Chapter 84: Trial 16 - Salamanders VS Parrots
The communal showers were a cathedral of steam and echoing drips, a sanctuary for washing off the day’s sweat and scheming. Mihnea pushed through the heavy door, a towel slung over his shoulder, his lean body taut with a restless energy. The air was thick and wet, smelling of cheap citrus soap and mildew. He’d just spent an hour in the makeshift gym, trying to burn off the frustration of the day. The Parrots were splintering. Dariana and Andreea were locked in their own world, Elena C. was a grenade with the pin pulled, and Valentina’s gossip was becoming a toxic fog. He needed clarity. He needed to feel like a leader, not just a guy trying hard to be seen as one.
The main shower area was empty, but a low, rhythmic sound drew his attention to the far corner—a larger, tiled enclosure with multiple showerheads, usually used by teams after challenges. The steam was densest there, swirling like phantom limbs.
He moved closer, the tiles cool under his bare feet.
Through the gauze of mist, he saw them.
Elena EM, Madalina, and Nicola. Naked. Glossy and wet under the streaming water.
They weren’t just showering. They were a tangle of limbs and mouths, a slow, sensual collision of three bodies moving as one. The water cascaded over them, highlighting the curves of fit big round asses, the slopes of breasts, the narrow concaves of waists.
Mihnea stopped dead, his breath catching. His cock, which had been soft and spent from his workout, twitched violently against his thigh, filling with a startling, immediate heat.
Elena EM, the oldest and most classically statuesque, had her back against the tiles, her black hair plastered to her skin. Madalina, the model with her fit big round ass and average-sized breasts, was pressed against her front, kissing her deeply, one hand cupping Elena’s above-average-sized breast, thumb circling a dark nipple. Nicola, the precious blonde strategist, was behind Madalina, her hands roaming over the model’s hips and ass, her lips tracing the line of Madalina’s spine.
It was a closed circuit. A perfect, sapphic loop of pleasure. Their eyes were shut, their moans soft and swallowed by each other’s mouths and the drumming water. They were in their own world, a universe of slippery skin and whispered confidences.
Mihnea’s competitive instinct flared, mixed with a raw, dizzying lust. He was being presented with a challenge far more intriguing than any team puzzle. Here were three of the most attractive, strategically valuable women from two other teams—the social butterfly, the sensual model, the cunning class act—utterly vulnerable, utterly absorbed. And they hadn’t even noticed him.
His towel dropped. He didn’t bother picking it up. He stepped fully into the steam, his average-sized dick now fully, thickly erect, jutting out from his lean frame. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, giving it a few slow, firm strokes. The pre-cum beaded at the tip, mixing with the shower’s spray.
“Well, fuck me,” he said, his voice echoing more than he intended in the tiled space.
No reaction. Nicola’s mouth had found Elena’s nipple, sucking gently while Madalina ground her ass back against Nicola’s front.
“This is a nice surprise,” Mihnea tried again, bolder, taking another step closer. The water from a stray showerhead began to sprinkle his shoulder. “Room for one more?”
Silence. Not the cold, deliberate silence of dismissal, but the absolute, consuming silence of people who genuinely did not register his existence. Madalina murmured something against Elena’s mouth, a giggle that was lost in a kiss. Elena’s hand slid between Madalina’s thighs from the front, her fingers working invisibly. Madalina gasped, her head falling back onto Nicola’s shoulder.
They were talking, but not to him. A private, intimate language of sighs and gasps.
A bolt of irritation shot through Mihnea’s arousal. He was being ignored. Invisible. To a man trying hard to be seen as a leader, it was the ultimate provocation. Fine. If they wanted to pretend he wasn’t there, he’d use that. He’d take what he wanted. He’d be a ghost in their machine, a poltergeist of pleasure.
He moved forward, now within arm’s reach of the slippery, heaving triad. The scent of their arousal, a muskier note beneath the soap, hit him. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, not from fear but from the intense, taboo charge of the moment. He placed his palm on the small of Madalina’s back, just above the sublime curve of her ass.
She didn’t flinch. She arched into the touch, but it was an arch directed toward Nicola, who tightened her hold on Madalina’s waist.
