Story 2 - The Second Night First cum First served

The fluorescent lights in the 24-Hour Laundromat buzzed with a relentless, insectoid hum that vibrated in Becky’s molars. The air was a thick soup of floral-scented detergent, mildew, and the flat, burnt smell of overheated motors. It was a tomb of cleanliness, a purgatory for stained fabrics. She slouched in a cracked orange vinyl chair, watching their single load of mismatched socks and threadbare tank tops slosh behind the porthole glass. Angie’s last crumpled dollar and a fistful of coins were a cold, insignificant weight in the pocket of her shorts.

Midnight had bled into the dead hours where even the city’s pulse seemed to slow. They were the only ones here, save for the attendant dozing behind a bulletproof plexiglass window and a guy in the far corner.

He was young, maybe college age, hunched over a textbook spread open on a folding table. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a hoodie with a university logo. Every thirty seconds, his eyes would dart up from the pages, slide over the girls, then snap back down as if burned. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a constant, nervous rhythm.

Becky watched him watching. It was a familiar dance.

“His dick probably smells like textbooks and existential dread,” Angie muttered without looking up from chipping black polish off her thumbnail. She was perched on a washing machine, legs swinging.

“Easy money,” Becky replied, her voice low. The words tasted automatic. After the limousine, after the gunfire in the street, a nervous student felt like a holiday.

The guy closed his book with a definitive snap. He stood, gathering his things, his movements awkward. He didn’t look at them as he shouldered a backpack and pushed out the heavy glass door into the night.

“Go time,” Angie said, hopping down. Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.

They followed, a shadow and a splash of color moving into the damp, cool air. He was just ahead, walking with a hurried pace toward a row of aging apartment buildings.

“Hey,” Angie called, her voice cutting through the quiet street.

He stopped, turned. His face in the yellow streetlight was pale, anxious. “Yeah?”

Angie closed the distance, Becky a step behind. Up close, he smelled of cheap soap and anxiety sweat. Angie looked him up and down, her smirk a weapon. “You look stressed. We offer a release valve. Fifty bucks.”

His eyes widened behind the glasses. He swallowed, glanced around the empty street. “I ... I don’t...”

“Fifty. For a blowjob. Right here, around the back of that dumpster. Quick. Quiet. You get to go home and ace your ... whatever that is.” She jerked her chin toward his backpack. “We get groceries.”

The internal battle played out on his face, fear, shame, a lurid curiosity winning out. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He led them into the narrow, stinking alley beside his building. The dumpster was overflowing, reeking of spoiled food. A single, bare bulb above a metal door provided a piss-pool of light.

“Money first,” Becky said, leaning against the cold brick wall, arms crossed.

He fumbled in his wallet, hands shaking, and pulled out two twenties and a ten. Angie plucked them from his fingers, folded the bills, and tucked them into Becky’s front pocket, her fingers lingering for a second against her hip bone. A silent transfer.

“Okay, big shot,” Angie said, turning back to him. “Let’s see it.”

He hesitated, then unbuckled his belt, pushed his jeans and boxers down to his thighs. His cock sprung free, already half-hard. It was as Angie predicted: pale, of average length, with a pronounced, almost academic-looking curve. It twitched in the cool air.

Angie dropped to her knees on the wet pavement without a flinch. The ground was slick with something she didn’t want to identify. She didn’t touch him with her hands. She just leaned forward, opened her mouth, and took him inside.

He gasped, a high-pitched sound. His hands fluttered at his sides, unsure where to go.

Becky watched, the scene devoid of heat. It was a transaction. Angie’s head began to bob, a steady, efficient piston. Her technique was ruthless, all business. She used her tongue, flat and hard, on the underside of his shaft. She deep-throated him on the downstroke, taking him to the root until her nose pressed into his pubic hair, which smelled, indeed, of laundry detergent and nervous sweat. She pulled back with a wet pop, then swallowed him again.

“Oh, god,” the student whimpered. His fingers finally tangled in her purple hair, not guiding, just clutching. “Oh, fuck.”

Angie increased her pace. The sounds were crude, wet sucks and gags that she expertly controlled. She looked up at him, her light blue eyes meeting his glassy, overwhelmed ones. The visual of her pierced face working his ordinary cock seemed to short-circuit him. His hips began to stutter forward.

“Gonna ... I’m gonna come...”

