard, the rough pad creating a friction that made Betty’s knees go weak.
“Wendy…”
“Shut up and feel it,” Wendy growled, her mouth back at Betty’s ear. She pinched the nipple, a sharp, bright pain that melted instantly into a wave of pure need that pooled hot and heavy between Betty’s legs.
Betty’s own hands became desperate. She fumbled for the hem of Wendy’s top, yanking it up. Her palms found the soft, heavy weight of Wendy’s breasts, spilling over the cups of her lace bra. She pushed the fabric down, and Wendy helped her, shrugging it off her shoulders until her breasts were free in the humid, strobing air. Betty bent her head, taking a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue lashing the tight peak.
Wendy cursed, a filthy, beautiful word that got lost in the drop of the song. She trapped Betty’s head against her chest, grinding herself against Betty’s thigh, the motion frantic and raw. One of Wendy’s legs nudged Betty’s feet apart. Then her hand, the one not gripping Betty’s back, was pushing down, past the waistband of Betty’s jeans, past the edge of her underwear.
Her fingers were slick. Betty didn’t know if it was her sweat or her own. It didn’t matter. Wendy’s middle finger found her slit, pressed up through the soaking wet folds, and slid inside her without ceremony.
Betty cried out, the sound torn from her throat. Her walls clamped down around the intrusion, the sudden fullness a shock that tipped her from arousal into a swift, dizzying freefall. Wendy moved her finger, a slow, deep curl that brushed a spot deep inside that made Betty see white at the edges of her vision.
“That’s it,” Wendy panted against her neck. “Fuck my hand. Come all over my fingers. Right here.”
The command was all it took. The pressure, the dizzying public shame of it, the sheer animal rightness of Wendy’s touch shattered her. The orgasm ripped through her, brutal and convulsing. Her body locked, her back bowing, her cunt pulsing violently around Wendy’s finger as she muffled her scream against Wendy’s shoulder.
Wendy held her through it, her own body trembling. As Betty came down, gasping, boneless, she felt Wendy’s hand shift. She was manipulating her own clothing now, pushing her leggings down just enough. She guided one of Betty’s limp hands between her own legs.
Betty’s fingers slipped into liquid heat. Wendy was soaked, swollen, ready. Betty found her clit, a hard, eager pearl beneath her fingertips, and circled it with the same relentless rhythm Wendy had given her. Wendy’s breathing hitched into sharp, ragged gasps. She rode Betty’s hand, her forehead pressed to Betty’s, their shared air a desperate mix of perfume and sweat and sex.
“Don’t stop,” Wendy choked out.
Betty didn’t. She added a second finger, pushing inside Wendy, feeling her clench and flutter. She scissored them, crooked them, mimicking the motion that had just destroyed her. Wendy’s climax was quieter, but no less intense. A deep, shuddering tremor that rolled through her entire frame. She bit down on Betty’s lip to silence herself, the sharp pain a perfect counterpoint to the slick, throbbing finish.
For a long moment, they just leaned into each other, a tangled, sweating mess in the middle of the oblivious crowd. The music continued to hammer. Slowly, reality seeped back in. The sticky air. The distant cheers. The feel of cooling sweat on their skin.
Wendy gently withdrew her hand, pulling Betty’s zipper back up with a tenderness that contrasted violently with what they’d just done. She adjusted her own top, her breasts disappearing back into the scarlet silk. Her smile was slow, spent, and real.
“Okay,” Wendy breathed, her voice hoarse. “Now I’m ready for a drink.”
Betty laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. She swiped a thumb at the smudge of her own mascara under Wendy’s eye. They were a disaster. A beautiful, fucking perfect disaster. The hollowness was gone, replaced by a resonant, humming fullness.
Linking arms, they turned and pushed their way out of the crowd, leaving the pulsating heart of the dance floor behind. Their exit was noted by a few raised eyebrows and one appreciative smirk from a bartender wiping a glass. They left a silence in their wake, a pocket of charged, spent air in the middle of the roaring club.
They left a silence in their wake, a pocket of charged, spent air in the middle of the roaring club. The bar was a relative oasis, just a few yards of sticky floor and heavy smoke away. Wendy slapped a twenty on the polished wood. "Two whiskeys. Neat. The good stuff, not that paint thinner you give the frat guys."
The bartender, an older man with a network of tattoos covering his arms, didn't blink. He poured two generous fingers of amber liquid into a pair of clean glasses and slid them forward. Wendy handed one to Betty. Their fingers brushed, a crackle of static still lingering.
