The hotel room was a battlefield of glitter and empty prosecco bottles, the remnants of a hen weekend in full, chaotic swing. The seaside town of Brighton buzzed beyond the window, its neon lights and raucous laughter seeping through the cracks of the curtains. Rachael Bennett, a woman who prided herself on her no-nonsense attitude and unwavering straightness, sat stiffly on the edge of the double bed she’d been forced to share. Her arms were crossed, her jaw tight, and her hazel eyes darted anywhere but at the woman unpacking her suitcase with infuriating nonchalance.
Niamh O’Connor. The name alone made Rachael’s skin prickle with a mix of irritation and unease. They’d gone to school together, back when Niamh was just the weird girl with a penchant for black eyeliner and cryptic poetry. Now, she was a vision of confidence—tall, with a sharp bob of raven hair and a smirk that seemed to know too much. Rumors had always swirled about Niamh, whispers of her being “different,” and Rachael had kept her distance. But here they were, thrown together for Sarah’s hen do, sharing a room because the hotel was overbooked and the universe apparently hated her.
“So, Rach,” Niamh drawled, tossing a pair of lace panties into a drawer with a flick of her wrist, “still the same old stick-in-the-mud, or have you learned to live a little since Year 11?”
Rachael bristled, her cheeks flushing. “I live plenty, thanks. Just not... you know, in weird ways.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, clumsy and sharp.
Niamh raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening as she leaned against the dresser, crossing her arms to mirror Rachael’s defensive stance. “Weird ways? Care to elaborate, darling? I’m all ears.”
Rachael’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She wasn’t about to dig herself a deeper hole. “Forget it. I just mean I’m not into... whatever. Can we just get through this weekend without making it awkward?”
“Awkward?” Niamh chuckled, her voice low and teasing. “Sweetheart, I’m not the one looking like I’ve swallowed a lemon. But fine, I’ll bite. Let’s clear the air. Yes, I came out at uni. Yes, I’m a raging lesbian. No, I’m not planning to seduce you in your sleep. Happy now?”
Rachael’s face burned hotter, her fingers digging into her arms. “I didn’t ask for your life story, Niamh. And for the record, I’m straight. Like, super straight. Straighter than a bloody ruler. So don’t get any ideas.”
Niamh’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, honey, trust me, you’re not my type. I like my women with a bit more... spice. But good to know you’re so secure in your ruler-straight status. Duly noted.”
Rachael glared, but the words stung more than she cared to admit. She muttered something about needing a drink and stormed out to join the rest of the hen party, desperate to drown the encounter in cheap cocktails and bad karaoke.
---
Hours later, the night had devolved into a blur of neon lights, thumping bass, and far too many tequila shots. Rachael had thrown herself into the chaos, determined to prove she was the life of the party, not some uptight prude. She’d danced, laughed, and even belted out a cringe-worthy rendition of “Sweet Caroline” with the bride-to-be, Sarah. Niamh had been there too, always on the periphery, her dark eyes glinting with amusement every time their gazes accidentally met. Rachael had ignored her. Mostly.
The rest was a haze. Stumbling back to the hotel. Giggling in the elevator. A vague memory of someone—Niamh?—helping her out of her heels. And then... nothing.
Until now.
Rachael’s eyes snapped open, her head pounding like a jackhammer. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn, but the weight of something—or someone—beside her made her stomach lurch. She turned her head slowly, dread pooling in her chest, and there she was. Niamh. Naked. Sprawled on her back, one arm flung over her face, her chest rising and falling with the deep, peaceful breaths of someone who hadn’t a care in the bloody world.
Rachael’s gaze dropped to herself, and a scream lodged in her throat. She was naked too. Completely, utterly bare. And worse—oh, God, so much worse—there was something strapped to her hips. Something black, shiny, and unmistakably... phallic. A strap-on. On *her*. Her hands flew to her face, muffling a horrified gasp as her mind spiraled into a full-blown panic.
*What the actual hell happened last night?* Her inner voice was a screech, ricocheting off the walls of her skull. *I’m not— I can’t— There’s no way I—* She couldn’t even finish the thought. Her stomach churned as she glanced at Niamh again, praying she’d stay asleep. The last thing she needed was those piercing eyes locking onto her in this... this *state*.
With the stealth of a cat burglar on a bad day, Rachael slid out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest as if it could shield her from the mortification. The strap-on wobbled awkwardly as she moved, and she nearly tripped over a discarded stiletto in her haste to reach the bathroom. “Oh, brilliant,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m a walking bloody disaster. How do I even get this thing off? Who thought this was a good idea? Not me. Definitely not me.”
She locked the bathroom door with a trembling hand and faced her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her mascara smudged into raccoon rings, and the strap-on sat there like a cruel punchline to a joke she didn’t get. “Right, Rachael,” she hissed at herself, “you’re going to unstrap this monstrosity, scrub every inch of last night off your skin, and pretend this never happened. You’re straight. You’re normal. You’re not... whatever this looks like.”
Fumbling with the buckles was a comedy of errors. The straps seemed to tighten with every tug, and at one point, she accidentally bumped the thing against the sink, sending a dull thud echoing through the tiny room. She froze, heart hammering, waiting for any sign that Niamh had woken up. Silence. Thank God.
After what felt like an eternity, the contraption finally came loose, and she shoved it into the bottom of her toiletry bag with a shudder. “Never again,” she vowed, stepping into the shower and cranking the water to scalding. As the steam enveloped her, so did the questions. Had she done something? Had Niamh? Was this some kind of sick prank? Or worse—her throat tightened at the thought—had some buried part of her wanted this? “No,” she growled aloud, scrubbing her skin raw. “Absolutely not. I’m not turning. I’m not anything. I just need to get through today and forget this ever happened.”
Wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping, she crept back into the room. Niamh hadn’t moved, still blissfully oblivious to the storm of chaos beside her. Rachael dressed in record time, throwing on jeans and a hoodie, her movements jerky and frantic. She grabbed her phone, her purse, anything to make her escape complete, and tiptoed to the door.
One last glance at Niamh—still asleep, still infuriatingly gorgeous even in repose—and Rachael slipped out, the door clicking shut with a finality that did nothing to ease her racing pulse. The hallway was empty, the hen party likely still recovering from last night’s debauchery. She had a day to get through, a day of fake smiles and forced laughter, all while dodging Niamh and the gnawing fear that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as straight as she’d always believed.
“Get it together, Rach,” she muttered, heading for the elevator. “You’re not that girl. You’re not.” But as the doors slid shut, the doubt lingered, heavy and unshakable, promising a day of pure, unadulterated hell.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.