The Underworld - Camden

It's Friday night, Laura's lying on the floor, her head on a cushion, staring at the ceiling. "I need a weekend away. A proper one. Somewhere I can let loose."

Carrie picks at the label on the wine bottle. "Where though? We always do the same shit. Brighton. Manchester.

"Somewhere dark," Laura says. "Somewhere full of men who just want to fuck and don't expect a fucking conversation afterwards."

Sarah's been quiet, scrolling through her phone, her legs tucked under her on the sofa. She looks up, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"The Underworld," she says.

Carrie frowns. "The what?"

"It's a club in Camden. Underground. Literally. Three floors down, brick arches, low ceiling. Dark as fuck, loud as fuck, always rammed." Sarah sets her phone down. "I went there a few times with some mates. It's exactly what you're describing. Dingy. Grimy. Full of horny blokes who've had a few pints and just want to get off."

Laura sits up, interested. "What's the music like?"

"Doesn't matter. It's loud and it's heavy. The kind of place where you can do whatever you want and no one notices because everyone's too busy with their own shit." Sarah's smile widens.

Laura's already nodding. "I'm in. When?"

"Next weekend. There is a Premier Inn literally round the corner, and they have a 3 bed room available next weekend, just checked on my phone, we go out, we own that fucking place." Sarah looks at Carrie. "You in?"

Carrie thinks about it for a second. Then she grins. "Fuck it. I'm in."

Sarah raises her glass. "To the Underworld."

"To getting fucked senseless," Laura adds.

"And to no panties," Carrie says.

They clink glasses. The plan is set.

The train from Finsbury Park is rammed. Friday afternoon, the carriage full of shoppers and tourists. The three of them sit in a row of seats near the doors, bags on their laps, already buzzing with anticipation. Laura's got her headphones in, nodding along to some heavy riff, but she keeps glancing at Sarah with a grin. Carrie's scrolling through her phone, pretending to be casual, but she keeps bouncing her knee. Sarah just watches the stations tick by. Holloway. Kentish Town. Camden Road. They get off at Camden Town and walk the short distance to the Premier Inn. A blue sign glowing against the grey London sky. The lobby is beige and bland, the kind of place that smells faintly of bleach and regret. They check in and take the lift to the third floor.

The room is small. Functional. Three beds crammed into a space designed for two, at least the bathroom is a decent size. The window looks out the street. It's perfect. Carrie drops her bag on the nearest bed and unzips it. "Right. Let's get this show on the road."

Laura's already stripping off her jeans. "I'm going full goth tonight. Black everything. Fishnets. The works."

Sarah pulls out her outfit—a tight black band tee, cropped to show her midriff, sleeves rolled up to the shoulders. Black denim mini skirt, ripped, held up by a thick belt with a silver buckle. Chunky black boots. Fishnets. A choker with a small silver pentagram dangling from it.

"Rock chic," she says. "With a touch of witch."

Carrie holds up her own ensemble—a black mesh top over a black bralette, a leather mini skirt, studded belt, combat boots. Her hair is already teased into something wild. "I'm going more punk. Think Joan Jett meets The Craft."

Laura emerges from the bathroom in full goth regalia. Black velvet mini dress, lace sleeves, a corset laced tight over her torso. Fishnets. Platforms. Her eyeliner is thick and winged, her lips painted almost black. A choker with spikes. She looks like she stepped out of a Siouxsie and the Banshees video.

"No panties," she says, spinning once. "Obviously."

Carrie grins. "Yep, no panties, easy access to our holes"

They take turns in the bathroom, perfecting their looks. Laura adds a touch of pale powder to her face, making herself look almost ethereal. Carrie teases her hair bigger, adds more eyeliner, sprays in some purple dye that'll wash out by morning. Sarah keeps it simpler—a sweep of dark eyeshadow, a deep burgundy lip, her hair loose and wild. They stand in front of the mirror, side by side. Three rock and goth sluts. Three mini skirts. Three bare cunts under them. Three women ready to raise some hell.

Carrie turns sideways, checking her reflection. "How do I look?"

"Like a fucking menace," Laura says approvingly.

"Good."

Sarah checks her phone. "The doors open at six and . We've got an hour. Let's grab a drink somewhere first, get in the mood."