Encouraged, Mihnea leaned in. He pressed his lips to Madalina’s wet shoulder, tasting chlorine and skin. He trailed kisses up her neck, to the hinge of her jaw. She moaned, but the moan was breathed into Elena’s mouth. He kissed Elena’s arm where it wrapped around Madalina, his tongue flicking out. He dropped to his knees on the slick tiles, the water beating down on his back.
From here, the view was obscene and glorious. Madalina’s fit big round ass was directly before his face, water droplets caught in the fine hairs, glistening. Nicola’s hands were gripping those ass cheeks, spreading them slightly. Mihnea didn’t ask. He dove in.
He pressed his face between Madalina’s ass cheeks, his tongue finding her tight, crinkled hole. He licked it broadly, then focused the tip of his tongue, pressing against the pucker.
“Oh, fuck yeah, just like that,” Madalina moaned, but she was looking at Elena, her eyes hazy. “Do it, EM.”
Elena, smiling a knowing, mature smile, slid down Madalina’s body, replacing her fingers with her mouth between Madalina’s legs from the front. Madalina cried out, her body bowing.
Mihnea was eating her ass while Elena ate her pussy, and she was kissing Nicola. The geometry of it made his head spin. He fucked his tongue in and out of Madalina’s ass, lapping at her, his nose buried in the cleft. She tasted clean, salty, intimately musky. He gripped her ass cheeks, pulling them apart to feast deeper.
“She’s so sweet, isn’t she?” Nicola murmured, her voice a low, classy hum in Madalina’s ear. She was watching Mihnea work, but her gaze was distant, appreciative of the act, not the actor.
“Mmmhmm,” Elena grunted in response, her mouth full.
Mihnea pulled back, panting. His cock was a throbbing, neglected ache. He shifted on his knees, turning his attention to Nicola. Still on his knees, he nudged Nicola’s legs apart with his shoulder. She understood, shifting her stance without breaking her kiss with Madalina’s shoulder. Mihnea’s hands found Nicola’s ass, fit and round and high. He squeezed, then buried his face between her cheeks, repeating the act. Her ass was tighter, her moan higher, more surprised. She pressed back against his mouth.
“Someone’s eager,” Nicola giggled, her voice muffled.
“Let him,” Madalina panted. “Feels good.”
Him. Not his name. Just ‘him’. A pronoun for a service animal. Mihnea redoubled his efforts, spearing his tongue into Nicola’s ass, fucking her with it. The filthy, wet sounds of his tongue on her hole mixed with the sounds of Elena’s mouth on Madalina and the endless splash of water. The steam seemed to thicken, charged with sex.
He couldn’t take just being a mouth anymore. He needed to be inside. He stood up, his knees aching, his dick slapping against his stomach. The three women had rearranged themselves. Now, Madalina and Nicola were facing each other, their wet bodies pressed together, their big round asses presented to the room. They were kissing again, a sloppy, deep, hungry kiss, their tongues tangling, their hands in each other’s hair. Elena EM was watching them with a smile, one hand idly stroking her own breast, the other between her own thighs, her fingers moving in small circles.
They were a painting. And Mihnea was the viewer who had just decided to step into the frame.
He positioned himself behind Nicola. His hands gripped her narrow waist, his fingers spanning it easily. He aligned the head of his dick with her pussy lips, which were puffy and glistening, not just from the shower. He looked at Elena, as if for permission. Elena just winked, her fingers moving faster on her clit.
With a sharp, aggressive thrust, Mihnea buried his average-sized length into Nicola’s tight, wet channel.
“Oh!” Nicola gasped into Madalina’s mouth, her eyes flying open for a second before fluttering shut again. Her body stiffened, then melted. She pushed back against him, taking him deeper, but her arms stayed locked around Madalina, her mouth seeking Madalina’s again.
Mihnea fucked her. Hard. Each thrust slammed her forward into Madalina, creating a chain reaction of jostling breasts and grasping hands. The slap of his hips against her fit big round ass was a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to the water’s fall. Nicola moaned, but the moans were swallowed by Madalina’s kisses. She was being fucked doggystyle with a driving force, yet her entire focus remained on the woman in front of her.
“You like that, darling?” Madalina breathed against Nicola’s lips, her own hands dropping to Nicola’s ass, feeling Mihnea’s hips pound against it. “Feel him stretching you?”
“Yes,” Nicola hissed. “Don’t stop kissing me. Don’t.”
