Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Rows of polished metal lockers lined the stark white walls, and the air hung a little too warm, thick with antiseptic and damp grass. Through the block wall came the muffled thud of a ball and girls shouting.
The shouting on the field swelled. Then the heavy steel door banged open, and the whole team came through it, red and black, damp and loud, Marnie Boyd's laugh arriving a half second before the rest of her. Every one of them stopped dead.
Twenty-nine faces, twenty-six players and three coaches, stared at me.
A hot ball of panic climbed my neck. Coach Williams stepped out of the pack first, navy polo crisp, silver whistle resting at her collarbone. "Who are you?" She asked, her voice cutting through the sudden silence like a whistle. "What are you doing in here?"
"I don't think you're supposed to be in here," said a blonde in the second row, jersey 32.
"No," another girl chimed, number 27 beside her, arms folded. "I really don't."
"I have an appointment," I stuttered.
The whistle tapped Coach Williams's collarbone. "An appointment."
"Yes. For..." I looked down, and my stomach dropped. Only the dress shirt. "Oh, shit. Sorry." I crossed to the chair and hauled my jacket up off it. "It was warm in here."
Which was when I felt it: a small plastic visitor's badge clipped to it, my photo and name printed plainly below the lamination: Alan Mayhew.
The whole room changed.
For a heartbeat nobody moved. Then Marnie Boyd let out a laugh that seemed to come from her knees. "Oh, my god. He's the guy."
Number 32 leaned past her, squinting at the sticker. "Alan Mayhew?"
"Alan Mayhew," Coach Williams said, and she smiled, which I had not expected. The whole room breathed out at once, shoulders dropping, ponytails swinging, the folded arms unfolding. "You're right on time."
I stood there with my jacket half buttoned and my heart still going like a bird in a jar. Twenty-nine girls, all of them watching me with an easy, knowing warmth I had absolutely no idea what to do with.
This was real. This was really happening.
Two months earlier, I sat at my desk in my apartment, the screen the only light. That site had been bookmarked for years, long before the money, back when I was just a well-paid tech guy with a forgettable face and a habit of scrolling the same profiles at one in the morning.
Then the startup sold, and the number in my account grew by a zero. I wasn't ready for a relationship. I knew that. But I was lonely, and I had needs, and the site was right there.
The ad caught my eye. Watch Moore Coeds.
I clicked it. It looked almost like a day-in-the-life cam site, the kind where someone leaves a camera running while they fold laundry or do homework. But this was an extreme version.
Logging into a woman's dorm room was free. But the dorm showers were behind a paywall. The sports locker rooms and showers were free at the moment, but the app listed times when they wouldn't be. I realized that those times were when those areas would be most used: before and after PE classes, before and after practices, and before and after sporting events.
At first I assumed it had to be fake, some deepfake farm or a creep's fantasy site with stolen footage. Then I scrolled further, and it wasn't fake. It was one continuous collage of girls, real girls, eating cereal and complaining about a sociology paper. Midterms. Everything.
That was the part that wouldn't sit. Girls don't just leave cameras running through every dorm and every shower by accident. So they knew. All of them had to know. Which meant someone had convinced every single woman at Moore University to say yes to this, and the school had either agreed or been bought.
Neither made sense. I sat staring at the screen for an hour, trying to make it add up, and it didn't, and it still didn't, and I never once closed the tab.
I expected it to be gone by morning. Outrage, a lawsuit, the site shuttered, some dean on the news. I checked back for days, waiting for the plug to get pulled.
It never was.
Less than two weeks later, the girls started having sex with each other on cam. Not furtive, not hidden from the lenses. Bedrooms, locker rooms, showers, a hand sliding down a teammate's stomach while she laughed and kept complaining about her sociology paper. They knew the cameras were there, all of them, and now they were playing to the audience.
A week after that, it was a full cam girl site. Every woman on campus performed. A girl in a chem apron read her chat aloud while she undressed, thanking usernames by handle, and another knelt on a dorm bed with a marker, tallying tips along her thigh as viewers paid to pick what she did next.
A week ago I was on the sugar daddy site again, the one with the tidy profiles and the discreet wording, when the banner across the top changed. Same layout as the old Moore Coeds ad, same photograph of a girl in a Moore hoodie, except the headline read: Do Moore Coeds. Then the subline: Book her.