Laura pulls on her leather jacket, the one with the band patches sewn all over it. "I'm already in the mood."

They head out, locking the room behind them. The lift takes them back down to the lobby, past the bored receptionist, out onto the Camden streets. The sun is starting to set, the sky a dirty orange above the rooftops. The pubs are filling up, and the air smells of fried food and weed. They find a pub near the underworld called The World's End, all dark wood and sticky floors, a jukebox playing Motorhead in the corner. They order three shots of whiskey and three pints of something dark.

They clink glasses.

"To the Underworld," Sarah says.

"To getting fucked," Laura adds.

"To no panties," Carrie finishes.

They drink. The night is just beginning.

The pub does its job. Three whiskeys each, a pint to wash them down, the Motorhead on the jukebox giving way to some Sabbath. By the time they step back out onto the Camden streets, the night has fully settled in, the sky dark, the air cool. The market is still buzzing, but the crowd has shifted—fewer tourists, more locals, more people heading to the same place they are. The Underworld is easy to find. A black doorway on Camden High Street, a queue already snaking down the pavement. The sign above is small, unassuming, the kind of place you'd walk past if you didn't know it was there. But they know. They join the queue, and Sarah feels the familiar thrum of anticipation in her chest. The queue moves fast. A quick pat-down at the door, a stamp on the wrist, and they're in.

The stairs go down. Three flights, concrete, the walls covered in band stickers and graffiti. The noise grows with every step, the rumble of the music, the chatter of the crowd, the clink of glasses. The air gets thicker, warmer, carrying the smell of sweat and beer and something darker. And then they're inside.

The Underworld opens up in front of them, a cavern of brick arches and low ceilings. The stage is at the far end, bathed in red and purple lights, the band already setting up. The crowd is a sea of black—band tees, leather jackets, long hair, dark eyes. It's packed. Bodies pressed together, moving, swaying, waiting. The bar runs along one wall, three deep with people trying to get served. The air is thick with smoke machines and human heat.

Sarah stops at the bottom of the stairs, taking it in. Carrie and Laura flank her, all three of them scanning the room like predators surveying a hunting ground.

"Fuck me," Laura says, her voice barely audible over the noise. "This place is perfect."

Carrie's already grinning, her eyes darting from group to group. "Look at them. They're all so... ready."

Sarah feels it too. The energy in the room is electric, charged with something primal. These aren't people here for the music. They're here for the release. The darkness. The anonymity.

She turns to the others, raising her voice so they can hear. "Right. how about this for a plan. We split up, we work the room, we have some fun. One hour. Meet back at the bar."

Laura nods, already eyeing a group of lads near the stage. "Perfect, One hour. Don't be late."

Carrie cracks her knuckles, a gesture so absurdly cocky that Sarah laughs. "I'm finding at least two before the hour's up."

"Make it three," Sarah says.

They share a look, a moment of connection, of shared purpose. Then they break apart, melting into the crowd like shadows. Sarah moves left, weaving through the bodies, letting herself get swallowed by the press of people. The band starts their first song, a slow, crushing riff that shakes the floor. She lets it wash over her, She heads to the toilet and goes into a cubicle and pulls out a small tube of lube from her bag and applies some to her ass, she knows what she wants, composes herself and heads out to the main area.

Sarah's Story

The band is deep into their second song now, a slow, crushing wall of sound that vibrates through the floor and up through Sarah's bones. The crowd sways like a single organism, bodies pressed together in the dim red light. She moves through them like smoke, her hips swinging, her boots finding the rhythm without effort. She spots them near a brick pillar on the left side of the room. Four lads, mid-thirties, standing in a loose cluster. They've got that look—been friends for years, the kind of mates who finish each other's sentences. One of them has a thick beard and a Slayer shirt. Another is lean, sharp, with a sleeve of tattoos winding up his arm. The third is stocky, bald, nursing a pint. The fourth is quieter, watching the stage, but his eyes flick to her as she approaches.

She doesn't hesitate.

