#52
But the woman’s behavior wasn’t unusual.
As mentioned, not all women could afford male escorts—their sessions commanded prices that could buy a luxury apartment in the city’s elite districts.
For those scraping by on standard wages, the only way to scratch the itch burning in their flesh was to turn to their fellow women, who are free, available, and more than willing to have their itch scratched as well.
In this generation, where minds were more open and lusts ran deeper than in the prudish eras of old, female-on-female desire had exploded into the mainstream.
What was once whispered about in shadows or condemned by traditionalists was now celebrated in clubs like this, individualism trumping outdated taboos. Desires winning over moralities.
Women kissed openly in public, tongues tangling in sloppy, heated exchanges; fingers slipped under skirts to finger slick pussies right there amid the throng; groups formed in corners, one woman dropping to her knees to bury her face between another’s thighs, licking and sucking clits until juices dripped down chins and screams pierced the bass.
It was pragmatic evolution—bodies seeking friction, release without the hassle of male egos or scarcity auctions. Posters on the walls even advertised ‘Ladies’ Lounges’ with soft lighting and padded benches for extended play, where women could strap on harnesses and fuck each other senseless, hips slamming in rhythmic fury, orgasms ripping through them in waves.
With the male population so scarce, the dating landscape was a constant, cutthroat competition.
That’s the truth of this world now.
Christina mused.
Even though recent statistics showed a modest rise—experts estimate the male population has grown by at least seven percent—the landscape hadn’t shifted in anyone’s favor. If anything, things seemed to have gotten harsher for women.
Men, buoyed by a newfound sense of entitlement, had become more ostentatious and less considerate. Their attitudes soured: they flaunted luxury, abandoned good manners, dismissed authority, and treated women with increasing disrespect, preferring endless gossip to any form of physical exertion.
Securing a man meant navigating elite networks or black-market deals, and the ones available often fell into predictable, exhausting categories: the high-status, untouchable celebrities, pampered and protected behind layers of security and NDAs, their cocks reserved for the ultra-wealthy. Spontaneous intimacy with a man was a fantasy for most, a carefully orchestrated privilege for the few who could bid highest or leverage family ties.
And because of that, most women turned to each other.
With men no longer interested, women turned to what was close, available, and willing. Other women understood the same cravings, the same need to be wanted and touched. It wasn’t always about preference. Most of the time, it was about not wanting to feel ignored anymore. Desire takes the easiest path forward, and when one door stays shut long enough, people eventually stop waiting in front of it.
In that way, it wasn’t much different from how men in the modern world turn to drugs. When life withholds fulfillment—whether that’s purpose, affection, or a sense of control—people look for shortcuts. Drugs don’t reject you. They don’t ask questions. They give quick relief, even if it’s artificial. They make the emptiness quieter, at least for a while.
For women in this world, intimacy with each other played the same role. It wasn’t about excess or decadence—it was about coping. About filling a gap left behind by something that used to be there.
Christina understood this better than she liked to admit—because she had lived it.
She had felt that same hollow ache settle in her chest late at night, the kind that crept in when the noise died down and there was nothing left to distract her. The kind that made her restless, irritable, and quietly angry at things she pretended not to care about. She never spoke about it. Never acknowledged it out loud. Doing so would mean admitting that she wasn’t as unaffected as she liked people to believe.
So instead, she mocked.
She scoffed at her sister’s revolving relationships, her openness, her need for closeness. She called it weakness. Desperation. Poor self-control. Every sharp comment, every dismissive glance was carefully placed armor—meant to convince everyone else that Christina was above it all. That she didn’t need anyone. That she wasn’t hungry for the same things.
But it was a lie she told so often that even she almost believed it.
The truth was uglier. She envied how easily her sister reached for affection, how unashamed she was of wanting warmth, touch, reassurance. Christina had taught herself restraint instead. She learned how to swallow her needs, how to bury them under sarcasm and distance, how to wear indifference like a badge of pride. Wanting, to her, felt like losing control—and she hated the idea of being seen as someone who needed something she couldn’t have.
Still, desire has a way of leaking through cracks.
That is why she often found herself in this place.
Coming back, over and over again.
…although, tonight, she honestly came only to have fun and drink, not anything else. After all, unlike before, she now has someone who would fulfill those burning desires.
Christina reached the hallway leading to the restrooms.
The noise level dropped slightly, replaced by the distinct sounds of heavy breathing, muffled laughter, and the occasional sharp slap of flesh on flesh.
The hall was darker, lit only by dim sconces that cast long, shifting shadows, dancing like lovers in the gloom and allowing for more brazen acts to be shielded from the main club’s glare.
The air here was thicker, more concentrated with the scent of sex—musky arousal mingling with spilled drinks and the faint, acrid bite of cum drying on skin.
Christina stepped over a discarded, glitter-encrusted heel that lay abandoned on the grimy carpet, its owner likely dragged off for a quick fuck in one of the alcoves.
