This story is my first entry to a Literotica challenge. Thank you to Freya for organising this one, and to Acting Up for their excellent character, Fatemah.
You can read Fatemah's beginnings at: https://www.literotica.com/s/threes-the-charm-pt-01-todd
Read the
other events at Lit Con 2025 here
.
FRIDAY
The Grand City Hotel towered above her, glass glinting like a beacon in the late afternoon sun. Fatemah stepped into the lobby, taking a deep breath, her heels clicking against the polished marble. She could still remember the last time she wore heels -- barely -- but nothing about that life fit anymore. Not the marriage, not the silence, not the veil.
Here, there was space to breathe, to exist, to want.
She glided past cascading chandeliers and velvet lounges, trying not to gawk at the elegant chaos of Lit Con 2025. Laughter echoed down the corridor. People in corsets, leather, silk, and sequins moved freely, unapologetically. She was here for the workshops, she told herself, to write and observe.
But the red dress in her suitcase -- the one she'd never worn -- said otherwise.
In her room, she laid it across the bed. It was scandalous by her old standards. Backless, figure-hugging, with a slit up one thigh that whispered of rebellion. She tried not to think of her husband's scowl or her mother's judgment. She entered the expansive shower, the hot streams peeling away the shadows of her past life in Saudi Arabia.
When she finally stepped out, her skin still damp and glowing, wrapped in vibrant red silk, a quiet confidence settled over her. Gone was the girl who once concealed herself--now she was Fatemah, standing bare and unafraid, prepared to embrace what lay ahead.
The bass thudded deep in her chest, while a saxophone's smoky notes curled through the thick, warm air. People moved--some laughing, some whispering--slipping between heavy curtains and the soft flicker of candlelight. On the small stage, a drag queen owned every word, lips perfectly matching the music, every gesture sharp and electric. Nearby, a couple swayed, slow and easy, leather catching glints of light, completely wrapped up in each other and the night.
Fatemah's senses were on overload. She kept catching flashes of bare skin, mesh, chains, and smiles that promised stories she wasn't ready to hear -- yet. She turned to get a better view of the stage -- and collided into a wall of leather and cleavage.
Strong, gloved hands steadied her.
"If you wanted my attention, you could have just said hello," a husky voice teased.
Fatemah looked up. Blue eyes, a smirk, a face too composed to be accidental.
"I--sorry. I wasn't watching where I--" Her words tangled as her eyes drifted down. Leather corset. Glossy boots. Long fingers.
"Carmen," the woman offered, voice velvet over steel.
"Fatemah," she was shocked at herself for not using the alias she had planned.
Carmen's smirk widened. "Well, Fatemah, if you're half as bold with your words as you're with your entrances, I hope we meet again."
And just like that, she vanished into the crowd. But Fatemah's world didn't settle. It had just shifted.
SATURDAY
Fatemah woke with her heart pounding and her thighs pressed together. Her dreams had been vivid--Carmen's eyes, voice, and mouth--and the feel of leather under her fingertips. She stretched beneath the sheets, blinking against the morning light, and reached for her phone.
Lit Con's Saturday itinerary blinked back at her: panels, workshops, and a social hour. And then it caught her eye:
"How to Please a Woman Sexually -- 11 AM, Ballroom B."
Fatemah hesitated. Was it too bold? Too soon? What if Carmen was there?
Her answer came thirty minutes later, as she stood in the middle of Ballroom B, waiting for Carmen to take the stage.
Not in fetish gear this time. Tailored black trousers hugged her hips, paired with an unbuttoned burgundy blouse just enough to reveal lace underneath. A headset mic sat poised at her jaw. Her boots still clicked with authority. She was less spectacle now, more seduction. And Fatemah couldn't breathe.
"Welcome," Carmen began. Her voice was calm and smooth. "Something brought you here. Perhaps a question you haven't asked aloud yet, or a desire you've only just begun to feel."
The crowd leaned in. So did Fatemah.
Carmen paced deliberately. "We're conditioned to believe that pleasure is linear, goal-oriented. But pleasure is about discovery, attention, and consent."
She talked about anatomy, about how feeling safe could change everything. Her hands moved over the silicone model with so tender and focused care that Fatemah felt a strange heat stir inside her. Carmen's fingers traced invisible paths, as if sharing secrets only Fatemah could sense. Whenever Carmen looked her way, it felt like they spoke without words.
"I need a volunteer."
The room quieted. Without even thinking, Fatemah's hand shot up.
Carmen's smile danced softly, like a candle flickering in the dark. "Come on up."