Mihnea felt a surge of power, undercut by a strange, frustrating anonymity. He was giving her this intense, physical sensation, and she was begging another woman not to stop kissing her. He gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging in, and pounded into her with a bruising pace, aiming for her deepest point. Her cunt was hot and gripping, milking his cock with each inward stroke. She was close; he could feel the tell-tale fluttering and clenching around his shaft.
“I’m gonna come,” Nicola whimpered, tearing her mouth from Madalina’s to press her forehead against her shoulder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
She climaxed with a silent, shuddering intensity, her pussy clamping down on Mihnea’s dick in a series of violent pulses that almost made him lose his rhythm. He groaned, fucking her through it, prolonging her pleasure, watching her blonde hair stick to her back in wet ropes.
When her tremors subsided, he pulled out, his cock gleaming, slick with her juices. He was nowhere near done. Madalina was already turning, her dark eyes heavy-lidded, a sensual smile on her lips. She pushed Nicola gently aside, towards Elena, who embraced the spent blonde, kissing her tenderly.
Madalina looked at Mihnea. Or rather, she looked at the space he occupied. Her gaze didn’t meet his eyes; it rested on his chest, then drifted down to his erect cock. “My turn,” she said, not to him, but to the room.
She turned and bent over, placing her hands on the wet tiles, presenting her fit big round ass—a model’s pose, even now. Mihnea didn’t hesitate. He stepped up, ran the head of his dick through her soaked folds to gather more wetness, and shoved into her.
Madalina was looser, more yielding, a practiced accommodation. She let out a long, luxurious “Aaaaah…”, dropping her head. “Finally. Been wanting that all day.”
But the ‘that’ was ambiguous. The penetration? Or just the relief of any penetration?
Mihnea fucked her with a steady, deep rhythm, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to play with her clit. She was more vocal than Nicola, her moans echoing off the tiles. “Yes, right there, baby, just like that,” she purred.
For a second, he thought she was talking to him. Then he saw her face was turned, looking at Nicola and Elena, who were kissing while watching them. She was performing for them.
“Is he fucking you good, Maddie?” Elena asked, her voice warm and amused.
“So good, EM. He’s hitting the perfect spot,” Madalina moaned, her eyes rolling back.
He. Again.
Mihnea’s thrusts became harder, faster, a pounding assertion of self. He was more than a pronoun. He was a man fucking her brains out. He slipped his thumb from her clit to her asshole, applying pressure. She cried out, pushing back onto him desperately. “There! Yes! Do it!”
He didn’t penetrate her there, just kept the pressure as he hammered into her pussy. She came suddenly, her body convulsing, her cunt gripping him like a wet fist. Her scream was loud, raw, bouncing around the shower room. She collapsed onto her forearms, spent.
Mihnea pulled out, breathless. He was achingly close. His balls were tight, a heavy, urgent pressure. He looked at Elena EM. She was the last. The mature one, the social anchor. She stood upright now, watching him with that same knowing, detached smile, her hand still between her legs. Water streamed over her above-average-sized breasts, her fit big round ass, her classy, confident stance.
“You look like you need to finish, sweetie,” she said, her tone kind, maternal almost, and utterly dismissive. As if she was observing a child with a troublesome toy.
She leaned back against the tiles, spreading her legs. An invitation, but not an eager one. A concession. “Go on, then. Don’t let all that hard work go to waste.”
Mihnea moved to her. He wasn’t kissing or caressing now. This was purely functional, a release valve. He hoisted one of her legs over his hip, guiding himself into her. She was the wettest of the three, slick and hot and welcoming without being tight. She accommodated him with a practiced ease, letting out a soft, businesslike “Mmm.” Her arms went around his neck not in passion, but for balance.
He fucked her against the wall, his pace frantic, driven by the desperate need for climax and a burning desire to matter in this transaction. But Elena just watched him, her dark eyes calm, her breath steady except for the slight jolt his thrusts caused. She turned her head to the side, watching Madalina and Nicola, who were now kissing again, softly, gently, caressing each other’s faces.
“You girls are so beautiful,” Elena murmured to them, completely ignoring the man sweating and grunting between her legs.
“So are you, EM,” Nicola whispered back.