"To taking what we want," Wendy said, her voice lower now, a private rasp.
Betty clinked her glass, the crystal ting a tiny, civilized sound. The whiskey burned a clean, clarifying path down her throat, a counterpoint to the slick, musky memory between her legs. She could still feel the ghost of Wendy’s fingers inside her, the throbbing aftermath. She shifted on her stool, the denim of her jeans chafing pleasantly.
"You're a fucking menace," Betty said, but she was smiling.
"You love it."
Betty didn't deny it. The armor was off, sitting in a heap at her feet. She felt exposed, raw, and more alive than she had in months. She traced the rim of her glass. "I have to piss like a racehorse."
"God, yes," Wendy groaned, finishing her whiskey in one swift swallow. "My bladder’s about to tap out. That last tequila shot was a declaration of war."
They slid from the stools, the world tilting for a second as blood rushed and the alcohol reasserted itself. The hallway to the bathrooms was a dimly lit tunnel, the bass from the main room a persistent throb in the floorboards. The women’s room was a surprise—relatively clean, faintly lemon-scented, with a long line of mirrors lined with girls fixing lip gloss and whispering.
Betty ducked into a stall, the latch clicking shut with a sound of definitive privacy. She sighed, the relief immediate. As she sat there, the events on the dance floor replayed in vivid, pornographic detail. The taste of Wendy’s skin. The feel of her coming on her hand. A fresh, deep ache pulsed low in her belly. It wasn't enough. The public thrill had been a catalyst, not a conclusion.
She finished, flushed, and stepped out. Wendy was at the sink, splashing water on her face. She met Betty’s eyes in the mirror. No one else was there for a moment; the last of the line had filtered out.
Without a word, Wendy turned, water droplets clinging to her sharp cheekbones. She walked past Betty and shoved her fingertips against the metal door of the stall Betty had just vacated. It swung inward. She followed Betty inside, closing the door and shooting the bolt home in one smooth motion.
The space was terrifyingly small. Their bodies were touching from knee to chest the second the door closed.
"I didn't get to finish," Wendy whispered, and her mouth was on Betty’s, hungry and open. This kiss wasn't like the teasing bites on the dance floor. This was all-consuming. Betty tasted whiskey and Wendy and a dark, endless want. Her back hit the cold metal of the stall partition.
Wendy’s hands went to her jeans, popping the button, yanking the zipper down. The denim was tight, resisting. "Lift your hip," Wendy demanded, her voice thick.
Betty obeyed, hoisting herself slightly, and Wendy dragged the jeans and her soaked underwear down to her thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit her wet cunt, making her gasp into Wendy’s mouth.
"Look at you," Wendy breathed, dropping to her knees on the dingy tile floor. Her hands gripped Betty’s bare ass, squeezing. "So fucking messy for me."
Betty looked down, her vision swimming. Wendy’s fiery hair was a blaze between her thighs. Then she felt it—the flat, hot stroke of Wendy’s tongue, a long, languid lick from her opening all the way up to her clit. Betty’s head thudded back against the metal. "Oh, fuck."
Wendy didn't tease. She ate her like she was starving, like this was the last meal on earth. Her tongue speared inside, fucking her with it, curling and probing. Then she sealed her mouth over Betty’s clit, sucking hard, her nose buried in Betty’s folds.
The pleasure was blistering, unmediated. There was no music to hide in, just the wet, obscene sounds of Wendy’s mouth on her, their ragged breathing echoing in the tiny metal room. Betty tangled her hands in Wendy’s hair, not guiding, just holding on, her hips jerking involuntarily, fucking her friend’s face.
A toilet flushed in the stall next to them. They froze, a suspended tableau of deviance. Footsteps. The faucet ran. Betty bit her own fist to keep silent, her body trembling on the edge. Wendy’s eyes, dark and glinting, looked up from between her legs. She didn't stop. She flicked her tongue over Betty’s clit in a rapid, vicious circles just as the bathroom door sighed open and closed.
The orgasm slammed into Betty with the force of a truck. It was silent, seismic. Her body bowed, every muscle seizing, her cunt clenching around nothing as waves of pure sensation whipped through her. Wendy held her hips steady, drinking her in, until the last tremor subsided and Betty was a limp, shivering thing held up by the stall door and Wendy’s grip.
Slowly, Wendy stood. Her chin was glistening. She kissed Betty, letting her taste herself, the kiss filthy and profound. She gently tugged Betty’s jeans back up, her fingers brushing tenderly over her sensitive skin as she fastened them.
"Now," Wendy said, her own breathing uneven. "I'm finished."