Angie didn’t pull off. She took it as a challenge. She redoubled her efforts, sucking fiercely, her cheeks hollowed, creating a brutal vacuum. She plunged him deep into her throat and held him there, swallowing rhythmically around his shaft.

It was too much for him. With a choked cry that was part ecstasy, part sob, he erupted. His body stiffened, his grip on her hair becoming painful. Angie felt the hot, bitter pulses hit the back of her throat. She swallowed once, twice, a mechanical response, drawing every drop from him until he was spent and softening.

She released him with a final, slick sound and stayed on her knees for a moment, catching her breath. Then she spat onto the ground beside the dumpster, a thick, white glob. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the silver of her lip ring glinting.

The student was frantically pulling his clothes together, his face a mask of shame and dazed satisfaction. He couldn’t look at either of them. He just shuffled backwards, then turned and almost ran toward the apartment door, fumbling with his keys.

Angie stood up, brushing grit from her knees. “Textbooks and protein shakes,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

The apartment door clicked shut, sealing them inside a tomb of their own making. The smell hit first, stale coffee grounds, the cloying sweetness of discounted body spray, and underneath it all, the unmistakable, musky scent of old sex. The neon sign from the pawn shop across the street pulsed through the grimy window, painting the room in successive washes of sickly red and anxious blue.

Becky woke to the sensation before full consciousness. A weight on her hip, warmth along her spine. Angie’s hand, calloused and familiar, was already sliding down the front of her shorts, past the waistband of her panties. Her fingers moved with a practiced, sleep-soft urgency, finding the slick heat and the cold metal ring pierced through her clit.

“We got the rent,” Angie’s voice was a gravelly whisper against the back of Becky’s neck, her breath hot. “Now shut up and let me taste you.”

Becky arched back into her, a low groan forming in her throat. The leftover grit from the alley, the fifty bucks now stuffed in a coffee can, the sour memory of the student’s come, it all blurred into a haze of present need. She pushed her hips against Angie’s seeking fingers.

Then the mattress shifted, a deeper dip than Angie could make.

Becky froze. Angie’s hand went still.

There was a third breath in the room, slow and even. Becky’s eyes snapped open, adjusting to the rhythmic neon glow. Tousled white hair fanned out on the pillow beside her. A smooth, bare shoulder. The profile of a stranger, nose and lip piercings catching the red light.

“What the fuck?” Angie hissed, yanking her hand back as if burned.

The stranger stirred, rolled onto her back. Light blue eyes blinked open, languid, unconcerned. A sly, full-lipped smile spread across her face. “Morning,” she said, her voice husky with sleep. “Or whatever. Fun night, huh?”

Becky’s mind was a blank, white static. She scoured the foggy remnants of memory, after the alley, a liquor store, a bottle of something cheap and fiery, laughing in the stairwell ... then nothing. A void.

“Umm, yeah,” Angie said, propping herself up on an elbow. Her purple hair was a violent tangle against the stained pillow. “Who are you?”

“Tori.” She stretched, arms above her head, and the thin sheet slid down to her waist.

Becky’s gaze tracked the movement. Tori’s breasts were full, heavy D-cups tipped with small, pink nipples, each pierced with a simple silver bar. The skin was pale, almost luminous in the neon half-light. They were perfect, and the sight sent a confusing jolt straight to Becky’s already-wet cunt.

Then Tori shifted her legs, and the sheet fell further.

Angie sucked in a sharp breath.

Nestled in a thatch of clean-shaven pubic hair was a cock. It was thick, flushed a deep pink, and lay heavy against her thigh. Impressively, dauntingly girthy. A silver ring gleamed from its swollen head. Her balls were shaved smooth, drawn up tight.

“Holy shit,” Becky breathed. The words were out before she could stop them.

Tori’s smile turned into a grin, wide and wicked. She saw where they were looking. “See something you like?”

The air in the room changed, thickening. The surprise didn’t curdle into fear or disgust; it ignited into a raw, pulsing curiosity. The last fifty bucks, the taste of desperation in the alley, the sheer grind of the city, it all condensed into this single, shocking point of focus. Here was something new. Something not pathetic.

Becky moved without thinking. It was the same instinct that made her follow a mark, the same blunt forward momentum. She pushed the sheet completely aside, her eyes locked on Tori’s. She slithered down the bed, the springs squeaking in protest, until her face was level with Tori’s hips. The scent here was different, clean skin, a hint of soap, and something darker, saltier.

“Becky,” Angie warned, but her voice lacked force. It was just a sound.

