paige

You’re getting finger fucked in the back of the club, bass thundering through the walls and straight into your spine, and you feel absolutely zero shame about it.

In fact? This was the plan.

You didn’t spend forty-five minutes perfecting your eyeliner and squeezing yourself into a skirt that could double as a belt for nothing. You came here with a purpose. Get under someone new so you can forget about the someone old.

And the hottie with pouty lips, silver rings on his fingers, and a black jacket stretched distractingly across his shoulders walked right into your trap.

Hook, line, and sinful little sinker.

It all started earlier tonight when you found the skirt. The itty bitty, teeny tiny, little slutty skirt. You think it’s from your freshman year of college but you can’t remember exactly when you stopped wearing it—only that your ex hated it. And you can’t blame them. When you bend over, it becomes more of a suggestion than an article of clothing.

“Can you see my ass when I bend over?” you asked Giselle, twisting in front of the mirror and pretending not to admire the way the thin fabric hugged your curves. 

Giselle didn’t even look up at first, still crouched on the floor applying her mascara. “Babe,” she deadpanned, finally glancing over. “I think I can see your pussy.”

You straightened slowly. “Yeah?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

You leaned closer to the mirror, turned, checked the side profile. “Okay, good.”

Giselle barked out a laugh. “God, I forgot how much of a slut you used to be before that ex of yours had you on house arrest.”

“I was not on house arrest,” you said, shoving your tits up in your bra and glossing your lips. “You make me sound like one of those girls who lets their partner dictate their life.”

She just stared at you.

Blankly.

“Babe,” she said gently. “I love you. But you were.”

Okay.

Maybe.

You did cancel girls’ nights sometimes because they “didn’t like the club scene.” You did stop wearing half your closet because it was “too much.” You did stay home most weekends because the sex was too good and the drama of breaking up felt exhausting.

But that was before.

Before the fight. Before the breakup. Before you realised good sex isn’t worth shrinking yourself. 

So tonight? Tonight you’re expanding.

You’re looking for someone hung. Someone new. Someone who’ll fuck you in a grimy club bathroom because apparently good sex in the city is cheaper than therapy and way more effective after a breakup. 

Which is how you’ve ended up pressed into the back of the club, half-hidden by a shadow of bodies with the bass pounding so hard it rattles your teeth. The hottie’s palm is flat against your stomach holding you steady while his other hand slides between your thighs. His fingers dip under your microscopic excuse for a skirt, no hesitation, no asking. He nudges your panties aside and—

“You’re not wearing much under here,” he murmurs into your ear, breath hot, teeth grazing your skin. 

“That’s the point,” you shoot back.

He groans when he finds how wet you are. Then his fingers push inside you. Slow at first until he’s curling them. Your head tips back against him as the music swallows your moan whole. The crowd is thick enough to hide you—sweaty bodies, flashing lights, everyone too drunk, too distracted to notice the way you’re grinding back against his hand like a bitch in heat. 

“You always meet guys and let them fuck you in clubs?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deeper now, thumb brushing your clit in lazy, infuriating circles.

You laugh breathlessly. “No.”

He arches a brow against your temple. “No?”

“Just tonight.”

His grip tightens at your hip. “Lucky me.”

Right on cue with the beat dropping, he ruthlessly drives his fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. Thank God the music is loud. Thank God you’re buried in the back of the crowd. Thank God everyone’s too busy losing their minds to notice you losing yours. Because the only one who hears you curse God’s name is the man massaging your g-spot. 

“No, baby,” he says, low and smug. “I already told you—my name’s Jaemin. That’s the only thing I wanna hear out of those pretty lips when I put my cock inside this slutty little pussy.”

You mewl into his shoulder. “Your cock isn’t in my pussy.”

“Not yet.”

Fuck.

The press of bodies brushing past you makes you shiver, heat crawling up your spine as his fingers keep working. People bump your shoulder and graze your arm—so oblivious, so uninterested, like they don’t know exactly what’s happening right here in the shadows.

You do.

And God—you love that.

“You like this,” Jaemin murmurs, mouth right at your ear now, voice swallowed by bass and sweat and sin. “Being right here. Where anyone could see.”

Your breath stutters when his thumb presses just right, when his grip tightens like he’s daring you to lose it.

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though your hips chase his hand.

He laughs softly. “Don’t what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The music surges, lights flashing overhead, your body wound taut with the thrill of it—of being caught, of being watched, of being wanted this badly in the middle of a packed dance floor.

Your knees threaten to buckle, but he catches it.

“Bathroom,” he says, sudden and decisive, already hooking two fingers into your waistband. “Now.”

He drags you through the crowd without looking back, your hand clutched in his like property as he guides you. The bathroom door slams shut behind you with the lock clicking into place as your back meets cool tile. 

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna share this orgasm with a crowd of people,” he growls into your skin as he flips your skirt up in one sharp, efficient motion. “You might not be my girl—but I worked for this orgasm. It’s mine.”

Why is that so hot?

Cool air kisses your bare thighs as your itty-bitty skirt stays bunched at your waist. He unbuckles his belt, and you feel your pussy pool at the thought of his cock inside you. When he spins you around, palms flattening against the tiles, you let him.

You think you hear the soft tear of foil, and it makes sense because you’re already needy, already waiting to be filled. He takes his time after that, dragging his covered cock through your slick, nudging your clit with the tip just enough to make you shiver and make your breath hitch. He does it again. And again. Like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Easy,” he hisses when he pushes inside and your walls tightens around him.

The sensation steals the air from your lungs. You’ve had good sex before—really good—but this is different. This is big. This is full. This is absolutely going to make your head go blank. And he’s only just started.

When he bottoms out, your body reacts before you can stop it. Your eyes roll back with a broken whimper tearing from your throat. Behind you, he lets out a low chuckle and it’s so damn sexy you swear it might be enough to push you over all on its own. He’s already stolen one orgasm from you, and the way he sounds now tells you he knows it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice right at your ear. “Should’ve known you’d be such a good little slut the second I saw this little fucking skirt.”

You bite your lip, a groan slipping out anyway, your hands pressing harder into the tile. “Then hurry up,” you breathe. “Fuck me like the pretty little slut you think I am.”

He kisses his teeth at that, then moves. Harder. Faster. Like he doesn’t appreciate being goaded, like he plans on making you pay for every word.

His hips snap back and forth, rough and relentless. It’s brutal in the best way because your thoughts turn fuzzy. You’d take this punishment happily—over and over and over again—just to hear the sounds he makes when he loses control and pounds.

No wonder your ex hated this skirt.

If this is what it does to men—makes them pant and groan and crowd your space like they can’t get close enough, breath hot and heaving against your ear while they drive into you again and again—then yeah. 

You feel his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slips through his fingers. Your legs are just as weak, trembling beneath you. Every thrust is maddening, hard enough that your face presses into the white tile, his name muffled as your body finally gives in, tightening around him as you cum around his cock. 

“Good fucking girl,” he coos, voice low and wrecked.

His grip tightens on your flipped-up skirt, knuckles digging into the fabric to keep you steady. You feel him clutch it harder when his own body shudders, one last brutal drive into your hips. He stays there for a moment afterwards, unmoving, as he spills inside the condom. It’s filthy. Dirty. Utterly slutty.