She slides into their space like she belongs there, her body moving to the music, her hips brushing against the edge of their circle. The bearded one notices first. His eyes drop to her tits, then lower, then back up. She holds his gaze, gives him a small smile, and turns her back to him. She presses her arse against his crotch and starts grinding. The song rumbles on. The crowd presses in around them, a wall of bodies that hides everything. She feels his hands find her hips, tentative at first, his hands roam to her ass, realising she's has no panties on, then gripping harder as she grinds back against him. His mates notice. They shift, adjusting their positions, forming a loose barrier around them. Not obvious. Just... protective. A wall of shoulders and backs that shields them from view.

Sarah reaches behind her, finds his zip, pulls it down. His breath hitches as she pulls his cock out, guiding it between her thighs, rubbing the head against her wetness before sliding it up to her arsehole.

She pushes back. He slides in.

The stretch is perfect. She bites her lip, her eyes fluttering closed as she takes him to the hilt. He grips her hips, starts moving with the music, thrusting into her arse in time with the slow, crushing riff. Sarah moves and grinds her hips. His friends crowd closer, their bodies blocking the view, their eyes watching them. Anyone looking would see four lads standing together, having a good time and maybe one of them dancing with a girl. Nothing more.

He doesn't last long. She feels him tense, feels his cock twitch inside her, feels the first hot pulse of his come filling her arse. She grinds back against him, milking every drop, savouring the warmth spreading through her. He pulls out slowly, and she adjusts her skirt, turns, and finds the next one. The lean one with the sleeve tattoos.

He's watching her with dark eyes, already hard when she steps into him. She presses her body against his, her hands sliding up his chest, her mouth at his ear. "Your turn."

She turns, presses her arse against him, and reaches back to guide him inside. He slides in easier this time, the hole already slick and warm from his mate's spunk. He grips her hips harder, his thrusts faster, more urgent. His friends shift again, maintaining the barrier, their eyes scanning the crowd. They move and grind to the music for a good 5 minutes and then comes with a shudder, a second load filling her. She stays on him for a moment, letting him finish, then pulls off and moves to the third.

The stocky one. The bald one with the pint.

He's already set his drink down, his eyes hungry. She turns her back to him, bends slightly, he unzips and pulls out his cock and guides him in. He's thicker than the others, and she gasps silently as he stretches her open. He fucks her harder, faster, his hands gripping her hips. His friends crowd in tighter, their shoulders blocking any view, their faces neutral. One of them says something to the other, laughing, the picture of casual ease. After the 5th song the stocky one comes with a grunt, a third hot load joining the first two. She feels it pooling inside her, warm and heavy. She takes a breath, steadies herself, and turns to the last one.

The quiet one.

He's been watching the whole thing, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. She steps up to him, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him hard. Reaches down and feels his erect cock, "hmmm, nice and hard I see". Then she turns, presses her arse against him, and reaches back to guide him inside. He slides in slow, deliberate. Different from the others. He fucks her with a controlled intensity, his thrusts deep and measured, his hands roaming her body, her hips, her tits. She leans back against him, letting him take her, letting him set the pace. His friends hold the circle, patient, waiting.

He lasts longer than the others. Long enough that Sarah loses track of time, lost in the sensation of being filled, used, passed from one to the next. When he finally comes, it's a flood, a fourth load filling her already-full arse. She grip her ass muscles tight, not wanting to stain her skirt. She stays there for a moment, catching her breath. Then she straightens her skirt, smooths her hair, and turns to face them. The quiet one is tucking himself back in. The stocky one picks up his pint. The bearded one meets her eyes and gives her a small nod and a cheeky grin.

She winks back. "Thanks boys..". She walks away, melting back into the crowd, her arse full of four men's come, she heads to the toilet and into a cubicle and pushes out the cum down the toilet, cleans her well used asshole, straightens her skirt and heads her way to the bar, orders a pint, and leans against it, waiting for Carrie and Laura to find her. The night is young. And she's just getting started.

Laura's Story

Laura peels away from the others , walking past the bar her eyes lock on him. He's behind the counter, working the taps with practiced ease, a black man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, bald head shining under the dim lights. His arms are thick, covered in tattoos that disappear into his rolled-up sleeves. He moves with the calm efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, pouring pints, ringing up tabs, barely breaking a sweat. She slides up to the bar, waits for him to notice her. He does. His eyes travel over her—the black velvet dress, the corset laced tight, the fishnets, the platforms. He takes his time.