My hand clicked it before I realized it.
It was still a cam site, but they added another offering.
Bookings.
The page loaded like a menu, the same tidy layout, a filter down the left side: single girl, two girls, multiple girls. I scrolled it like a man checking a train schedule, telling myself I was only looking. The numbers on the profiles were dollars, not minutes.
I clicked the first thing my cursor touched, and a profile opened.
Her name was Danielle Ruiz. Twenty-two. Five photographs: a kitchen with a coffee mug, a balcony at dusk, a bathroom mirror, two I won't describe. Brown eyes, dark hair cut to the jaw, a small silver stud in her nose.
Availability sat under the photos in a tidy grid, green squares from four to eleven most nights, weekends open, a note in small grey type: twenty-four hours' notice preferred.
Under the grid sat a small grey button: Add another. I hovered it, and a list unrolled, a column of names and thumbnail faces with checkboxes beside each one. Two girls. Multiple girls. The price climbed with every box I didn't tick. My finger rested on the mouse and didn't move.
I backed out and closed her profile. The list of girls came up again, the same tidy grid of faces and dollar amounts, and I sat there with my glasses sliding down my nose and my tea gone cold beside the keyboard.
Then the bottom of the filter caught my eye.
Teams.
Cheerleaders. Gymnastics. Swim. Track and field. Field hockey. Soccer.
Every roster on campus, every girl in a uniform. I clicked soccer.
The roster loaded, and I stopped scrolling. There they were. Julie Stein, number 38, and Sally Evans, number 41, their headshots side by side. I knew those faces.
I had met them the year before, both of them, off the sugar daddy site. Julie first, in a hotel bar, all shoulder and handshake, then upstairs, her body long and quick and patient with me. Sally a month later, petite and wry, who talked soccer while she pulled her shirt over her head. Six appointments, maybe seven, spread across that winter. I liked them. They were nice, and funny, and they never once made me feel like the awkward man I am.
And once, the two of them together, in their red and black uniforms, damp from a practice, still smelling of the pitch.
I liked them. Julie and Sally, that night in the uniforms, both of them flushed and laughing at something I'd said, and I'd gone home and thought about it for a year.
I stared at the "Booking" button.
Who wouldn't want to walk into a locker room like this one, all that sweat and grass and red and black, and have twenty-nine girls, players and coaches, look at you like you were expected?
My finger moved. The Booking button filled blue, and the page unfolded into a calendar, neat white squares for every day of the week, greyed where nothing was open. I leaned in.
Each square carried small type: 4:00 to 7:30, post-practice, practice uniforms; 5:00 to 8:00, workout clothes, two players absent. A note clarified the red-circled dates: the ones with all twenty-nine, coaches included, in game kit. I scrolled until I found one, a Thursday three weeks out.
I scheduled it for three and a half hours. I made damn sure it was a private session, no broadcasting or recording for anyone else to see. Just me and those twenty-nine soccer girls, all alone in that locker room. I also checked the box to have a copy of the video sent straight to my email afterward, so I could watch them over and over again whenever I wanted.
The total loaded at the bottom of the calendar in the same grey type as everything else, and my cursor sat on it a moment before the number meant anything.
I read it. I took off my glasses, cleaned them on my shirt, and looked again. Same number.
Six months ago I'd have laughed and shut the laptop. Back then, that price was a car I couldn't buy. But today I could easily afford it. My bank account had never felt so heavy with possibility.
I typed in the card. The screen went green. Thursday, three weeks out, four o'clock, and the little confirmation slid into my inbox like a receipt for groceries.
The confirmation hit my inbox before I closed the laptop. I opened it, squinting, because my eyes do that thing when I'm not sure I'm reading right.
Directions in tidy bullet points: enter campus at the north gate, turn right past the field house, Lot D is the second lot on your left. Park in any space marked with a yellow V.
Check in at the Visitor's Kiosk by the PE building entrance. The attendant will give you a lanyard. The women's soccer locker room is on the ground floor, down the east corridor, past the pool.