This was the final straw. The profound indifference broke something in Mihnea, unleashing a tidal wave of pure, selfish need. He drove into Elena with a final, brutal intensity, his rhythm shattering into frantic pumps. “Fuck, I’m gonna come! I’m gonna fucking come!” he snarled, not caring who heard, not caring if it was a proclamation or a plea.
Elena just nodded slightly, as if acknowledging a minor change in the weather. “Okay,” she said softly.
That single, bland word tipped him over the edge.
With a guttural roar that was lost in the steam, Mihnea pulled out of Elena’s pussy. He stumbled back a step, his fist flying to his cock. He jerked himself roughly, his eyes wild, scanning the three beautiful, glistening, indifferent women.
The first thick, white rope shot across Madalina’s lower back, painting a stripe over the curve of her ass. She flinched slightly at the sudden heat but didn’t turn, just nuzzled deeper into Nicola’s neck.
The second pulse hit Nicola’s shoulder blade, splattering and dripping down her side. She glanced at it, then shrugged, kissing Madalina’s forehead.
The final, weaker spurts landed on Elena’s stomach, dripping down into her pubic hair. She looked down, her expression one of mild curiosity, then used a hand to smear it absently across her skin before letting the water wash it away.
Mihnea stood, heaving, spent, dripping both water and his own cum. His heart hammered against his ribs. He had just had raw, explicit sex with three incredibly attractive women. He should have felt like a king, a conqueror.
He felt like a ghost. A utility.
The women slowly disentangled. They began to soap themselves casually, as if washing off a day at the beach. They talked in low, affectionate tones.
“We should do a team lunch tomorrow,” Elena said, lathering her arms.
“Only if it’s at the place with the grilled octopus,” Madalina replied, turning her back to the spray to rinse her front.
“I’ll book it,” Nicola said, her voice back to its crisp, strategic normalcy. “We need to discuss the Blue Zone challenge. I have an idea about the water weights.”
They discussed strategy, cuisine, plans. Not a single glance in his direction. Mihnea’s cum was already washing away, down the drain with the suds and the day’s grime.
He finally moved, numb, to retrieve his towel. He dried himself mechanically, his skin prickling with a strange, hollow cold despite the steam. He wrapped the towel around his waist.
As he turned to leave, he heard Elena’s laughter, warm and genuine. “God, I needed that. My shoulders have been knots all day.”
“Tell me about it,” Madalina sighed contentedly.
They had needed release. They had used each other, and by extension, they had used him. He had been a living, breathing dildo. A human sex toy they hadn’t even had to acknowledge.
Mihnea pushed out into the cooler air of the changing area, the door hissing shut behind him, muffling their voices. He leaned against the lockers, the metal cold against his back. The frustration from the gym was gone, burned away in a blast of sexual energy. But it was replaced by something deeper, more insidious: a chilling understanding.
In this game, you could be inside someone—literally buried to the hilt—and still be utterly invisible. Power wasn’t about physical domination. It was about the power to ignore, to render someone irrelevant even in the most intimate act. The Salamanders had just taught him that lesson without saying a single word to him.
And as he walked back to the Parrots’ villa in the dark, the phantom scents of citrus and sex clinging to him, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would never allow himself to be invisible again.
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And as he walked back to the Parrots’ villa in the dark, the phantom scents of citrus and sex clinging to him, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would never allow himself to be invisible again. The gym was his next destination, a place where visibility was earned through iron and sweat. The heavy bag would feel the brunt of his newfound resolve. But the universe, it seemed, was writing a different lesson in the same filthy script.
The gym was a hollow, metallic cavern at this hour, lit by the ghostly blue of a few LED strips. The only sound was the rhythmic, grinding clank of weights, a solitary beat in the silence. Dariana was in the squat rack, her back to the door, a barbell loaded with deep, resonant plates resting across her shoulders. She was a study in feline concentration, her tanned skin sheened with a delicate sweat, her dark eyes fixed on a point on the wall. Her long brown hair was tied up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. She descended into a perfect, deep squat, the black fabric of her leggings stretching taut over the phenomenal roundness of her fit, athletic ass.
Arman leaned in the doorway, watching. He had heard the whispers about the shower, about Mihnea being used as a living toy. It had lit a competitive fuse in him. He wouldn’t be some unseen tool. He would be a force they had to acknowledge. He saw Dariana, a former athlete, a dancer, wholly absorbed in her world of muscle and form. She was playful yet precious, they said. She gave attention only to men she was interested in. He was extremely confident. He was Arman. Her indifference was an open challenge.
