Chapter 7: Oral Examination
The word hung in the air, a surrender that tasted like chlorine and shame. "Mouth," I repeated, the syllable feeling foreign and thick on my tongue.
Owen’s smile was a swift, triumphant slash in the dim light. "Good girl."
His hands, which had been holding my hips, moved to my shoulders. The pressure was inexorable, pushing me downward. My knees buckled, meeting the rough, gritty surface of the pool floor in the shallow end. The water lapped at my chest, cold and indifferent. I was staring at the strained fabric of his black swim trunks, the outline beneath them a terrifying promise.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low.
I forced my gaze upward, past the defined planes of his stomach, the stark line of his hips, to his face. His expression was a mixture of hunger and a cool, analytical curiosity, as if he were observing a particularly interesting experiment.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trunks and pushed them down in a single, efficient motion. My eyes slammed shut. I couldn’t. I just couldn't.
A sharp tug on my hair forced my head back. "Eyes open, Willow. You don't get to hide from this."
Tears of humiliation welled, blurring my vision. I blinked them back, the chlorine stinging. I kept my gaze fixed on his, a silent plea he either didn't see or chose to ignore.
He fisted his hand in my wet hair, not painfully, but with a firmness that stole my breath. His other hand guided himself to my lips. The contact was a shock—warm, alien skin against the sensitive flesh of my mouth.
"Open," he said, his voice rough now, all pretence of coaching gone.
My jaw felt wired shut. I was frozen, a statue of dread on her knees.
He tightened his grip in my hair, a warning. "Now."
A small, broken sound escaped me as my lips parted. He didn't wait. He pushed forward, past the barrier of my teeth, filling my mouth. I gagged instantly, my throat seizing. The taste was overwhelmingly male, a mix of clean skin and the faint, sharp tang of pool water.
"Relax your throat," he instructed, his tone clinical, as if he was correcting my streamline again. He began to move, a slow, testing rhythm. "Breathe through your nose."
Tears tracked freely down my cheeks now, mingling with the pool water. I focused on the mechanical act of breathing, the air hissing in and out of my flared nostrils. The world narrowed to this: the grip in my hair, the stretch of my jaw, the rhythmic intrusion, the sound of his low groans mingling with the slosh of water. His hips set a pace, and my only role was to endure it. My hands floated uselessly at my sides, my fingers scraping against the rough pool floor.
His movements began to falter, each one more labored than the last, as if the very act of lovemaking was becoming an arduous task. The groans that escaped his lips deepened, transforming into guttural, primal sounds that reverberated off the cold, hard tiles of the room. His fingers, once gentle, now gripped my hair with a force that bordered on cruel, his nails digging into my scalp as he held me in place. His thrusts, once smooth and rhythmic, became erratic and desperate, each one punctuated by a sharp intake of breath or a low, guttural growl.
"Swallow it," he grunted, his body tensing.
The hot, bitter release flooded my mouth. I choked, my body convulsing, but his hand held me firm, forcing me to comply. I swallowed, once, twice, the act a violent betrayal of my own body. The aftertaste was vile, a lingering bitterness that coated my tongue and throat.
He held there for a long moment, his body slackening, his breath coming in ragged pants. Then, he released my hair and stepped back.
I collapsed forward, my hands hitting the pool floor, coughing and retching. I spat into the water, trying to clear the taste, the feeling, the memory from my mouth. It was futile.
I heard the soft splash as he pulled his trunks back up. I didn't look. I couldn't. I stayed on my hands and knees, coughing up water and shame, the cool liquid a feeble balm on my burning face.
A shadow fell over me. He was standing above me, looking down.
"See?" he said, his voice returning to that casual, conversational tone. "That wasn't so bad. You're a quick learner."
He reached down, not to help me up, but to pat my head twice, a condescending gesture he might use on a dog. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps sloshing through the water towards the stairs.
I listened to the sound of him leaving, the drip of water from his body, the final, decisive slap of his feet on the wet tile as he climbed out. I heard the distant rustle as he picked up his towel.
"You know where to find me if you want another lesson," he called out, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space.
Then, the heavy door to the men's locker room swung shut with a resonant, final thud.
Silence.
I was alone. The only sounds were the hum of the pump and my own ragged, hitching breaths. I slowly pushed myself up to sit on my heels, the water swirling around my waist. I felt hollowed out, used. The blue glow of the pool lights seemed sinister now, illuminating the scene of my violation.
My gaze drifted across the deck, to the bleachers where my swimsuit lay in a damp, discarded heap. A dark, crumpled shape on the pale wood. It seemed a mile away.
Getting it back meant getting out. It meant walking naked across the open deck, completely exposed to the empty, echoing chamber. It meant admitting this was real, that it had happened, and that I was now the girl who had to crawl back to her clothes after being used on the pool floor.
A fresh, hot tear traced a path through the chlorined water on my cheek. I wrapped my arms around my naked body, but there was no warmth to be found. The water that had once been my element now felt like a soiled baptism. I stayed there, kneeling in the shallow end, trapped between the shame of what had just happened and the terrifying vulnerability of what came next.