The festival lights pulsed like a heartbeat, bass thumping through your chest, the air thick with smoke and spilled drinks. You’d already lost count of how many pink cocktails you’d downed—sweet, syrupy things that made your head swim and your hips sway on their own. Your tiny glittery skirt rode up every time you danced, the crop top barely containing your heavy tits, piercings glinting whenever someone’s phone flashlight swept over you. You felt cute. You felt untouchable.
A group of guys circled closer. Tall, loud, smelling like cologne and sweat. One of them pressed a fresh drink into your hand without asking. “You look thirsty, babe,” he grinned. You laughed, too fuzzy to question it, and took a long sip. The world tilted a little more.
Hands started wandering. First just a brush against your waist while you danced, then fingers curling around your hip, pulling you back against a hard chest. You giggled, swatted half-heartedly. “Heyyy, personal space,” you slurred, but it came out more playful than serious. Another hand slid up your thigh under the skirt, rough fingertips grazing the edge of your thong. You squirmed, confused, brain lagging. “Wait—what are you…?” The words dissolved into a hazy laugh. Too drunk. Too high. Too warm.
Someone tugged your top down, exposing one pierced nipple to the flashing lights. A mouth closed over it—hot, wet, sucking hard. You gasped, head lolling back against a shoulder. Part of you knew you should push away, scream, run. But the bass was so loud, the lights so pretty, and the ache between your legs was suddenly screaming louder than any alarm bell in your head.
Your body betrayed you first.
Your hips rolled back instinctively, grinding against the thick bulge pressing into your ass. A low, needy whimper slipped out before you could catch it. The guy behind you chuckled, dark and satisfied. “There she is,” he muttered, fingers slipping under your thong, finding you already soaked. “Knew you were a little slut under all that.”
You tried to form a protest, tried to say something sassy, something sharp—but it came out as a breathy moan when two thick fingers plunged inside you without warning. Your knees buckled. Someone caught you, held you upright while another hand yanked your skirt up around your waist. Cool night air hit your dripping cunt, then hot breath, then a tongue—flat, greedy licks that made your eyes roll.
You were still mumbling “wait… guys… I shouldn’t…” even as your thighs spread wider on their own. Even as you arched into the mouth devouring you. Even as rough hands pinched your nipples and tugged the piercings until you cried out—half pain, half bliss.
The first cock pushed against your entrance while you were still shaking from the tongue. No condom. No warning. Just a slow, stretching burn as he sank in deep. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream that turned into a slutty, broken moan the second he bottomed out. “Fuck—tight little festival whore,” he groaned, starting to thrust.
Your hands reached back, clutching at shoulders, hair, anything to hold on while they took turns. One after another. Mouths on your tits, fingers in your hair, cocks in your cunt, your ass, your throat. You gagged, drooled, moaned around them like it was the only thing that made sense anymore.
Somewhere in the haze you heard yourself whimpering “more… please… use me…” between thrusts. The confused, dismissive girl who’d laughed off wandering hands was gone. Only the dripping, cock-hungry slut remained, hips rocking back to meet every brutal stroke, begging with her body when words failed.
By the time the last one finished inside you, your legs wouldn’t hold you. Cum leaked down your thighs, mixing with your own wetness. Your makeup was ruined, skirt twisted, top hanging off one shoulder. Someone tucked a crumpled bill into your shirt like a tip.
You stumbled toward the bathroom on shaky legs, still giggling dazedly, still dripping, still high as fuck.
And you knew, deep down, that you’d do it all again next time.
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