Chapter 2: The Walk of Shame
The door to the main hall swung shut behind her, cutting off the relative quiet of the utility corridor and dumping her back into the sonic furnace of the concert. The noise hit her like a physical wall. For a moment, she just stood there, disoriented, her body humming with a alien frequency. The stickiness between her thighs was a cold, uncomfortable secret now, a stark contrast to the heat of the crowd. She could still feel the deep, phantom ache where he had stretched her, a bruised, full sensation that made every step a reminder.
She spotted Mike by the bar, craning his neck, a look of genuine anxiety on his face. When he saw her, his expression melted into relief. He pushed through the wall of bodies toward her.
“Jo! Jesus, where’d you go? I lost you after I got back from the pisser.” His voice was muffled by the music, but she read his lips more than heard him.
“Got shoved around in the pit,” she lied, the words feeling thick and clumsy in her mouth. “Needed some air.” She forced a smile, hoping it looked like exhilaration and not the aftermath of being violently fucked by a stranger.
His hands went to her waist, his touch familiar and gentle. Then he froze. His fingers pressed into the damp denim just above her hip. His eyes dropped down, then flicked back up to hers, a question forming in them. The wet spot was large, unmistakable. It wasn't sweat.
Jo’s heart hammered. She leaned into him, pressing her mouth to his ear. “The music… it just got me so fucking hot, Mikey. I was thinking about you.”
She felt the tension leave his shoulders. He grinned, a boyish, pleased grin that made a knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. He bought it. Of course he did. He believed her, because he loved her, because the idea that his girlfriend had just been taken in a grimy closet by a giant with a monster cock was so far outside his reality it wasn't even a phantom.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice husky now. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer. “Maybe we should… find a corner.”
She nodded, the movement jerky. She needed this. Needed to overwrite the feeling of the stranger with the feeling of Mike. Needed to feel wanted, but not possessed. Loved, not used.
He took her hand and led her through the throbbing mass, away from the stage, toward the restrooms. The men’s room was a cacophony of slamming doors and shouted conversations. Mike pulled her into the last stall, locking the flimsy metal latch behind them.
The space was claustrophobic, reeking of stale urine and industrial lemon cleaner. Graffiti scarred the metal walls. Mike turned to her, his eyes dark with desire. He kissed her, and his kiss was sweet, familiar, nothing like the whiskey-soaked invasion in her ear. She kissed him back fiercely, trying to lose herself in it, but her body was comparing, betraying her. His tongue felt tentative. His hands felt small.
He broke the kiss, fumbling with his belt. “God, Jo, you’re so fucking sexy when you’re like this.”
He pushed his jeans down, his cock springing free. It was a good size, thick and straight, the one she knew so well. But as she looked at it, her mind conjured the image of the other, the thick, veined pillar that had felt like it was rearranging her insides. A fresh pulse of wetness escaped her, a traitorous response to the memory.
“Suck it,” Mike whispered, pushing her gently down.
She knelt on the dirty tile floor, the dampness from her jeans seeping through. She took him in her mouth, working him with a practiced rhythm. But her mind was elsewhere. She remembered the struggle to fit just the head of the stranger’s cock past her lips, the stretch of her jaw, the sheer helplessness of it. Mike slid in easily, his hips making shallow thrusts. It was nice. It was pleasant. It was fucking boring.
After a minute, he pulled her up. “I wanna be inside you,” he breathed, spinning her around to face the scratched-up toilet paper dispenser.
He yanked her jeans and panties down to her ankles. The cool air hit her wetness, and she knew he could smell the difference—the musky, unfamiliar scent of another man’s come mixing with her own arousal. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. He was too far gone.
He guided himself into her from behind. He slid in smoothly, too smoothly. She was so slick, so open from the brutal stretching she’d received, that there was no resistance at all. He filled her, but not like before. It was a comfortable fullness, like slipping on an old shoe.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, clutching her hips and setting a steady, earnest rhythm.
Jo braced her hands against the stall wall, closing her eyes. She tried to focus on the feeling, on Mike, on the love she knew was there. But her body was numb to it. The pleasure was distant, a faint echo. With every thrust, she felt the ghost of the stranger, the deep, punishing impacts that had shoved the breath from her lungs. Mike’s movements felt shallow. Polite.
She faked a moan, throwing her head back. “Yeah, Mike, just like that.”
Encouraged, he pumped harder, his breathing becoming ragged. The stall rattled softly. She felt his climax building, a predictable series of quickening thrusts. Her own body remained detached, a spectator. When he came, groaning her name, shuddering against her back, she felt nothing but a vague relief that it was over.
He stayed inside her for a moment, panting, before pulling out. He turned her around and kissed her softly. “That was amazing.”
She nodded, avoiding his eyes as she pulled up her jeans. The wet spot was bigger now, a mix of two men. The sticky evidence felt like a brand on her skin.
They made their way back to the crowd as the band started their encore. Mike had his arm around her, singing along loudly, perfectly happy. Jo stood silently, the musicnow just noise, the lights just a blur. She scanned the seething mass of people, her eyes darting from face to shadowy face. She wasn’t looking for Mike. She was looking for a stubbled jaw, a black shirt, a hulking silhouette.
The memory of those calloused hands and that monstrous cock was a hook in her gut, pulling her back toward the dark corridor. The guilt was sour in her throat, but beneath it, a darker, more compelling current was pulling her under. He had seen the slut in her, the part Mike never could. And he had given her exactly what she deserved.
As the final chord echoed and the house lights came up, illuminating the sweaty, spent crowd, Jo knew one thing with terrifying certainty. It wasn’t over. She needed to feel that tearing fullness again. She knew the next opportunity she had with a guy with a large cock, she was going to take advantage of it. It would be her little secret.