At the bar

She sits alone at the bar in a black dress that clings like it has no choice. Small, brunette, legs crossed, checking her phone while the ice in her drink melts. No one is coming. She tells herself one more minute, then she’ll leave. A taller woman slides onto the stool beside her. One word lands between them—then another, low enough the bartender has to lean in to catch any of it. The smaller one’s shoulders loosen, but only a fraction. Five minutes later she’s still there, drink replaced, lips parted around the rim of something stronger. A hand finds the hem of that tight dress. No ceremony. Fingers slide up bare thigh, find the heat under lace that’s already damp, and press. The brunette swallows a sound. The bar noise swallows the rest. They leave before the glasses are empty. The restroom is two steps past the service hallway, a single stall with a bolt that clicks loud enough to feel in her ribs. Skirt pushed to her waist, panties tugged aside in one impatient pull. Two fingers sink in without asking—she’s wet enough they go deep on the first thrust. Her forehead hits the cool tile; her knees don’t buckle, not yet. The taller woman’s breath drags across her neck, teeth scrape behind it. The pace is unhurried and brutal at once. Wet sounds, knuckles, soft curses bitten off. When the first climax hits, it rolls through her spine and leaves her shaking, but the fingers stay inside, coaxing the aftershocks until another one claws up behind it. She finishes half standing, half held, mouth open against painted plaster. By the time they straighten clothes and reapply lipstick, the bar sounds like any other night. The smaller brunette walks out first, cheeks flushed, phone forgotten on the sink.