She ignored the sight of a trio of women aggressively taking turns with a shared bottle of amber liquor, each swig followed by a rough, open-mouthed kiss between them, tongues dueling sloppily as hands strayed under skimpy clubwear—one pair yanking down panties to expose a shaved pussy, fingers diving in to curl against the g-spot, drawing out wet squelches and throaty moans.
One of them, a tall woman with dark, smudged lipstick trailing down her chin, caught Christina’s eye for a moment, an invitation in her gaze—to let them pin her against the wall and eat her out until she screamed, or perhaps a warning to keep moving before they pulled her in anyway. Christina wasn’t sure which, nor did she care; her mind was fixed on escape, on the quiet pull of home and William’s waiting arms.
She gripped the tarnished brass handle of the restroom door, the metal cool and sticky under her palm. Even before she pushed it inward, the noise—a chaotic symphony of wet, percussive sounds like fingers slapping into soaked cunts, sharp giggles turning to gasps, and guttural releases echoing off tiles—promised that the reprieve she sought would be minimal.
She shoved the door open.
The air explosion was immediate: a dense, humid cocktail of cheap, floral perfume clashing with stale sweat, disinfectant that had long failed its mission hours ago, and the metallic tang of high arousal, sharp and coppery like fresh blood mixed with pussy juices.
The restroom was a study in fluorescent brutality. A single, buzzing light fixture overhead cast a sickly yellow glow on the cracked white tiles and the long, fogged mirror above the sinks, smeared with fingerprints and streaks of what might have been lipstick or something far more intimate.
The floor, she noted instinctively, was slick—not just with water from overflowing sinks, but with something thicker, stickier, puddles of cum and squirt pooling near the drains, footprints tracking it across the grime.
The club’s desperate energy, which had been diffused across the main floor, was here concentrated to dangerous levels, a pressure cooker of unchecked lust.
The counter was a graveyard of abandoned vanity: scattered lipsticks in garish reds and blacks, snapped hair ties tangled with strands of pubic hair, a small, expensive leather clutch lying open to reveal a forgotten line of white powder dusted across the marble, next to a used condom wrapper crumpled like discarded dreams.
Christina didn’t register the three women wrestling aggressively near the sinks—one pinned against the edge, skirt bunched at her waist as the other two yanked her pants down, one shoving two fingers into her dripping pussy while the third forced her hand between her own thighs, rubbing her clit in furious circles; the pinned woman was already crying out, not in distress but ecstasy, tears mixing with sweat as her body bucked against the invasions.
She was already focused on the row of metal cubicles along the back wall, a line of flimsy metallic shrines to necessity and immediate gratification.
Doors rattled with activity: from one, rhythmic thumps and cries of “Fuck me harder!” as two women scissored inside, pussies grinding wetly together; another stall door ajar revealed a solo figure, legs spread on the toilet seat, fingers plunging in and out of her own ass while she pinched her nipples raw.
The air hung thick with the stench of uninhibited indulgence—musk of cum and sweat mingling with sharp tangs of urine and perfume—every surface scarred by the night’s debauchery.
Christina wove through it all, her own craving for William twisting into a sharp, insistent throb amid the pandemonium. Seven stalls total. Five thrummed with violent occupation.
The first emitted steady, pounding slams against the thin partition, broken by clipped, breathless gasps that hinted at strain more than rapture. Beneath the door’s gap peeked a pair of high-end alligator-skin boots, tilted at an awkward angle, their owner likely contorted into a knot of desperate pleasure.
The second pulsed with a deeper cadence: prolonged, guttural moans like a beast in heat, layered over the slick, resounding smacks of flesh colliding against porcelain echoes.
The third hummed softly, just hurried whispers trading pleas and consents. The fourth and fifth erupted in a chaotic symphony of women’s voices overlapping in moans and giggles, the scene inside marked by the sharp clink of a belt buckle hitting the floor, signaling some shared tangle of limbs and lust.
Christina ignored them, her face a mask of cool assessment. Until she finally arrived at the row’s end. Two stalls sat eerily quiet, doors shut but vacant, dangling a whisper of seclusion.
She claimed the closest, the lock’s bolt scraping with a cheap, grating whine as she secured it. That faint screech felt like a tenuous shield against the storm just beyond the frail barrier.
At last, a semblance of hush. She pivoted, her hand drifting to the zipper of her tailored trousers, ready to relieve the building pressure.
Then the stall’s layout snapped into sharp relief.
Standard dimensions, but the dividing wall to the adjacent empty stall—the final unoccupied one—held an intentional flaw. Rather than seamless metal from floor to ceiling, a deliberate oval cut interrupted the panel, set low at about two to three feet off the grimy tiles.
The aperture stretched roughly twenty inches across and twenty-four high—ample for an infant’s form, or far more carnal pursuits.
Christina paused, fingers hovering over her zipper. She wasn’t shocked by the glory hole’s presence—in a den like this, every stall likely bore one or two, etched by eager hands. And this one wasn’t vacant.
Framing the jagged edge was flawless, pale skin pressed flush against the chill metal, bulging into her territory. The woman beyond had folded herself double, offering up her rear in brazen invitation.