“Form’s looking tight, Dara,” he called out, his voice echoing.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t flinch. She drove up through her heels, ass and hamstrings coiling with power, completing the rep with a controlled exhale. She re-racked the bar with a solid clang. Only then did she glance over, her dark eyes sliding past him as if he were a piece of equipment, landing on the clock on the far wall. She unracked the bar again, hands spaced wide, and set up for another set.
A hot spike of irritation shot through his gut. This was the same silent treatment, the same erasure. He wouldn’t have it. If she wanted to treat him like furniture, he’d become a piece of furniture that fucked her. He stepped fully into the room, letting the door sigh shut behind him. He didn’t speak again. He simply walked to a bench, sat, and began pulling off his shoes, then his shirt. His movements were deliberate, arrogant. He stood, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his shorts and boxers down in one motion. His average-sized dick, semi-hard from watching her squat, began to thicken in the cool air.
Dariana completed her next rep, her breath huffing out. She leaned forward to re-rack the weight, the position making her leggings strain across her ass even more profoundly. She still hadn’t looked at him.
He was naked now. He walked toward the squat rack, his feet silent on the rubber matting. She was setting up for another squat, hands on the bar, back rigid. He came up directly behind her, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the clean sweat on her skin. He saw the delicate, damp hairs at the nape of her neck. He placed his hands on her narrow waist.
“Busy,” she said, the single word flat, dismissive. She began her descent.
As she sank down, he moved with her, his hardening cock pressing against the cleft of her ass through the fabric. On her ascent, he gripped the waistband of her leggings and the thin sports fabric beneath. With a sudden, brutal sideways tear, he ripped them open. The sound was shockingly loud—a violent rrrrrip of synthetic fiber giving way. He tore them down to mid-thigh, exposing the perfect, tanned globes of her ass, the damp, dark swirl of her pussy barely visible from behind.
Dariana let out a sharp gasp, more of surprise than protest. She stalled at the top of the squat, the bar heavy on her shoulders. But she didn’t drop it. She didn’t turn around. She just stood there, holding the weight, her body trembling slightly from the exertion and the sudden exposure.
“What are you doing?” she breathed, but she was still talking to the wall, not to him.
“Joining your workout,” Arman murmured, his voice low and smug. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock roughly, and positioned himself. With one hand still on her waist, he guided his dick through her wet folds, finding her entrance. He notched the head there and, using the leverage of her bent-legged stance, pushed forward.
Her cunt was incredibly tight, a hot, clenching sleeve of muscle from her glute work. He sank into her with a low groan, burying himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust. He was now inside the dancer, the athlete, while she stood loaded with a barbell.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her knuckles white on the bar. Her head dropped forward.
He began to move. Short, deep pumps at first, constrained by her stance and the weight on her back. “You were ignoring me, princess,” he grunted into her ear, his hips snapping forward. “That’s rude.”
She took it. Her breath came in ragged huffs that matched his thrusts. She didn’t tell him to stop. She didn’t acknowledge him. She simply lowered herself into another squat, taking him impossibly deeper as she descended.
The sensation was brutal, exquisite. He was being milked by the intense contraction of her muscles as she moved the weight. He fucked her through the motion, his own thighs burning as he matched her rhythm. Up and down. In and out. The wet, slapping sound of their coupling mixed with the clank of the plates. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her torn leggings.
The main gym door opened. Valentina walked in, dressed in matching pink shorts and a cropped top, her medium-sized breasts bouncing slightly. She was scrolling on her phone, a look of mild annoyance on her face. She looked up, saw the scene at the squat rack—Arman, naked, pounding into a bent-over Dariana—and her eyes widened for a half-second. Then the look smoothed into one of bland observation. She shrugged, as if seeing a peculiar piece of art, and walked to the cable machine.
“Ugh, someone didn’t put the weights back,” Valentina announced to no one in particular, her voice filled with petty grievance. She began setting up for tricep push-downs, her back to them.
Arman stared, his rhythm faltering. Dariana, feeling him pause, began another squat on her own, forcing his dick to move within her. He resumed fucking her, harder now, a performative anger fueling his thrusts. “You see this?” he called over to Valentina.
