Chapter 10: The Football Team's Halftime Snack
The Chemistry lecture was a drone. The numbers and formulas blurred on the whiteboard. All I could feel was the ache, a deep, persistent reminder buried in my body, and the smooth leather collar hidden under my shirt. My mind kept replaying the morning in a shattered loop: the taste, the pressure, the shocking fullness, Sera’s amazed “holy shit.”
It was the only thing that mattered.
Practice that afternoon was a special kind of hell. My muscles, already unfamiliar with the grind of fraternity-sponsored flag football, screamed in protest. Every sprint sent a jolt through my lower back. Mark Waters noticed.
“You walkin’ funny, Wimple,” he barked, shoving me after I dropped a pass. “Get your head out of your ass.” His blue eyes held a knowing gleam. The story, I realized with cold dread, had traveled. Sera had talked. Or someone had seen me leave her house. In the economy of the fraternity, information was currency, and my humiliation was a valuable stock.
When the final whistle blew, the dread crystallized into panic.
“Showers, pledges!” Leroy Block boomed, his massive hand landing on my shoulder like a sack of cement. “You especially, little man. You smell like fear and failure.”
I was swept along in the tide of sweating, laughing bodies into the tiled cavern. The steam was immediate, thick and choking, smelling of industrial soap and male musk. The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sickly green pallor over everything. Mark and Leroy flanked me, herding me away from the main shower heads to a more secluded corner where the tiles were cracked and the drain was clogged with grey hair.
“Knees,” Mark said, his voice conversational.
I stared at the wet floor, strands of old soap scum clinging to the grout. “What?”
Leroy’s hand pushed down on my head, not with violent force, but with an irrevocable, gradual pressure. My knees hit the cool, wet tile. “You heard him.”
That’s when I saw her. Through the shifting curtains of steam, perched on a wooden bench just outside the shower area, still fully dressed. Sera. A notebook rested on her lap, a pen in her hand. She met my eyes and gave a small, clinical nod.
This was part of the lesson.
“Open wide, pledge,” Mark said, stepping close. Water dripped from his blond hair onto my forehead. He wasn’t fully hard, but he was thick, and he slapped the heavy weight of himself against my cheek, leaving a wet, warm smear. “That’s for being a useless receiver.”
The sting was more shock than pain. I flinched.
“Hold still,” Sera called out, her voice cutting through the steam. “Take the data.”
Then came Leroy. His was a different category entirely. The sheer mass of him slapped across my other cheek, a damp, intimidating heat that made my eyes water. “For being generally tiny,” he chuckled.
One by one, they lined up. Members of the team, guys I knew from parties, from classes. A parade of varying sizes and shapes, each one stepping forward to slap, tap, or drag themselves across my face. A ritual of ownership. My skin grew slick and hot, my glasses long since removed, leaving the world a blurred, humid nightmare. I kept my eyes on Sera. She was writing, occasionally looking up with a focused expression, like a scientist observing a reaction.
“Alright, enough foreplay,” Mark said. He fisted a hand in my hair, tilting my head back. “Time for the main event. Show us what Sera’s been teaching you.”
The first push was a violation. I gagged immediately, my throat seizing against the intrusion. Tears mixed with shower spray on my face.
“Pathetic,” Mark grunted, pulling back. “I thought she said you were a quick learner.”
“He is,” Sera’s voice floated over. “Breathe through your nose, Arthur. Relax your jaw. Remember the rhythm.”
I tried. Between each man, I’d gasp for air, the taste of salt and skin and something faintly chemical flooding my mouth. I’d catch a glimpse of Sera, watching, evaluating. My performance was being graded. My gag reflex, documented. The strange pride from the morning twisted into something desperate and dark. I wanted her notes to be good.
When the last player stepped away with a dismissive snort, I was hollow, kneeling in a puddle, shuddering with spent reflexes.
Mark and Leroy remained. Sera stood up from the bench and walked into the steam, the edges of her sundress darkening with moisture. She ignored me and went to Leroy, placing a hand on his colossal chest. She whispered something in his ear, her eyes on me.
Leroy’s eyebrows rose. A slow grin spread across his face. “For real?”
“He’s ready for it,” Sera said, louder now. “Aren’t you, Arthur? You’ve had a taste of it. Now you get the real thing.”
Before I could process her words, her hands were on my shoulders, pushing me forward until I was on all fours, my face hovering over the clogged drain. Leroy moved behind me. His hands, huge and rough, gripped my hips.
“Sera… wait…” I croaked.
“No waiting,” she said. She settled back onto the wet bench, just a few feet away, and hiked her sundress up around her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “This is the advanced practical. Final exam.”
There was no prep, no slow insistence. Leroy was not an educator. He was a force of nature. The initial penetration was a white-hot sheet of tearing agony. I screamed. The sound bounced off the tiles, a raw, animal thing swallowed by the steam.
“Good,” Sera murmured. Her fingers were already moving between her own legs, circling with a lazy precision. She watched me writhe, her green eyes wide and fascinated. “Look at him take it. All of it.”
Leroy set a brutal, pounding rhythm. Each thrust drove the air from my lungs, replacing it with pure, undiluted pain. My vision spotted. My fists clenched against the slippery tile. I couldn’t form words, only broken screams that echoed my shattered boundaries.
Sera’s breathing grew quicker, sharper. Her fingers worked faster, her hips lifting off the bench slightly. She was chasing it, watching me break, using my destruction as her kindling. “Yes… just like that… look at him…”
Leroy grunted, a deep sound like roots tearing, and slammed to a halt, pulsing deep inside the wreckage he’d made of me. The pain crested into a blinding, nauseating peak.
As he pulled out, the sensation was so violently empty I almost vomited. I collapsed onto my side, curling into a fetal position on the filthy, wet floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sera let out a soft, satisfied sigh. She took her time, letting her own climax fade, before smoothing her dress down. She stood up, walked over to Leroy, who was still catching his breath, and patted his arm. “Good job.”
Then she looked down at me. “Get up.”
I couldn’t. My body refused.
“Now, Arthur.”
Some broken part of me obeyed, forcing my trembling limbs to push me up to my knees. Everything hurt.
Leroy was still half-hard, glistening with a mixture of sweat, shower water, and me. Sera pointed. “Clean it.”
I stared at the filthy, monstrous thing that had just shattered me. My mouth tasted of blood and bile.
“Use your tongue,” she instructed, her voice cool and clear. “Every last drop. I want to see it shiny.”
I leaned forward, the movement triggering a wave of agony from my backside. I extended my tongue, the very tool she had praised, and touched it to the base. The taste was overwhelming, a bitter, musky, deeply intimate filth. I gagged again, but didn’t pull away. I licked a slow, trembling stripe along the length, cleaning him with a thoroughness born of utter submission. My tears dripped onto his skin, mixing with the rest.
Sera watched, her head tilted, a faint smile on her lips. When I finished, she nodded. “Acceptable.”
She turned and walked out of the steam, leaving me kneeling at Leroy’s feet in the buzzing, sickly light. He looked down at me, gave a short, humorless laugh, and turned to rinse off at the shower head.
The lesson was over.