Wasted girl pissing her jeans in metro

The bass from the first club was a physical thing, a deep thrumming in Emma's chest that vibrated right down to her clit. She threw back another shot of something cheap and electric blue, the liquor burning a delicious trail down her throat. Tonight was going to be a good one. She was dressed to kill in a tiny black dress that barely covered the curve of her ass and a pair of heels that made her legs look a mile long. Her blonde hair was a messy cascade around her shoulders, and her eyes already had that wild, glittery look of a girl on the hunt.

She didn't have to hunt for long. Within minutes, a guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass was buying her a drink. He was hot, in a generic, gym-sculpted way, and his eyes roamed over her body like he was already undressing her. Emma loved this part. She leaned in, letting her hand rest on his thigh as she whispered something inane about the music. She felt his muscles tense under her touch. Slowly, deliberately, she let her fingers drift higher, tracing the seam of his jeans until she was cupping his crotch. She gave a light squeeze, feeling the immediate, satisfying twitch as his cock hardened against her palm. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening with lust.

"Wanna get out of here?" he growled, his hand finding her waist and pulling her closer.

Emma just gave him a wicked little smile, pulled her hand away, and downed the rest of her drink. "I'm just getting started," she purred, before turning and melting back into the writhing crowd, leaving him hard and wanting. The power was intoxicating, better than any alcohol.

Club number two was darker, sweatier, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and desire. Here, a tall, lanky DJ type with tattoos snaking up his arms tried his luck. Emma danced with him, grinding her ass against his growing erection until he was practically panting in her ear. She reached back behind her, her hand finding the rigid length of him through his pants. She stroked him slowly, right there on the dance floor, hidden by the sea of bodies. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, trying to guide her towards a dark corner. Again, she played the game, teasing him to the edge before slipping away with a laugh.

This was her pattern throughout the night. A touch here, a promise there. She'd feel them get hard in her hand, a testament to her effect on them, a delicious spark of arousal that she stoked but never let catch fire. She was the queen of the blue balls, and she reveled in it. By the fourth club, she was gloriously, blindingly drunk, the world a happy, swirling mess of lights and music and potential conquests she had no intention of conquering.

The sun was just beginning to bleed pink and orange into the sky when Emma finally stumbled out of the last venue. The cool morning air was a shock to her system. Her feet were killing her, and her head was starting to throb, but she was still buzzing with a wild, untamed energy. The subway station was a grimy, fluorescent-lit cavern. She fumbled for her card and staggered through the turnstile, collapsing onto a hard plastic bench to wait for the first train.

The pressure in her bladder had been building for a while, a dull ache she'd ignored in favor of another drink, another dance. Now, sitting in the relative quiet of the empty station, it became an insistent, demanding throb. She knew she should get up, find the disgusting public toilet, but the effort seemed monumental. She leaned her head back against the cold wall, her eyelids fluttering. The train wasn't here yet. It didn't matter.

A moment later, a spreading warmth bloomed in her panties. It wasn't a sudden gush, but a slow, inexorable flood. The heat trickled down, soaking through the thin fabric of her thong and into the tight material of her dress, then down her inner thighs. A dark patch rapidly grew on the light gray fabric between her legs. A part of her, the sober, rational part she'd successfully drowned hours ago, screamed in mortification. But the drunk, exhausted Emma felt only a strange, detached relief. The pressure was gone. She closed her eyes for a second.

The screech of the arriving train jolted her back to a semblance of awareness. She lurched to her feet and stumbled onboard. The car was mostly empty. She didn't bother to sit, instead grabbing a metal pole in the center of the car. She stood there, swaying with the motion of the train, her head lolling back, her chin pointing toward the ceiling in a way that looked painful, her neck exposed. Her knees felt like they were made of jelly, and they buckled slightly, making her sag against the pole. The wet patch on her dress was cold now, a clammy reminder of her loss of control.

A faint giggle cut through the rumble of the train. Emma cracked her eyes open. Two girls, probably college students with their backpacks, were standing a few feet away. One had her phone pointed directly at her, the screen glowing. They were whispering to each other, suppressing laughter as they filmed her, this pathetic, wasted mess, standing in the middle of the train car in her piss-soaked dress. Emma stared at them, her expression vacant. She didn't have the energy to care. Let them film. Let them laugh. It was just another part of the night, another blurry snapshot in a long, chaotic reel.

The automated voice announced her stop. It took her a moment to process it. With a jolt of panic, she realized the doors were about to close. She shoved herself away from the pole and staggered towards the exit, stumbling through the sliding doors just as they hissed shut behind her. She nearly fell onto the platform but managed to catch herself on a bench. The world tilted violently. She had no idea how she was going to make it the three blocks to her apartment.

Somehow, through sheer force of will or maybe just muscle memory, she did. She was leaning against the door, trying to remember which key went in the lock, when it was yanked open from the inside.

Mia stood there, her girlfriend, all fiery red hair and stormy green eyes. She was wearing one of Emma's oversized t-shirts, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of fury and concern.

"Where were you all night, bitch?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "You are fucking wasted!"

Mia's eyes raked over her, taking in the smeared makeup, the disheveled hair, the state of her dress. Her nose wrinkled slightly, but her expression didn't change. She didn't ask what happened. She didn't need to.

She grabbed Emma's arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and hauled her inside, kicking the door shut behind them. "Get in the shower," she ordered, her voice low and dangerous.

Emma looked at her, a slow, sloppy smile spreading across her face. The fear, the humiliation, the exhaustion—it all melted away, replaced by a hot, familiar anticipation. She knew that tone. She knew the look in Mia's eyes. She had been a very bad girl, and now, she was going to be punished. And Emma, drunk and messy and utterly spent, couldn't wait for it to begin. She was home.