Valentina completed a set with a grunt, the stack clanging. “See what?” she said, wiping her brow. She looked past Arman, to Dariana. “Your glutes are popping today, Daria. What’d you do, extra sets yesterday?”
From within her fucked state, Dariana managed a strangled, “Hypertrophy… focus… last night.”
“Good call,” Valentina said, moving to adjust the weight. She never once looked directly at Arman’s plunging cock, at his naked body.
The door opened again. Andreea entered, stylish in a one-piece leotard that showcased her big round breasts and fit big round ass. She had earbuds in, nodding to a silent beat. She saw the tableau, paused, and pulled one bud out. “Hey, guys,” she said casually. “Loredana was looking for you, Val. Something about a leaked photo from the beach party.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Valentina shrieked, dropping the handle. “Which one? I looked fat in most of them!”
“The one where Kofi is carrying you,” Andreea said, moving to the leg press machine. She laid back, positioned her feet, and began pressing the massive stack, her thighs straining. She let out a long, low groan of effort that sounded obscenely like a moan of pleasure.
Arman was pounding Dariana relentlessly now, a frantic, desperate pace. He was fucking one beautiful woman while two others discussed gossip and worked out as if he were air. He pulled out of Dariana abruptly, his cock making a wet, sucking sound. She finally let go of the barbell, racking it with a heavy crash, and stayed bent over, breathing deeply, her ripped leggings around her thighs. She didn’t cover herself. She didn’t speak to him.
He turned, his dick angry and red, glistening with her juices. He stalked toward Valentina at the cable machine. She was facing the mirror, checking her form, her fit round ass aimed toward the room. He came up behind her, ripped her shorts down just enough, and without preamble, drove into her from behind.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Valentina exclaimed, more inconvenienced than shocked. She stumbled forward, grabbing the cables for balance. “I’m in the middle of a set!”
“Now you’re in the middle of my set,” Arman growled, gripping her hips and fucking her with short, sharp jabs. Her pussy was looser, wetter, welcoming him easily. She sighed, a long-suffering sound, and resumed her tricep exercises, pushing the handle down in time with his thrusts.
“So about the photo,” Andreea called from the leg press, her voice straining as she pushed the weight. “Do you want me to ask Diana to take it down? She posted it on her private story.”
“Yes, obviously!” Valentina snapped, then let out an involuntary gasp as Arman hit a deep spot. “Ugh, right there… I mean, yes, tell her to take it down. Tell her I’ll post that pic of her and the footballer if she doesn’t.”
Andreea laughed, the leg press machine thumping as she re-racked the weight. She sat up, sweat gleaming on her chest. She watched Arman fuck Valentina, her dark eyes thoughtful, sensuous, but utterly detached. She stood and walked toward the water cooler, passing right behind Arman’s pumping body. She took a long drink, the plastic bottle crinkling.
Arman felt a madness rising. He pulled out of Valentina, leaving her slumped over the cable, and moved to intercept Andreea. He pushed her against the cool mirror wall, his hands groping her big round breasts through the leotard. He yanked the crotch of her outfit to the side, exposing her neatly trimmed curls. He lifted one of her legs over his hip and slammed into her.
Andreea’s head thumped back against the mirror. “Oh, wow,” she breathed, a genuine note of pleasure in her voice. But her eyes were on her own reflection, on the sight of her body being taken. “Okay, that’s… a good angle actually.” She began to move with him, meeting his thrusts, her hands braced against the glass. “Val, can you see my glutes in this? Are they engaged?”
“Hard to tell from here,” Valentina replied, now doing lunges across the floor, ignoring the dampness between her own thighs. “But your back is arching nicely. Good spinal alignment.”
Arman was a machine of frustration, fucking the stylish, sensual Andreea against a mirror while she critiqued her own form. He was being analyzed, not adored. Used, not worshipped. He fucked her harder, trying to break her concentration, to make her see him. She came with a shuddering sigh, her internal muscles fluttering around his dick. “Nice,” she said, patting his shoulder absently as she pushed him off her. “Good tempo.”
