The neon sign outside The Velvet Room flickered like a dying heartbeat—pink and purple, buzzing just loud enough to drown out the dial-up tone coming from the payphone in the corner. It was 1997, and the world still ran on landlines, pagers, and the faint hope that someone might actually call you back.
Cassie sat at the bar in a red baby-doll dress that had seen better nights. The hem rode high on her thighs, the spaghetti straps kept slipping off one freckled shoulder. Her dark hair was teased into that perfect 90s half-up/half-down mess—big at the crown, soft waves tumbling down her back. Mascara tracks ran from her eyes like black rivers. She’d been crying for an hour straight, ever since Chad had screamed “You’re too fucking much!” and slammed the apartment door behind him.
Too much.
The words kept looping in her head like a scratched CD.
She drained the last of her Fuzzy Navel and pushed the empty glass forward. The bartender—a guy named Spike with a goatee and a No Doubt tattoo—gave her a sympathetic nod and poured another without asking.
“Rough night, huh?” he said.
Cassie laughed, bitter and wet. “He said I’m clingy. Then he fucked my roommate. In my bed. While I was at work.”
Spike winced. “Jesus. Chad’s a tool.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
A low, smoky voice cut through the haze behind her.
“He’s not just a tool. He’s a whole toolbox.”
Cassie turned.
The woman leaning against the bar next to her looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Fiona Apple video—black leather jacket, ripped fishnets, combat boots, short platinum hair spiked in front like she’d just rolled out of bed after fucking someone senseless. A silver septum ring glinted under the neon. She smelled like clove cigarettes and vanilla body spray.
“I’m Mara,” the woman said, sliding onto the stool beside Cassie without waiting for an invitation. “And you look like you need someone to remind you that men aren’t the only ones who know how to fuck.”
Cassie blinked. Her cheeks flushed hot. “I’m… I’m not gay.”
Mara’s lips curved. “You don’t have to be gay to let a girl make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Spike snorted and walked away to wipe down the other end of the bar.
Cassie stared at her drink. “He said I was too emotional. Too needy. That I wanted too much.”
Mara leaned closer. Her knee brushed Cassie’s bare thigh under the bar. “And what do you want right now?”
Cassie swallowed. Her pulse was loud in her ears. “I want… to feel something else. Anything else.”
Mara’s hand settled lightly on Cassie’s knee—warm, steady, electric.
“Then come with me.”
They didn’t speak much in the cab. Mara’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up in the artsy part of town—exposed beams, lava lamps, posters of The Crow and Tank Girl taped crookedly to the walls. A boombox in the corner was playing “Criminal” on low. The air smelled like patchouli and sex.
Mara locked the door. Turned. Looked at Cassie like she was already naked.
“Still think you’re straight?” Mara asked, stepping closer.
Cassie’s breath hitched. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Mara cupped her face with both hands—gentle, but firm. “You’re a woman who’s about to get fucked better than Chad ever dreamed of.”
She kissed her.
Slow at first—lips brushing, testing. Then deeper. Tongues sliding. Cassie moaned into Mara’s mouth, hands clutching at the leather jacket like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Mara tasted like cherry ChapStick and smoke and promise.
Mara walked her backward until Cassie’s thighs hit the edge of the futon. She pushed gently; Cassie sat. Mara dropped to her knees between Cassie’s legs, shoved the red dress up to her waist, and hooked her fingers in the lace thong.
“Lift,” Mara ordered.
Cassie obeyed—hips rising on instinct. The panties came off in one smooth tug. Mara spread Cassie’s thighs wide, looked at her glistening cunt, and made a low, appreciative sound.
“Fuck, look at this pretty pussy,” Mara growled. “Already dripping for me.”
Cassie whimpered. “I’ve never—”
“I know.” Mara dragged the tip of her tongue along Cassie’s slit—slow, flat, deliberate. Cassie jolted. “Never been eaten like this. Never been fucked the way you need.”
Another long lick. Cassie’s hands flew to Mara’s hair.
“Please—”
Mara sucked her clit hard. Cassie cried out, hips bucking.
She ate her like she was starving—messy, relentless, tongue flicking, circling, plunging inside, then back to the clit again. Cassie was shaking, babbling, thighs clamping around Mara’s head.
When she came it was sudden and violent—back arching, a broken sob ripping out of her throat, fingers yanking Mara’s hair so hard it hurt.
Mara didn’t stop. Kept licking through the aftershocks until Cassie was whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push her away and pull her closer at the same time.
Then Mara stood.
She stripped—jacket, tank top, ripped jeans, boots—until she was bare except for the harness she’d already strapped on under her clothes. The dildo was thick, veined, purple, glistening with lube she’d slicked on earlier like she’d known exactly how the night would end.