"What can I get you?" His voice is deep, smooth, with a hint of a London accent.

"Whiskey. Neat."

He pours it, sets it in front of her. Their fingers brush. She holds his gaze.

"You working all night?" she asks.

"Till close." He leans on the bar, giving her his full attention. "You here for the band?"

"I'm here for the atmosphere." She takes a sip of her whiskey, lets it burn. "And maybe some company."

He smiles, slow and knowing. "Is that right?"

She reaches out, touches his wrist. "You get a break?"

"In about ten minutes."

"I'll be here."

She nurses her whiskey, watching him work. He's efficient, charismatic, joking with regulars, handling a rowdy group with easy authority. She watches his hands, his arms, imagines them on her. Her cunt is already wet, bare under her dress, ready. Ten minutes pass. He nods to the other bartender, wipes his hands on a towel, and comes around the side of the bar. He jerks his head toward a door at the back. "Storage room. Quiet. Follow me."

She does.

The storage room is small, cramped, lined with shelves of bottles and boxes. A single bulb overhead casts harsh shadows. He locks the door behind them and turns to her, his eyes dark.

"Fuck you are gorgeous" he asks.

"Thanks, not so bad yourself." She steps into him, her hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle underneath. "I want you to fuck me. But first—you got any friends working tonight? Anyone else who might want to join?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Crikey, You're greedy."

"That I am"

He pulls out his phone, types a quick message. "Give it five minutes."

He doesn't wait. He turns her around, bends her over a stack of beer kegs, pushes her dress up around her waist. No panties. He sees that, and he laughs, a low, appreciative sound.

"You came prepared."

He doesn't bother with foreplay. He's hard already, his cock thick and dark as he guides it to her cunt. He pushes in, and Laura gasps, her hands gripping the edge of the keg. He's bigger than she expected, stretching her, filling her in a way that makes her see stars. He fucks her slow at first, letting her adjust, then harder, his hips slapping against her arse. She takes it, moaning into the crook of her arm, her cunt gripping him with every thrust.

A knock at the door. He doesn't stop. "Come in."

The door opens, and another man enters. Taller, leaner, also black, also in a bartender's shirt. He locks the door behind him, takes in the scene—Laura bent over, his mate fucking her from behind—and grins.

"Room for one more?"

"She wants two" the first one says, still thrusting.

The second man steps closer, unzipping his fly. His cock is just as impressive, long and thick, already hard. He moves in front of Laura, strokes her hair, guides her mouth to him. She takes him in, her lips stretching around his girth, her tongue working the shaft as the first man continues to fuck her from behind. The taste of him, the smell of sweat and beer, the fullness in her cunt—it's overwhelming, perfect.

The first man pulls out and sits on the couch and pulls Laura on top, Laura guides his cock back in finishes first, the second man pulls out of her mouth, and gets behind her, "Let's stretch this bitch" and spits on her ass and pushes in, Laura moans having two black cocks in her. He slowly pushes all the way to his balls. She's full again. Cock in her pussy, cock in her arse. They find a rhythm, thrusting in tandem, using her. She's lost in it, in the sensation, in the dirtiness of it, in the knowledge that she's taking two men at once, both of them filling her, both of them using her.

"Fuck, this bitch is tight", says the man up her ass, Laura looks back at him and smiles.

After what seems like a long time, the second man begins to groan and comes in her arse, a deep, pulsing flood. Her first black spunk and it's a lot too. He pulls out, her ass slightly gaping. Shortly followed by the first guy, he unloads up her snatch, another huge load of black spunk. Laura gets off the first man and sits on the couch.

She straightens up, catches her breath, and smiles at them. "Fuck that was good, you know you guys are my first BBC"

They look at each other, then back at her.

"Well , we're glad you enjoyed it." the first one says.

"I've time if you have, want to go again?"

They take her again. on all fours on the couch. This time slower, more deliberate. The first man fucks her gaped ass, while the second man watches, the first man pounds her ass into tomorrow, being rough and hard, his balls slapping her pussy. It doesn't take long before he grunts, grabs her hips and pushes in all the way and floods her ass, another big thick load. He pulls out, the second guys, ready and hard rams up her pussy, balls deep and gives her another hard pounding.