The door swung open a final time. Elena Chiriac stood there, green eyes sharp, doll-like face set in its usual expression of arrogant readiness. She was in tight black shorts and a sports bra. She took in the scene: Dariana still bent over the squat rack, catching her breath; Valentina lunging; Andreea adjusting her leotard; Arman, naked and gleaming with sweat, his cock still rigid.
Her expression didn’t change. She walked to the pull-up bar. “Someone left the fucking lat pulldown stack on 90,” she stated, her tone short-tempered. “Amateurs.” She jumped up, grabbed the bar, and began pulling herself up with sharp, powerful motions, her karate-trained muscles flexing.
Arman felt a surge of pure, unadulterated fury. This was the final insult. He marched to the pull-up bar. As Elena reached the top of a rep, he grabbed her waist from behind, his fingers digging into her narrow waist. He pulled her from the bar, her body light and strong in his grip. He spun her, pushed her shorts down, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, her green eyes now blazing into his, finally seeing him, but with sheer, unvarnished contempt.
“You want to fight?” she sneered.
“I want you to fucking feel me,” he snarled, and he rammed his cock up into her. Her pussy was a tight, hostile fist. He fucked her standing, bouncing her slight frame on his shaft, her back slamming against the support beam of the pull-up rig with each thrust. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Elena didn’t make a sound of pleasure. She gritted her teeth, her breath hissing out with each impact. But she held on, her eyes locked on his, a battle of wills in the most intimate of trenches. She was letting him, using the friction, but her gaze said she was merely assessing a opponent’s move.
“He’s got decent stamina, I’ll give him that,” Dariana said, finally standing upright and pulling her torn leggings off completely. She walked to the mats and began stretching, showcasing her feline flexibility, utterly unselfconscious in her nakedness.
“Wasteful, though,” Andreea mused, reapplying her lip balm in the mirror. “No warm-up, no structured rep scheme. All ego lifting.”
Arman was close. The combined sensations, the sheer absurdity, the rage, all coalesced into a single, urgent pressure in his balls. He carried Elena, still impaled on him, over to where the other three women had gathered near the mats. Valentina was scrolling on her phone again. Andreea was sipping water. Dariana was in a perfect split.
“Look at me,” Arman commanded, his voice cracking.
All four women looked. But not at his eyes. Their gazes were drawn to the point where his body joined Elena’s, watching his slick cock pistoning in and out of her. It was clinical, curious.
He pulled out of Elena, letting her drop to her feet. He stumbled back, his fist flying to his cock. “You want to fucking ignore me?” he panted, jerking himself roughly. “You want to talk about rep schemes and glutes? Open your mouths.”
He pointed his dick at them. The first violent, white rope shot across Elena’s doll-like face, splattering over her cheek and lips. She blinked, but didn’t flinch, just licked a droplet from the corner of her mouth with a cold, analytical tongue.
The second pulse hit Valentina, who was looking up from her phone. It caught her on the chin and throat. “Ew, gross!” she complained, wiping at it with the back of her hand. “It’s sticky.”
The third landed in Andreea’s long black hair and on her collarbone. She sighed, as if dealing with a minor inconvenience. “Great. I just washed this.”
The final, feeble spurts dotted Dariana’s tanned stomach and small breasts as she held her split. She looked down, her dark eyes unreadable, then slowly folded out of the stretch.
Arman stood there, heaving, emptied, his triumph as hollow as the clang of a dropped weight.
Elena wiped her face with her wrist. “We need a new strategy for the water challenge,” she said, her voice back to its normal, competitive snap. “Mihnea is useless. We can’t rely on the men.”
“We never do,” Dariana said, standing and reaching for her towel. She wrapped it around her waist, the cum on her skin already drying. “We use them and move on.”
“Exactly,” Andreea agreed, gathering her hair. “Did you see the way Briv was looking at Emilia at confessionals? It’s weak. We can exploit that.”
They talked, strategizing, moving toward the door, wiping his semen from their skin and hair as if it were sweat. Not a single word was directed at him. Not a glance. The conversation was about men, about using them, about winning. He was just the most recent data point.
Arman stood alone in the blue-lit gym, naked and cooling, the taste of his own victory ashen in his mouth. They had seen his body. They had felt his cock. They had worn his cum. And he had never been more invisible. The door sighed shut behind them, leaving him with the silence and the crushing understanding that in this game, being seen had nothing to do with being inside them, and everything to do with being in their way.