Pryzm Pull
"The sticky floors of Britain's trashiest nightclub lead to an even stickier encounter in the VIP toilets"
Pryzm on a Saturday was like entering another dimension. One where drinks cost eight quid, the floor was made of pure sticky, and everyone was either twenty-one or a saddo in their thirties refusing to let go.
I was firmly in saddo territory.
My mates had abandoned me for the smoking area, leaving me propping up the bar, watching the chaos of the main floor. That's when she stumbled into me—all curves and chaos in a tiny white dress.
"Shit, sorry babes!" She steadied herself on my arm. "These heels are trying to kill me."
She was thick—proper thick—with brown skin, massive tits threatening to escape her neckline, and a smile that said she'd already had several Jagerbombs.
"You alright?" I asked.
"Better now." Her hand was still on my arm. She didn't seem interested in moving it. "I'm Keeley. You're fit."
Straightforward. I liked it.
"Thanks. I'm Ryan."
"Ryan." She tried it out, nodded approvingly. "Good name. You gonna buy me a drink, Ryan?"
"What you having?"
"Surprise me. But not tequila. Tequila makes me aggressive." She paused. "And horny. But mostly aggressive."
Two Jagerbombs later, Keeley was pressed against me on the dance floor, her arse grinding against my crotch in time with some awful EDM remix.
"You're a good dancer," she shouted over the music.
"I'm literally just standing here."
"Exactly. Most guys try too hard." She spun around, looped her arms around my neck. "You just... let me do my thing."
"Your thing is very good."
"I know." She grinned up at me, all mischief. "Wanna see what else I'm good at?"
She grabbed my hand, pulled me through the crowd toward the VIP toilets. Keeley flashed something at the bouncer—probably nothing, probably just confidence—and suddenly we were through.
"In here." She pushed me into a cubicle, locked the door. "Been thinking about this since you bought me that drink."
"That was fifteen minutes ago."
"I think fast." She was already on her knees, working at my belt. "Now shut up."
The music thumped through the walls, bass vibrating through the floor. Keeley's mouth was warm and eager, her technique enthusiastic if not entirely coordinated—she was drunk, we both were—but it felt incredible.
"Fuck—Keeley—"
She hummed around me, looked up with those dark eyes. Mascara slightly smudged, lipstick definitely ruined, absolutely gorgeous.
"Want you to fuck me," she said, pulling off. "Right here. Right now."
She stood, turned, braced against the wall. Her dress was already hiked up, revealing a tiny red thong that she yanked aside.
"Hurry up. Before someone notices we're gone."
I pushed in and she moaned—loud enough that someone definitely noticed. But neither of us cared.
"Yes—fuck—harder—"
The cubicle walls shook with every thrust. Somewhere, a queue was probably forming. Still didn't care.
"Touch me—need you to—"
I reached around, found her clit, rubbed while I fucked her. Her moans turned to gasps, then to near-screams.
"Gonna cum—fuck—cumming—"
She came with my name on her lips, her whole body shuddering. The feeling of her pulsing around me was too much.
"Where—"
"Inside—don't care—do it—"
I came hard, holding her tight, both of us shaking against the cubicle wall.
We cleaned up with toilet paper—not glamorous, but effective. Keeley fixed her makeup in the mirror, grinning at my reflection.
"Well," she said. "Best night out in ages."
"Happy to help."
"You should be." She pulled out her phone. "Gimme your number. I'm here every Saturday. Could make this a regular thing."
"Same cubicle?"
"Maybe." She winked. "Or maybe somewhere with more room. I've got moves I couldn't show you in there."
I gave her my number, collected my mates from the smoking area, and left with a phone number and a stupid grin.
Saturday nights just got a lot more interesting.