Slamdance by Thomas Roche

It’s not like Dakota really expected anything to happen when she followed the punk chick into the bathroom. Sure, they’d been flirting all night — without either of them saying a word or coming within ten feet of each other, their courtship a mix of eye contact and body language through the surging, dancing crowd of punks. But Dakota never thought she’d do anything like what she did — was only vaguely aware things like that happened at all. And Dakota was quite sure that she wasn’t that sort of girl. God, how she wanted to be, but she just couldn’t manage it.

She’d had to pee for an hour when she saw the pink-haired girl head for the women’s toilet. Dakota didn’t know if she really thought she’d talk to the girl, or just wanted to be near her — but almost without knowing what she was doing, she threaded her way through the churning crowd and found herself at the back of an incredibly long line, her heart pounding. She was standing right behind the pink-haired chick, so close she could smell the girl’s sweat even over the stink of the club.

Outside, the crowd was slamdancing and the music had risen to a fever pitch. The lead singer was screaming and surfing the crowd, microphone crackling, as the guitars got louder and louder. And Dakota was staring at the pink-haired girl’s gorgeous body. The girl was wearing a scoop-back shirt, skintight and spandex, black. It hugged her shoulders and waist, and plunged low to reveal much of that unbelievable back. How did you get a back like that, anyway? It was muscled, beautifully muscled, with blue-black modern-primitive tattoos defining her shoulderblades. But there was just something unbelievably sexy about the shape of that back, something Dakota didn’t doubt the girl had been born with.

And the rest of her was equally hot. The girl wore tight patent-leather hiphuggers that looked like they were decent by maybe a quarter-inch. Dakota could almost see the defining valley of the girl’s ass, could almost imagine what it would be like to drop down onto her knees and slip her tongue into that valley. The zipper was in back, so it wasn’t like it would be hard for Dakota to open up those pants and find out first hand what that lovely ass tasted like…

The girl turned her head and looked at Dakota, a little smirk on her lips as if she knew exactly what Dakota was thinking. Dakota flushed bright red, her breath coming short and her heart pounding. The girl turned slightly, and Dakota’s eyes roved involuntarily over those tight, small breasts, braless under the black spandex, nipples standing hard and erect, visible. Dakota realized her cunt was throbbing in time with the music.

The girl turned fully to face Dakota, but didn’t say a thing. Her eyes flickered up and down Dakota’s body, and Dakota suddenly felt as if she’d been weighed in the balance and found wanting. But the pink-haired girl didn’t seem to think so — her smirk stayed, and her eyes returned to Dakota’s body again and again, flickering over the slight breasts — too-small breasts, Dakota often thought — and flat stomach, visible under the cut-off Sonic Youth T-shirt Dakota was wearing. The girl’s eyes lingered on Dakota’s thighs, and Dakota felt self-conscious for a moment — she shouldn’t have worn the exceedingly-short stretch-cotton skirt with the skulls and daggers, that was so 1988; she shouldn’t have worn the lace-top fishnets, that was so 1984 — but the pink-haired girl didn’t seem to mind. Dakota tried to pretend not to notice she was being watched intently, while the pink-haired girl alternated her glances from the floor to the ceiling to each wall — and then back to Dakota, lingering, flirting, undressing Dakota with her eyes before starting the cycle all over again. Neither of them said a thing — couldn’t have said a thing, anyway, because the music was so goddamn loud. Dakota had often had totally pointless conversations with friends in this club, each of them screaming at the other and smiling and nodding to pretend they’d understood a single word. The pink-haired girl seemed to know better — she just looked, and smiled.

Dakota could feel her cunt under that short skirt — warm, comfortable, and very, very wet.

As they neared the bathroom, Dakota could smell the rank stink of urine mingled with the cloying scent of pot smoke and the tang of amyl nitrate. She began to feel a little high from the smoke — but it was the urine that really dominated, making her gag even over the pot smoke.

Dakota didn’t know how long the line took, but it could have been an hour. By the time they were at the front of the line, Dakota felt like her pained bladder was about to explode. The pink-haired girl just kept watching her, never said a thing, and Dakota was much too embarrassed to open her mouth. Until they got to the front of the line, waiting for one of the six stalls to open up.

The pink-haired girl gave Dakota another smile, this time holding her eyes as if asking a question, and Dakota just stared at her, blankly, not knowing how to answer.

So when the sixth stall opened up, the pink-haired girl grabbed Dakota’s hand and dragged her into the stall, slamming the door behind them and shoving Dakota up against the cold tiles.

Dakota melted into her

Dakota felt the woman’s hot mouth on her own, felt her tongue seething into her mouth. She felt the woman’s hands on her, touching her ass, pulling up the stretch-cotton skirt, yanking up the cut-off T-shirt to reveal Dakota’s small, braless tits.