Becky ignored her. She leaned in, her pink hair falling like a curtain. She didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and took the head of Tori’s cock inside.

Tori gasped, a genuine sound of pleasure, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Fuck, yes.”

The skin was fever-hot and velvety. Becky’s tongue circled the pierced ridge, tasting pre-come, salty and clean. She explored the weight of it, the prominent vein running along the shaft, with a slow, deliberate lick. This wasn’t a transaction. This was discovery.

“You’re a natural,” Tori moaned, her hand coming down to tangle in Becky’s pink hair, not forcing, just guiding.

Becky took more, relaxing her throat. The girth was a challenge, stretching her lips wide. She sucked, hard, hollowing her cheeks, wanting to pull the taste and the heat and the sheer presence of this stranger into herself. The metal ring tapped against her teeth.

Angie watched, her own breath coming fast. She saw the intensity on Becky’s face, the absolute surrender to sensation. It burned away her last shred of hesitation. “Greedy bitch,” Angie muttered, but she was moving too, climbing over Tori’s legs.

She lowered her head to Tori’s breasts, capturing a pierced nipple in her mouth. She sucked and bit, her tongue flicking the metal bar, while her hand found the other, pinching and rolling it. Tori cried out, a ragged, blissful sound, her back arching off the mattress.

The apartment filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of sucking, of skin sliding against skin, of ragged breathing. Tori’s hands were in both their hair now, her thighs trembling. “God ... both of you ... I’m not gonna last.”

Becky pulled off with a slick pop, her lips swollen. “Then don’t,” she said, her voice rough. “Come in my fucking mouth.”

The crude command shattered Tori’s control. Her stomach tightened, her cock throbbed violently in Becky’s hand. With a sharp, guttural cry, she erupted. Becky kept her mouth wide open, taking the first hot, bitter pulse on her tongue. The next spurt hit the back of her throat and she swallowed convulsively, feeling each jet, milking the shaft with her fist until Tori was spent, shaking and gasping.

Becky sat up, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. She looked from Tori’s blissed-out face to Angie’s, which was flushed with a fierce, possessive heat. The neon light bled red across them all.

Tori finally caught her breath, laughing softly. “Jesus. You two are a fucking revelation.”

Becky tasted salt and metal on her tongue. The night, it seemed, was not over.

Angie starts to remember after the bottle at the liquor store. The woman needing a place for the night, and they offering her to come home with them.

Then drink the bottle, and everything after that a blur.

Angie’s memory clicked into place with the sharp, undeniable finality of a lock turning. The cheap vodka, warm from the liquor store bag. The stumble up the graffiti-stained stairwell, Becky laughing too loud, the sound echoing like shattered glass. Then her, Tori, leaning against a rusted banister, a slash of white hair and a smirk in the shadowed landing. “Nice place you got here?” she’d asked, her voice dry. “Looks like a murder scene.” And Angie, the world swimming in a warm, blurry haze, had slurred, “It is. Wanna see the body?” An invitation. A crash space. A blur.

Now, in the neon-striped reality of their studio, the memory solidified into the woman lying between them, spent and smiling. Tori’s chest rose and fell, her heavy, perfect tits shifting with each breath. The silver bars through her nipples caught the red light, tiny anchors in soft, pale flesh.

Becky was already moving, a predator’s grace in her tiny frame. She swung a leg over Tori’s hips, straddling her chest, her back to Tori’s face. Her short shorts were already pushed down her thighs. “You’re not done,” Becky stated, not asking. She lowered herself, guiding Tori’s head with a hand tangled in white hair.

Tori’s laugh was a muffled, eager vibration against Becky’s inner thigh. Then her tongue was out, flat and hot, licking a broad stripe over Becky’s pierced cunt. Becky gasped, her head falling back, her spine arching. She ground down, seeking pressure, and Tori gave it to her, sucking her clit ring into her mouth, worrying it with her tongue, flicking it relentlessly.

“Fuck, yes,” Becky hissed, her hands braced on Tori’s stomach. She rocked, her movements becoming a desperate, rhythmic chase.

Angie watched, hypnotized. The sight of Becky riding Tori’s face, the wet, hungry sounds, it lit a fuse deep in her gut. But her eyes kept dropping lower, to where Tori’s cock lay, already re-hardening, thick and flushed and impossibly full against her stomach. It was a monster of a thing, the girth like a stacked fist, the pierced head leaking a clear bead of pre-come that gleamed in the neon glow.