Christina’s stare roamed the display.
The plump swell of an ass cheek arched high, skin stretched smooth and dewy under the harsh fluorescent seep from the stall’s vent. Just below, the shadowed cleft parted to reveal plump labia, glistening with arousal, thrust forward by the strain of her pose.
The puckered ring of her asshole winked faintly in the dim light, and a trickle of wetness trailed down her inner thigh.
With measured calm, Christina unzipped her pants, stepping back slightly from the proffered flesh mere inches away. She lowered onto the toilet seat—chilled porcelain biting through her slacks—and now the stranger’s exposed ass hovered at eye level, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin.
Looking at the quivering labia of the unknown woman’s lips and the juices that dripped down from them, Christina was tempted, and she reached her hand, gripping the soft, plump ass. Immediately, the soft flesh quivered, and she heard a soft moan coming from the hole.
While letting her pee go, Christina started to enjoy the feeling of the woman’s soft flesh in her hand.
Suddenly, she thought of something and could not help but grab her phone and take a picture of the woman’s quivering ass, then, out of spite, send it to her ex-boyfriend.
Christina’s thumb hovered over the send button for a split second before she tapped it, the photo whooshing off to her ex-boyfriend’s inbox.
She leaned back against the cool tile wall, the stranger’s ass still quivering under her palm as she squeezed it absentmindedly, feeling the woman’s body tense and release with another soft whimper from the glory hole.
The stream from Christina’s bladder tapered off, leaving her pussy slick and warm, but her mind was already buzzing with anticipation for the backlash.
Her phone vibrated almost immediately, the screen lighting up with a barrage of notifications. The first message from John popped up, his words exploding across the chat like shrapnel.
[What the FUCK is this, Christina? Are you insane? Delete that shit right now!]
She smirked, wiping herself with a wad of toilet paper before tossing it aside. His outrage was predictable, almost comforting in its familiarity. In a world where guys like him clutched their pearls at the mere hint of skin, John had always been the king of prudish tantrums.
[Just thought you’d appreciate a view of what you’re missing,] she typed back, her fingers flying with gleeful spite. [Or are you too busy clutching your pearls?]
Another vibration rattled the phone.
[This is disgusting! You’re disgusting! Are you actually sending me porn of some random slut’s holes? Block me if you’re gonna be this low.]
Christina laughed out loud, the sound echoing faintly in the stall.
The stranger shifted, her ass pressing back against her hand as if begging for more attention, but Christina ignored it for now, too engrossed in the chat.
Low? He’d called her low. The guy who’d once walked out of a movie because a sex scene lasted thirty seconds. Breaking up with him felt like shedding dead weight—liberating.
[Low? Baby, this is me being generous. Here’s another angle for you.]
She snapped a quick close-up, zooming in on the stranger’s dripping pussy lips, the folds swollen and parted just enough to show the pink inner slickness. The flash caught a bead of arousal sliding down, and she hit send before she could second-guess it.
John’s response was a flood: [STOP! I’m serious, Christina. This isn’t funny. Why are you doing this? Can we talk, okay? Let’s meet up and sort this out. I miss you already. Please, just stop with the gross pics.]
Miss her? After over two years of him flinching every time she initiated anything beyond a chaste kiss? She rolled her eyes, gripping the stranger’s ass cheek harder, kneading the soft flesh until it dimpled under her fingers. The woman moaned louder, pushing back insistently, but Christina kept typing.
[Miss me? Or you mean, you miss controlling me, teasing me to do whatever you want? Nah, we’re done. But since you asked nicely, here’s her tight little asshole winking at you.]
Another photo, this one pulling the cheeks apart to expose the puckered ring fully, the skin around it flushed and inviting. Send.
The dots danced on his end for a full minute, then: [You’re a bitch. A real nasty bitch. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you. Don’t ever contact me again.]
Followed by a string of block attempts that didn’t stick because she’d turned off read receipts just to watch him squirm.
[Aw, don’t be like that. One more for the road—her pussy’s clenching like it wants to swallow my fingers whole.]
She captured the labia twitching, juices stringing between the folds, and fired it off. His profile pic grayed out as he finally blocked her, but not before one last message slipped through: [You’re sick. Stay away from me.]
Christina tossed her head back and laughed, the tension from the breakup melting away like the last drops on her thighs. She knows that after this night, John is completely and utterly cut off from her life. Maybe, tomorrow morning, she would find her name among the list of the nastiest of perverts in the school. Rumors would flood, and her reputation would plummet.
Perhaps, even finding a boyfriend would be damn impossible now.
However, Christina didn’t regret it. In fact, her lips curled upwards, imagining the disgusted face John was making right now. Hahaha. Good riddance.
If he couldn’t handle a little ass pic, what chance did she have if she continued to cater to his needs? I would just die from frustration.
And besides, I don’t need him anymore.
I’d rather make my brother happy.
Refreshed, she pocketed her phone—or started to—when a wicked impulse hit her.
If John, that idiot, can’t appreciate this, how about her brother?
How would William respond?