Dakota tried to stifle her moan as she felt the punk chick’s mouth on her breast, suckling her nipple, as she felt the girl’s hand wriggling its way into her panties, touching her cunt and finding it slippery with desire. But she couldn’t stifle that moan; it wanted to be free. She moaned uncontrollably, even gasped and almost screamed as the girl flicked Dakota’s rock-hard clit with her finger, and bit down on her nipple. Dakota realized that nobody could hear anything over the music. She could scream at the top of her lungs and they’d still have their privacy — what little there was of it.

So Dakota threw back her head and moaned, loud, as the woman’s finger penetrated her pussy, dipping into her molten, slick depths and beginning to finger-fuck her. Dakota could feel the pressure against her full bladder, the girl’s thumb rhythmically tormenting her, slamming her insides. But something about the motion was working her G-spot, stimulating it, making it feel good despite the pain of her piss-filled bladder. Dakota ran her hands through the woman’s short hair as the woman yanked down Dakota’s panties and pushed her, hard, against the white tile.

Dakota could feel the cold tile against her bare ass, now, as her panties dropped to the ground around her ankles, into the pool of piss in which that Dakota was standing. I guess I won’t be putting those back on, thought Dakota, and kicked her panties away, into a deeper pool of piss near the stopped-up drain in the floor. The pink-haired girl kissed her on the mouth again, hard, and then dropped down, not even caring that the knees of her expensive, skintight patent-leather pants were now resting in a stranger’s urine. Then again, her mouth was headed for a stranger’s cunt, so Dakota supposed it was all relative. Dakota’s thighs parted, and she felt the girl’s hot, seeking mouth on her pussy.

Dakota shrieked in sudden, unexpected pleasure as the girl’s tongue flicked across her clit; then she had two fingers inside Dakota, and Dakota saw stars. She grabbed the handicapped grip-bar, which almost came off in her hand. She pressed harder against the wall as the girl began to work on her.

“God, that feels so good,” Dakota tried to say, but it seemed like she made no sound at all in the swirl of punk rock from outside. The girl’s tongue was working Dakota’s clit eagerly as her fingers pumped into Dakota’s cunt; Dakota had never gotten so close to coming so fast. But then, maybe it was the pressure of her overfull bladder against her G-spot — that always made it much easier for Dakota to come. In fact, the sensation was almost exquisite in its pain, as if an invisible hand were there inside Dakota’s body, exerting intense pressure on her G-spot. The girl buried her face between Dakota’s thighs, and now Dakota could see that the girl had her little spandex top up and was pinching her own nipples with her free hand. Something about that gave Dakota a surge of arousal, and she reached down to slip her fingers around the girl’s mouth, spread her own pussy-lips wide for the girl’s eager tongue. As Dakota exposed more of her cunt, the girl looked up at her with a wicked twinkle in her eyes, and smiled. Then she really went to town on Dakota’s clit.

Dakota screamed, thrilled with the knowledge that she could make all the noise she wanted and still be effectively silent. Normally Dakota was reticent during sex — she lived in a tiny ground floor apartment in a huge building, and the neighbors could hear everything — as could people on the street if she left the window open. Dakota had never screamed during sex, had barely even moaned — almost never uttered the faintest sound even when a climax burst through her body. She usually came silent, stoic in her explosions of pleasure.

But now she really let it go, opening her mouth wide, arching her back and throwing her head back to scream at the top of her lungs as the girl’s tongue brought her to a sudden orgasm, pleasure surging through Dakota’s body as she spasmed. Her full bladder seemed ready to burst, threatened to let go all over the girl’s face. But Dakota’s muscles were clamped so tight from the spasms of climax that everything stayed where she wanted it to be, the fullness of her bladder doing nothing but making her orgasm intense — more intense than any she’d ever felt.

Dakota slumped against the wall, spent.

The pink-haired girl felt the many contractions of Dakota’s cunt, felt them die off. She stood up and brought her hand to Dakota’s face; Dakota obediently licked the girl’s fingers clean, tasting her own cunt. The girl kissed her again, hard.

Then reached for her own belt.

The girl unfastened her belt, pulled down her patent-leather pants, and sat on the toilet, her legs slightly spread so Dakota could see her trimmed pussy, and the stream of bright-yellow urine that appeared from the top of it. Dakota watched the girl’s pissing; realized she still had to go herself — and bad.

Seized with a sudden daring — which seemed to be contagious — Dakota pulled up her skirt and sat in the girl’s lap.

About the author:

Thomas Roche is a widely-published writer and editor of erotica, horror, and crime fiction. His bio is too long to include here… Just visit his website for the latest from this insanely prolific, talented man.

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