A PDF was attached. I clicked it. A visitor's parking permit filled the screen, my name at the top in bold, Alan Mayhew, with a QR code in the corner and a thin dotted outline where the dashboard cut should be. Print this and place it face-up on your dashboard, the note read, visible through the windshield.
I stared at that confirmation for a long time. The receipt was real. The charge had cleared. I opened my banking app and checked the balance anyway, then checked the transaction again.
How could this be real? There's no way this should be real.
But I had seen the women with my own eyes on camera. I watched them in their dorm rooms, locker rooms, and showers. I tipped them many times.
If this was some kind of scam, it was a really elaborate one.
I looked at the permit for a long time, and then I printed it.
An hour ago I drove through the north gate, and the permit sat where the note told me to put it, face-up on the dash. Lot D. A yellow V was stenciled on the asphalt. I killed the engine and sat there a minute with my hands still on the wheel.
I got out and walked toward a campus entrance, my footsteps echoing on the asphalt as I approached.
Twenty kiosks, glass and chrome, spaced along the entrance. A short line of men behind each kiosk, some in suits, some in hoodies. I knew exactly why they were here. It was the same reason I was.
The nearest line shuffled forward. I took my place at the end of it, and before I knew it, I reached the front.
The kiosk said my name.
"Alan Mayhew," the kiosk said. The voice was smooth, unhurried, almost pleasant. A lens, no bigger than a thumb, sat in the center of a dark glass panel, ringed by a thin band of chrome. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie, a single eye set into the wall of the campus entrance.
The lens shifted, a soft mechanical whir as it found my face. A faint blue light pulsed around the rim. "Your ID, please."
I held up my driver's license. The lens adjusted, a red line swept across the screen, and a green checkmark bloomed beneath it.
"Alan Mayhew. Appointment confirmed." A slot below the lens hummed, and a small plastic lanyard slid out into the tray, my photo already printed on it. "Please wear this at all times while on campus."
Behind me, the line of men shuffled forward, each one waiting for their own badge. None of them looked at me. The kiosk spewed lanyards with the same calm efficiency for each of them, and I clipped mine to my jacket and walked toward the PE building.
I walked from the kiosk to the PE building, following the curb where the main walk split around a low granite sign. The pavement radiated heat through the soles of my shoes, and a sprinkler chattered somewhere off to my left.
The first camera was mounted in the granite, set flush beside a bronze plaque. The lens sat in a little housing shaped like a river stone. I would have walked past it if the chrome hadn't caught the light. Ten paces on, another one, hidden in the crook of a light pole where a bracket should have bolted on.
They were everywhere once I started looking. In the downspouts, in the little decorative rock clusters along the flower beds, a thumb of black glass tucked behind a bike rack sign.
A soft whir made me stop. A squat thing rolled off the path ahead, roughly the size of a cooler, perched on six wheels with a lid that swiveled. It trundled along the hedge line, stopped, and extended a small arm with a nozzle to trim a stray branch. Then it folded up and rolled on. Two more worked further off, one marking a sprinkler head with yellow paint, one idling near a trash can with a claw arm reaching in.
None of them had a driver. None of them looked up when I passed. They just worked, quiet and busy, like they'd been doing it forever.
I couldn't comprehend how the school managed such expenditure. This level of artificial intelligence comes at a staggering cost. With all their revenue from tuition fees, athletic programs, and generous benefactors... it still wouldn't cover even a fraction of the expense.
As I climbed the shallow steps to the PE building's glass doors, I noticed a camera lens above the doorframe tilted to track me in.
Inside, the air changed, cooler and chlorinated, and my shoes squeaked on the tile. A security dome sat in the ceiling grid above the trophy case, its dark half-sphere tracking me the way the door lens had. Ten feet on, a second camera hid in the red housing of a fire extinguisher cabinet, a glass bead where the inspection tag should hang.
I passed the pool door and smelled chlorine and wet concrete. Down the east corridor, above a rack of team photos, another lens watched from behind a painted anchor of the swim team. I was being counted, I thought, one step at a time, all the way down.
Then the corridor ended, and the heavy steel door at the end of it swung open before I touched it, and I stepped into a warm, empty room.
It smelled like every locker room I'd ever been afraid of: sweat, disinfectant, damp grass. Nobody here. Lots of lockers, and me alone in the middle of them with my heart in my throat.