"Take that black dick, fucking slut", he mutters, Laura loves being called names, adds to the fun. It doesn't take long before he groaning as he floods her pussy, Laura feels the cum splash and fill her pussy. He stay buried in her pussy for a few moments and pulls out, both their cocks are still out and she turns around and sucks on their meat one by one.

"Damn, girl, you're one filthy bitch", the second guys says. "Yep, I am, and thanks guys, your were amazing for my first"

she leaves the storage room, her thighs are sticky, and she's walking with a slight wobble. She heads to the toilets and cleans herself up and then finds her way back to the bar, orders a glass of water, and leans against the counter, a satisfied smile on her face. The first guy is back in the bar and she winks at him and carries orders another drink and waits for the others.

Carrie's Story

Carrie watches Sarah and Laura disappear into the crowd, then turns her attention to the room. The Underworld is pulsing, the band hitting a particularly heavy breakdown, the crowd surging with it. She takes a slow sip of her drink, her eyes scanning, predatory. She spots them near the entrance. Two bouncers, both massive, both in black shirts with SECURITY printed across the back. One is white, shaved head, a thick neck that looks like it belongs on a rugby player. The other is mixed race, dreads pulled back, arms crossed over a chest like a barrel. They're watching the crowd, alert, professional.

But they watch her too.

She catches the shaved one's eye. Holds it. Smiles. She runs a hand through her teased hair, adjusts her leather skirt, and starts walking toward them. They don't move as she approaches. They stand their ground, arms crossed, expressions neutral. But their eyes track her every movement.

"Evening, boys," she says, loud enough to be heard over the music.

The shaved one raises an eyebrow. "Evening."

"I'm Carrie." She steps closer, into their space. "I was wondering if you two might be interested in a private consultation."

The one with dreads laughs, a low, rumbling sound. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

"Depends what you're selling."

She reaches out, touches the shaved one's arm. "I'm not selling anything. I'm giving it away."

They exchange a glance. A silent conversation passes between them. Then the shaved one jerks his head toward a door near the back of the venue. "Staff room. Follow us."

She does.

The staff room is small, functional. A table, a few chairs, a coat rack, a CCTV monitor showing grainy footage of the club floor. The door locks behind them with a solid click. Carrie turns to face them properly. The shaved one—his name is Danny, she learns later—and the one with dreads—Marcus. They fill the small room, their presence overwhelming, their eyes hungry. She doesn't wait. She hops up onto the desk, the wood cold against her bare thighs, and spreads her legs wide. Her leather skirt is already bunched around her waist, her mesh top pushed up under her chin. She's naked from the waist down, her cunt glistening in the harsh fluorescent light.

"Who's first?" she asks.

Danny steps forward. Pulling out his cock and he's already hard, his cock thick and veined, the head flushed dark. He positions himself between her thighs, guides himself to her entrance, and pushes in with one smooth, brutal thrust. Carrie gasps, her head falling back, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. He's big, filling her completely, stretching her in a way that makes her toes curl. He doesn't wait for her to adjust. He starts fucking her immediately, hard and fast, his hips slapping against hers, the desk creaking beneath them.

Marcus watches, his arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across his face. He moves closer, runs a hand through her hair, tilts her head back. "You like that, don't you?"

She can't answer. Her mouth is open, her breath coming in short sharp gasps, but nods and smiles. Danny's thrusts are relentless, driving into her again and again, each one pushing her closer to the edge. He comes with a grunt, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside her. She feels the hot rush of his spunk filling her cunt, feels it leaking out around him as he pulls out. He steps back, tucking himself away, and Marcus moves in, his cock already out.

Marcus is bigger. Longer, thicker, his cock curving slightly upward. He doesn't go for her cunt. He positions himself at her arsehole, already slick with spit, and pushes in. Carrie cries out, her hands flying to his shoulders. The stretch is intense, begins to relax, to breathe, to take him. He moves slowly at first, letting her adjust, then picks up the pace, fucking her arse with a steady, relentless rhythm.