Fatemah stood, legs shaky. When she reached the stage, Carmen didn't touch her--at first. She hovered, waited, then gently brushed Fatemah's hair aside to expose her neck.
"This," she whispered, "is one of the most intimate places on the body."
Her fingertips danced under Fatemah's ear. Fatemah exhaled audibly, knees softening. The touch was light, reverent--but electric.
Carmen leaned close. "Sometimes," she murmured, "a kiss says more than a simple' yes '."
And then she pressed her lips just beneath Fatemah's jaw. Not a show, not for the audience, just for her.
When Fatemah returned to her seat, she was burning.
Later, in the bar tucked next to the themed rooms, Carmen ordered drinks and led Fatemah to a secluded booth with plush seats and mirrored walls. Carmen sat close, her knee to knee, her hand to her thigh.
They talked. Carmen asked where she was from, if she was alone, and what she wanted. Fatemah struggled for words. Carmen's thumb brushed the back of her hand like punctuation.
"Do you want to touch a woman?" Carmen asked softly.
Fatemah blinked. " I-I think so."
"And do you want to be touched by one?"
She looked down, then up again. "Yes," she said.
Carmen's eyes darkened with something like promise. "Do you want me?"
Fatemah's pulse skipped. "I do."
Carmen leaned in, slower this time. When her lips met Fatemah's, it wasn't a tease but an answer --deep, intimate, and knowing. Fatemah melted.
When they broke apart, Carmen whispered, "Then let me give you something to remember."
She stood and offered her hand. Fatemah took it.
The lift doors slid shut behind them.
Fatemah didn't have time to process. Carmen stepped forward with a silent question in her eyes. When Fatemah didn't look away, Carmen's hand cupped her face, tilting her chin upward.
The kiss was deliberate this time--tongue against tongue, breath mingling. Carmen pressed her gently against the mirrored wall, lips sliding from her mouth to her neck, where she had kissed her earlier in front of a crowd--but this was private, slow, and aching.
Fatemah moaned softly, the sound swallowed by Carmen's mouth as they kissed again, deeper now. Her hands, once hesitant, found Carmen's waist and held her close.
When the lift chimed open, Carmen stepped back, breathless but smiling. She retook Fatemah's hand.
"My room," she said. "If you want to know what it's like to be touched by someone who wants to worship you, not own you, not silence you."
Fatemah didn't speak. She just nodded as all the blood felt like it had drained from her head and pooled in her pussy.
The hotel room was spacious but intimate. The lights were low, and the bed was crisp and inviting. Carmen kicked off her boots and turned to her, the same calm power in her posture.
"Still sure?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Yes," Fatemah whispered. "I've never been more sure."
Carmen leaned in and kissed her again, this time slower and deeper. Her fingers slid along Fatemah's jaw, then down to the curve of her shoulder. She kissed her neck, her collarbone, then pulled back.
"Let me undress you," Carmen murmured, her voice low and steady. "Let me show you how this should feel."
Fatemah nodded, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She was trying to stay grounded -- to slow the whirlwind of nerves and anticipation -- but Carmen's nearness set off sparks that danced beneath her skin.
Carmen moved behind her, one hand resting gently on Fatemah's shoulder. She let it trail gradually down the curve of her back, her fingers brushing over the silk until she reached the zipper. With unhurried care, she tugged it down, inch by inch, her touch leaving fire in its wake. When she reached the end, her fingers brushed lace--red, delicate, and she paused momentarily before the dress slipped silently to the floor.
Fatemah stood still, almost trembling, clad only in a set of crimson lace: a bra that offered the barest suggestion of modesty and a brief that was barely a whisper of fabric.
Carmen stepped around to face her, fingertips trailing lightly along the waistband of her underwear, then resting firmly at her hips.
"You're beautiful," she whispered. "How has no one ever worshipped you properly?"
Fatemah flushed, but she didn't look away. Not this time.
Carmen guided her gently backwards until her calves met the bed. She rearranged the cushions with practised care, easing Fatemah onto them like something precious. Every instinct in her urged her to dive in, to devour -- but she didn't. Not yet. This wasn't a race.
This was Fatemah's first time. Her first real time.
Carmen climbed onto the bed beside her, deliberate and sure. She kissed her mouth, jaw, and neck, lingering at the hollow of her throat. Her lips moved lower, tracing the line of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. Her hands explored with awe, memorising every curve and every shiver beneath her touch.
Carmen's lips hovered just above Fatemah's chest. She paused, her breath warm against her skin. Then she looked up, locking eyes.
