This isn’t how you pictured or wanted your night out to go. Sitting in a club bathroom, idling on your phone with the stall door in front of you locked, seeking respite from a man who has been hounding you for your number all night long.
Thanks to the efforts of one sleazy stranger, the music buzzing off the walls has lost its appeal, the shots of alcohol you have consumed turning sour in your mouth.
Inside the high-walled cubicle, you’re midway through ordering an Uber to pick you up when the door to the bathroom swings open, two sets of clattering heels stumbling through. The strangers’ shadows sweep over the floor under your stall.
They enter the cubicle alongside yours, giggling and snorting in drunken excitement. The stall door is pulled shut and locked from the inside, a low roughened voice warning their partner, “Sh, be quiet.”. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, you glance down at the gap on your left that leads to the adjoining cubicle.
One woman is wearing lacquered black chunky heels, thin straps curving around her ankles and toes. The other woman’s jean cuffs are tucked into thigh-high brown leather boots.
Cowboy-boots pushes the lady in black heels against the wall, the cubicle rattling.
The same low voice from before, Cowboy-boots’, murmurs in a huskily lustful voice, “I like the skirt.”
“I like your hand under my skirt,” the other woman’s voice is a tipsy, contented purr.
“What the fuck?” you mouth silently. You debate leaving the bathroom, wrestling with the moral side of your conscience, but out of morbid curiosity, decide to hold off from retreating for a while longer. If anything, this will make for a story to tell later.
“Put your leg up. Fold your skirt into your waistband,” Cowboy-boots instructs.
You watch as one black heeled foot disappears, lifting in the air. A heel thuds and scrapes on the plastic toilet paper holder on the side of the stall, soft fabric rustling.
For a long while, there is only the sound of lips popping wetly off skin. A breathy whimper from the woman pinned to the cubicle wall. Cowboy-boots responds to the noise with a self-satisfied “hm” of her own, the sound rumbling from her throat.
Unable to help yourself — and seeing as there’s no way this night can get any more bizarre — you lower yourself to the floor, your movements quiet and slow. You open the camera app on your phone, angling the device towards the stall gap next to you to see what your front camera can pick up. You don’t hit record because you’re not an asshole, but find yourself engrossed in the scene from the other stall.
Cowboy-boots has frazzled auburn hair down to her shoulders, her palm braced on her dark-haired fling’s exposed thigh. Seeing Cowboy-boots’ fingers dip under the other woman’s half-raised skirt, moving her panties aside, your mouth parts slightly, tongue dragging over the backs of your teeth from an urge akin to hunger.
The lady in heels moans, grinding her hips forwards in short and snappy jerking motions. With her free hand, Cowboy-boots opens the front of her blouse, tugging down a bra strap and licking a stripe over the sizeable breast that dangles out.
“Oh, God.” Black-heels shudders on the wall, reaching behind the other woman’s head. She rests a hand in her wild hair, fingers nearly lost in orange curls. You glimpse a wedding ring on her finger, your lips shaping into a silent ‘o’ of disbelief.
Cowboy-boots quickens the pace of her thrusts, Black-heels smothering the gasps coaxed out of her by Cowboy-boots’ fingers into the other woman’s shoulder. Black-heels’ skirt sways to one side, and your phone’s front camera shows you a filthy angle of her flushed-pink cunt, filled by two crooked fingers up to the knuckle.
“Mhm–you’re so good at that,” Black-heels murmurs. “I’m already close. Fuck…”
“I can tell. Listen to how wet you are.” Cowboy-boots plunges her fingers in and out faster, sheathing them deep enough that the heel of her palm slaps into the other woman’s clit. The accompanying noises, Black-heels’ breath hitching in giddy arousal, make your stomach flip. “You feel so good around my fingers, baby.”
You slip a hand under your shirt, tweaking a nipple with your forefinger and thumb. Your palm roams down the bare flesh of your stomach, gliding over your hipbones.
“Oh, god, yes. Just like that. Please–uhn!–please, don’t stop–” Black-heels’ voice putters off. Unable to string a sentence together, she squeaks out moan after moan.
Cowboy-boots warns her to be quiet again, but the other woman only loudens. Her back arches. Cowboy-boots presses a palm across her mouth before she can cry out her release, trapping her body between her chest and the wall while she spasms fitfully.
“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Ride it out on my fingers. You’re so fucking hot to watch.”
Cowboy-boots removes her palm from over the other woman’s mouth to capture it in another kiss. They make out for a while, Black-heels mewling and struggling to keep up with Cowboy-boots’ viperous tongue thrashing in her mouth.
You wait until both of them have left the bathroom stall to shift onto your knees. Thighs spread apart, you undo your belt, gripping the metal buckle in your fist so it doesn’t jangle or clink against the floor. You unzip the fly of your jeans and slide a hand under your waistband, fingers stroking experimentally past your peaked clit.
A moan stutters out of your throat. You curl your fingers in and out of your slick cunt, hips twitching forwards, the cold tiled bathroom floor bruising your knees.
“Fuck,” you whine needily under your breath, returning your efforts to touching your clit. Starting with slow flicks of your fingertips, you soon speed your touches, your resolve to stay quiet dissipating under the heat pooling in your gut.
Your mouth snaps shut when the bathroom door is pushed open again. Shit. You go still, frustrated by the interruption, but not daring to move as two strangers enter the cubicle next to you. You turn your head, recognising the brown leather boots through the gap under the stall. Cowboy-boots. Again? This time, the other woman she has brought into the stall with her is wearing lipstick-red wedged heels.