Danny watches now, his hand moving to his cock, stroking himself as he watches his mate fuck her. Carrie sees him, sees the look in his eyes, and it makes her even wetter. Marcus comes with a low groan, his cock twitching as he fills her arse with a thick, hot load. He stays inside her for a moment, letting her feel it, then pulls out slowly.

She's full. Both holes filled, not quite full yet. They give her a moment. A small break. She catches her breath, her chest heaving, her body trembling. Danny hands her a bottle of water, and she drinks, the cool liquid soothing her throat. They chit chat for a few minutes, theirs cocks already growing.

"Ready for more?" Marcus asks.

She nods. "This time I want both of you to fuck my ass. One at a time."

Danny steps forward first. He's hard again, his cock slick with her juices. He positions himself at her arsehole, pushes in, and she gasps at the sensation—her hole already stretched, already full of Marcus's come, now being filled again. He fucks her slower this time, savouring it, his hands gripping her hips, his eyes locked on where they're joined. She watches him, watches the concentration on his face, the way his jaw tightens as he fucks her.

It wasn't long before he comes again, a second load joining the first, her arse sloppy and full. He pulls out, and Marcus moves in. Marcus takes her arse for the second time, sliding in easily, the come inside her acting as lubricant. He fucks her hard, faster than before, chasing his release. She's lost in it, in the sensation of being used, filled. He comes with a shout, his cock pulsing, adding a third load to the mess inside her ass. He stays impaling her ass until he goes limp, his hands wandering, feeling her tits. His cock pops out and Carrie clenches her ass tight, keeping in the cum. She collapses forward onto the desk, her body spent, her arse and cunt aching and full. They stand over her, breathing hard, their work done.

She pushes herself up, turns to face them, a slow, satisfied smile on her face. "mmmm, boys, that was amazing"

Danny laughs. "Well thank you, that was fantastic, not fucked a slut in the ass for a bit."

She straightens up her clothes, the come already starting to leak down her thighs. She doesn't wipe it away. She kisses both of them and walks out of the staff room, through the club, past the crowd, and into the toilet and cleans herself up and heads back to the bar.

The bar is getting busier as the night wears on, but the three of them have staked out a small corner near the end of the counter, a pocket of space in the chaos. Sarah's already there when Laura slides in, her dress clinging to her, her hair a mess, a satisfied smirk plastered across her face.

Laura orders a pint, takes a long pull, and sets it down. "Fuck me. That was something."

Sarah raises an eyebrow. "Oh Yeah?, pray tell"

"Two bartenders. Both black. Both massive." Laura leans in, her voice low. "Took me in the storage room. I got double penetrated by those two black dicks, a load in each hole, then on all fours and another load up my snatch , followed by another up my ass.

Sarah lets out a low whistle. "Good girl, Four loads?"

"Four loads. I'm leaking like a fucking tap." Laura shifts on her stool, adjusting her dress. "I'm going to need a shower and a mop."

Before Sarah can respond, Carrie appears, weaving through the crowd. She's walking with a slight wobble, her leather skirt twisted. She drops onto the stool next to them and puts down her pint.

"Just had a good fucking" she says, taking a long drink. "by two fat cocks,"

She sets the pint down and grins. "Two bouncers. Danny and Marcus. Took me to the staff room. One fucked my cunt, came in it. The other fucked my arse, came in it. Then we took a break, and they both fucked my arse again, one after the other. I've got four loads in me too. "

Laura laughs, clinking her glass against Carrie's. "Snap."

Sarah shakes her head, smiling. "You two are fucking animals."

"Don't act like you didn't have your own fun," Carrie says. "Spill. how many did you get?"

Sarah takes a sip of her pint, savouring the moment. "Four lads. By the pillar near the stage. Group of mates, clearly knew each other. I slid in, started dancing, and took them one by one up the arse. They crowded around me, blocked the view, let me work through all four of them. Each one came in my arse. I've got four loads in me right now."

Laura raises her glass. "To the Underworld."

"To getting fucked," Carrie adds.

"To lots of cum" Sarah finishes.

They clink glasses and drink. For a moment, they just sit there, three women in a dark, dingy club, their bodies full of strangers' come, their skirts stained, their thighs sticky. The band starts another song, the floor shaking with the weight of it.

Sarah looks at her friends, her sisters in sin, and feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the ****.