Cassie stared, eyes wide.
“You’re gonna take every inch,” Mara said, stroking the shaft. “And you’re gonna thank me for it.”
She pushed Cassie back on the futon, climbed over her, lined up the fat head at her entrance.
“Look at me,” Mara ordered.
Cassie did. Pupils blown, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.
Mara pushed in slow—inch by inch—watching Cassie’s eyes roll back.
“Fuck—fuck—it’s so big—”
“Breathe,” Mara murmured, holding still, letting her adjust. “You’re taking it so good already.”
Another inch. Cassie’s thighs trembled.
Mara kissed her neck. Bit the soft skin. “Tell me you want more.”
“I—I want more,” Cassie gasped.
Mara gave it to her—slow, deep thrusts, hips rolling, letting Cassie feel every thick ridge dragging inside her. Cassie’s nails dug into Mara’s back. Her legs shook. She started rocking back to meet each stroke.
“That’s it,” Mara purred. “Fuck yourself on it. Show me how much you need this.”
Cassie’s hips jerked faster. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room—skin slapping, slick sucking, Cassie’s broken little moans.
“He never made me feel like this,” Cassie panted. “Never—never filled me—fuck—never made me shake—”
Mara grabbed Cassie’s ass, lifted her slightly, pinned her harder against the futon, and started pounding.
Cassie screamed—raw, desperate, beautiful.
“You’re mine tonight,” Mara growled. “This cock owns you now.”
Cassie came like a storm—back arching, thighs shaking, squirting all over the purple dildo. Mara didn’t stop—kept railing her through it, chasing her own orgasm from the base grinding her clit.
When Mara finally pulled out, the dildo glistened like it’d been dipped in honey. She unbuckled, tossed it aside, and pulled Cassie into her lap.
Cassie curled into her, still trembling.
“You okay?” Mara asked softly.
Cassie laughed—shaky, wrecked. “I think… I think I’m gay now.”
Mara kissed her forehead.
“Took you long enough.”
They lay there for a while, breathing together, skin sticky, hearts racing.
Then Cassie lifted her head.
“Can we do it again?”
Mara grinned.
“Baby… we’re doing it all fucking weekend.”
She reached over, grabbed the harness again—this time a different one, clear silicone, curved, with a clit stimulator built in.
“Round two,” Mara said, buckling it on. “This one’s gonna make you scream my name.”
Cassie’s eyes sparkled—half drunk, half reborn.
“Promise?”
Mara kissed her hard.
“Promise.”
She flipped Cassie onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, spread her cheeks.
“Look at this perfect ass,” Mara murmured, rubbing the head against Cassie’s still-sensitive entrance. “Gonna fill it up again.”
Cassie moaned into the pillow.
“Do it. Please.”
Mara pushed in—slow, steady, letting Cassie feel the curve hit her G-spot with every thrust. The clit stimulator buzzed against Mara’s own swollen nub.
“Fuck—yes—” Cassie gasped. “Right there—don’t stop—”
Mara fucked her harder, faster, one hand in Cassie’s hair, pulling her head back so she could whisper filthy things in her ear.
“You’re so wet for me. So tight. Chad could never make you this wet, could he?”
“No—no—” Cassie sobbed. “Only you—only this cock—”
Mara reached around, rubbed Cassie’s clit in tight circles while pounding deep.
“Come for me again. Come on this dick like the slut you were always meant to be.”
Cassie shattered—screaming Mara’s name, body convulsing, pussy clenching so hard Mara came with her, grinding against the base until they both collapsed in a sweaty, trembling heap.
They didn’t stop there.
Round three: Mara on her back, Cassie straddling her, riding the strap reverse-cowgirl while Mara spanked her ass and called her “my good little dyke.”
Round four: Cassie bent over the kitchen counter at 4 a.m., Mara behind her, slow and deep while they shared a cigarette and a bottle of cheap champagne.
By sunrise, Cassie was hoarse from screaming, thighs bruised, pussy swollen and happy, and Mara’s harness was discarded on the floor like a trophy.
They lay tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and strawberry incense.
Cassie traced lazy circles on Mara’s stomach.
“I’m not going back to him,” she whispered.
Mara kissed her temple.
“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Cassie smiled—small, real, free.
“Promise?”
Mara rolled on top of her, already reaching for the harness again.
“Baby… I promise you the whole damn weekend.”
And they spent it—every filthy, neon-lit, 90s-cheesy minute—proving that sometimes the best remedy for a breakup is a thick strap-on and a woman who knows exactly how to use it.
The End