She kneels down in a posture similar to yours on the bathroom floor. Cowboy-boots’ jeans fall to her ankles in a heap. You slowly start to touch yourself again, mouth parted slightly as you listen to Cowboy-boots’ approving grunts at being eaten out, the kneeling woman in red heels slapping her tongue wetly past her clit.
Cowboy-boots’ voice is stiff with hardly-contained arousal. “Good fucking slut.”
You swallow thickly, cunt pulsing at the filthy praise whispered from the stall next to you. One hand playing with your clit, you tilt your phone to one side with the other. The front camera presents a deliciously carnal image on the rectangular screen. Cowboy-boots’ hand, fisted in the other woman’s hair. Her eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, and dilated as she huffs out breath, bucking her hips in lazy circles.
The woman in red heels has a hand splayed on Cowboy-boots’ stomach, painted acrylic fingernails pressing to her skin. Her lips are smeared with silken wetness.
Her tongue disappears into the folds of the glistening cunt in front of her face.
Cowboy-boots curves a hand under her jaw to position her head higher, pelvis rocking forwards. The woman in red heels teases her with suckling kisses on her clit. “Hah–hah–hah. Fuuuck, you know how to put that face-hole to good use.”
Another groan, slipping out from behind gritted teeth. Cowboy-boots throws her head back as she comes, panting, “Fuck! You like how I taste, you little whore?”
You’re close, so fucking close. Your fingers slip through the wetness between your legs, sloppily stroking your clit. You bite your lip to hold back a desperate moan, thighs quivering, and barely have the wherewithal to stop touching yourself at the sound of a phone dinging nearby. Not yours, but from the adjacent stall. The woman in red heels pulls back from Cowboy-boots, rifling through her handbag.
“Shit. My friend is looking for me, I have to go. She’ll be worried about me.” There’s a smacking of lips as she lays a kiss on Cowboy-boots’ cheek. “Thanks for the fun.”
“Anytime.”
Red-heels hurries out of the bathroom stall. Under the door of your stall, you see her pause in front of the mirror, checking her reflection to tidy her face before she leaves the bathroom to return to the crowds dancing to the blaring music in the club.
You hear Cowboy-boots laugh, going rigid in mortified silence on your knees when she bangs a fist on the wall between both of you. “Have you finished getting off?”
“Fucking hell!” You leap backwards, fumbling to pull up your pants and zip your fly.
Hearing you struggle to compose yourself, Cowboy-boots chuckles. “You being on your knees in a public toilet was a dead giveaway. Don’t feel bad. I take it as a compliment, you getting so hot and bothered because of us. I thought you were watching porn at first when I saw your phone. You weren’t filming us, were you?”
“I didn’t record anything,” you reply.
“Let me see the phone.”
You wipe your hands clean on a few squares of toilet paper, humiliated to even be having this conversation. Against your better judgement, you slide your phone under the stall towards her, waiting as she taps the screen a few times, flicking through the device’s photo gallery for any sign of a hastily filmed video or snapped image.
Satisfied, she gives it back to you. “So, you just wanted to watch. Did you get off?”
“Fuck off,” you snap. You stand up, unlocking and shoving open your stall door.
She’s standing right in front of you. You stare at her, eyes widening, but don’t have time to stammer out an apology or excuse before broad palms pin your hips. Her mouth crashes into yours, absorbing you in heat and wet and the bitter tang of alcohol on her tongue. She spins you around to face the mirror above the sinks along the bathroom wall.
Her hand yanks open the front of your jeans, delving underneath your panties. You gasp at the sensation of her fingers dragging past your clit, flattening your back against her chest. She picks up where you left off in the bathroom stall, alternating between rubbing your clit and plunging two fingers in and out of you. Obscene noises fill the air during the latter, wet slaps as her palm smacks into your cunt.
“Someone could walk in,” you warn her, squirming against her chest with a throaty moan. She wraps one arm around both of yours, holding them behind your back.
She whispers in your ear, “Then you’d better be quick.”
Your stare fixes on your face in the mirror, taking in your flushed skin and hung-open mouth. It’s insanely hot to watch the effects of your arousal on your body, how it rears into each touch and quivers with the intensity of the reawakened heat building in your abdomen.
Sneering at you over your shoulder, Cowboy-boots’ fingers return to your clit, touching you with hard, fast strokes. Your breath catches, hips jerking forwards, and you cry out, quaking through an orgasm finally wrung out of your body in full.
“Oh, fuck–wait–I’m going to–” You don’t have time to warn her between gasps. Cowboy-boots is pleasantly surprised to see you squirt, your hips hiking an inch before you spatter the mirror in front of you with a jet of ejaculate, unable to stop it.
You’re spun away from the mirror by hands on your waist. By the time you register the bathroom door hitting the wall, a woman has already walked in, her heels clicking on the floor. She glares at both of you warily, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, Cowboy-boots’ torso covering your undone pants. She doesn’t pay the droplets on the mirror any heed, brushing off the sight as general club bathroom disarray.
Cowboy-boots’ hands are on your face, touching your cheek. “No, your make-up looks wonderful,” she tells you nonchalantly, smiling. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. Doesn’t her make-up look great?” she asks the woman passing by.
The lady gives you a friendly thumbs-up of approval, disappearing into one of the toilet cubicles. Once the stall door has swung closed, you relax, sighing in relief before you let your head droop on Cowboy-boots’ chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Cowboy-boots laughs, tucking a strand of hair stuck to your face by sweat behind your ear. She flashes you a smug grin, rinsing off her hands in the sink, and offers you her arm. “I’ll walk you out. I put my number in your phone too. You’re welcome.”