The walk back to the Premier Inn is quiet, the streets of Camden finally settling into the early hours of Sunday morning. The club has spat them out into a world that's slowly turning from dark to grey, the first hints of dawn bleeding over the rooftops. A few stragglers stumble past, kebabs in hand, laughter echoing off the brick walls.

They walk in a loose line, not quite touching, but close. Sarah leads, Laura in the middle, Carrie bringing up the rear. Their boots scuff against the pavement. No one speaks. There's nothing left to say that hasn't already been shared over pints at the bar.

The hotel lobby is empty, the night receptionist barely glancing up from his phone as they shuffle past. The lift takes them up to the third floor, and they file into the room, locking the door behind them.

Laura drops onto her bed without bothering to undress. "I'm never moving again."

Carrie kicks off her boots, wincing. "I'm going to feel this in the morning."

"You're feeling it now," Sarah says, pulling off her top. "We're all feeling it now."

They strip in silence, shedding the evidence of the night. Skirts tossed onto chairs. Fishnets balled up and discarded. The bathroom light flickers on as each of them takes a turn, wiping away the worst of it, cleaning up just enough to sleep.

Sarah lies down in just her shirt, staring at the ceiling. She can still feel them. The four lads. The pillar. The way they'd crowded around her, blocking the view, taking their turns. She smiles in the dark.

Sarah laughs softly. "We'll talk about it over breakfast."

Silence settles over the room. The city hums outside, distant and muffled. One by one, they drift off, their bodies heavy, their minds full of the night's memories. Morning comes too fast. Grey light filters through the thin curtains, and the sound of traffic filters up from the street below. Sarah wakes first, her mouth dry, her body sore in all the right ways. She lies still for a moment, letting the night come back to her in fragments.

She sits up, swings her legs over the side of the bed. Laura is sprawled across her mattress, one arm flung over her face, snoring softly. Carrie is curled on her side, her hair a mess, her lipstick finally faded.

Sarah gets up, pulls on yesterday's jeans and a clean top from her bag. She fills the kettle, makes three cups of tea, and sets them on the small table by the window.

"Rise and shine," she says.

Laura groans. "No."

"Breakfast. Then home. Come on."

It takes them twenty minutes to get moving. They take turns in the bathroom, showering, pack their bags, check their phones. The room looks like a bomb went off—clothes everywhere, empty bottles, the faint smell of sex and sweat. They check out at reception, drop off the key cards, and step out into the Camden morning. The air is fresh, the streets busy with Sunday shoppers and tourists. The market is already open, the smell of food drifting from the stalls.

They find a cafe near the station. Small, greasy spoon, the kind of place with formica tables and a man behind the counter who calls them "love." They slide into a booth, order full English breakfasts and more tea. For a while, they just eat. The clink of cutlery, the hum of conversation, the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen.

Laura breaks the silence first, setting down her fork. "So. That was incredible."

Carrie grins, wiping yolk from her plate with a slice of toast. "Best weekend we've had in months."

Sarah sips her tea, watching them. "The bartender. The bouncers. Those four lads by the pillar. We really outdid ourselves."

"I still can't believe you took four up the arse in the middle of a crowd," Carrie says, shaking her head. "You dirty bitch."

"I had good teachers," Sarah says. "And good friends to share it with."

Laura leans back, patting her stomach. "I'm still a bit sore. But in the best way."

"Same," Carrie agrees. "I'm going to be walking funny for a week."

"Worth it though," Sarah says.

"Absolutely worth it."

They finish their breakfast, split the bill, and head for the station. The train back to Finsbury Park is quiet, the Saturday morning crowd sparse. They find seats near the window and settle in for the short journey. Laura pulls out her phone, scrolling through photos from the night before. Blurry shots of the crowd, the stage, the bar. Nothing incriminating. Just memories.

Carrie leans her head against the window, watching the city slide past. Sarah sits across from them, looking at both of them. Her best friends. Her partners in crime. The train rattles on, carrying them home. Behind them, Camden fades into the distance, the Underworld still standing, still waiting, still full of dark corners and hungry eyes.

But that's for another tale.

For now, they're three women on a Saturday morning train, full of breakfast and memories, heading home to think of their next adventure.