“What the actual fuck?” Rachel muttered under her breath, staring at the sign in front of her. “Men, Women, or Sluts?” she read aloud, her voice laced with incredulity. The neon lights of the concert venue cast a sickly glow over the bustling crowd, all eager to get inside. She had scored tickets to see her favourite band, and this was the last thing she expected to see.

The line for sluts was significantly shorter, and Rachel’s curiosity piqued. Her eyes narrowed at the tiny door next to the sign, a mere slip of an entrance that seemed almost too small to fit a person through. Rachel was dressed in a short skirt and a low-cut top, not exactly modest but certainly not something that screamed “slut” either. The bouncer, a burly man with a smug smile, nodded at her.

“Panties off, slut,” he said, his eyes lingering on her cleavage. “If you wanna get through the quickest way.” Rachel felt a hot blush creep up her neck as she glanced around. The line of men and women looked much longer and less interesting. Rachel’s rebellious streak flared up, and she smirked at the bouncer. “Why the fuck not?” she thought, slipping her fingers under the elastic waistband of her thong.

With a deep breath, Rachel stepped out of her panties and handed them to the bouncer, who snickered and tossed them into a basket next to him. He shot her a knowing look and winked.

Slut? Me? Her inner voice mocked the idea—she was just practical, adventurous. The shorter line meant less waiting, more time for music and cheap beer. The bouncer’s knowing smirk flashed in her mind: He thinks I’m easy. That I’d do anything. The thought twisted her stomach—not in disgust, but in something darker, hotter. What if I am?

The bouncer leaned over, his breath hot in her ear. “That’s a good slut. Now crawl,” he said, with a smack on her ass.