I had six minutes, maybe. It was warm. I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, and my shoulders dropped about an inch.
Then I looked up.
They sat in the seams where the walls met the ceiling, three little domes, a lens above a mesh grille. I stepped under one and looked in the same direction as the lens.
I knew that view. I had been looking at it through my computer for the past two months.
The grille hummed. Not the room's hum, a separate one, tiny and continuous, like a wasp in a jar, buried somewhere in the mesh. I leaned closer until the lens was a foot from my face, trying to identify the sound.
Then the steel door banged open, and red and black spilled through it in a wave.
I straightened too fast and stepped back, putting the whiteboard at my shoulders. Twenty-nine faces, and me in the center of the room with my jacket still on the chair.
A hot ball of panic climbed my neck. Coach Williams stepped out of the pack first, navy polo crisp, silver whistle resting at her collarbone. "Who are you?" She asked, her voice cutting through the sudden silence like a whistle. "What are you doing in here?"
There I was, surrounded by twenty-nine women inside their locker room. Nobody was asking me to leave.
Coach Williams turned to the room and clapped her hands once, sharp, the whistle bouncing at her throat. "Let's go, ladies. We shouldn't keep Mr. Mayhew waiting."
The clap still hung in the air when the room broke apart. Lockers banged open one after another, a metal chorus down both walls, and the smell of damp grass grew heavier as jerseys got peeled off shoulders and hung over the doors. Marnie bumped a teammate with her hip on the way past and grinned at me the whole time.
Coach Williams stayed where she was, arms loose at her sides, watching me instead of them.
"Would you like to 'elp them, Mr. Mayhew?" she asked, her voice carrying that distinct British lilt that made her question sound almost polite even as it laid bare the explicit request.
"Help them?" I squawked, and my voice came out an octave above where I keep it.
"Help them undress," she said.
"Yes, please help us, Mr. Meyhew," Sydney Penrose cooed, and she stretched the name out like she'd known it for years. She walked out of the pack with her bun sagging to one side, number 8 dark with sweat across her chest. "Our jerseys get sticky from practice."
Holy shit! I knew Sydney was beautiful. I'd seen her photos and on video before, but they didn't capture the reality. She was breathtaking. Like some kind of goddess made real.
She stopped a foot away and turned her back to me, hands lifting her hair off her neck.
I looked at Coach Williams. She tipped her chin at me once, an order, and I reached for the wet hem of the captain's jersey.
My fingers closed on the soaked fabric at her waist, and it came up easy, heavy with sweat. I peeled it over her shoulder blades, and her skin came with it, pale and damp and broad across the back. Her sports bra was black, the strap already slipping.
"Now the shorts," she said, and her hands came back and found mine. Her fingers were cool and sure, and she folded them around the wet waistband, then pressed down, dragging my knuckles over the crest of her hip bones.
"Off," she said, glancing back at me, with such nearness that I could detect the subtle movement of her breath.
The fabric peeled away from her skin with a wet sound, and the waistband stuck at her thighs before she wriggled it loose. Black underwear beneath, the same black as the bra, soaked dark at the front.
"There," she said, and stepped clear of the shorts still bunched around my hands. "You're doing fine, Mr. Mayhew."
She turned, and the black underwear sat low on her hips, dark where the sweat had run. Her stomach was flat and shining, and she gave my hands back to me like they were mine again.
"Next," Marnie said, and shoved past her.
She dragged my wrist to the hem at her ribs and lifted her arms. Number 21 came up over her head, and I took it, and it was wet enough to wring. Brown skin, a bra gone grey with sweat, a gold chain I hadn't noticed before.
"You're slow," she said. "That's okay. We have three and a half hours."
Her shorts went next, and the waistband stuck at her hips before she twisted out of them, one hand braced on my shoulder like I was furniture. Grey underwear, soaked through in a stripe down the front. "There you go," she said.
Then another girl stepped up, number 27, then the blonde, then a line of them curving back to the lockers, each one already reaching for a hem. I stood there with a jersey bunched in my fist and understood I was going to do this twenty-six more times.
I got through three more. A girl with a healing scrape on her knee, another with a chewed ponytail holder, one who yanked her own shorts down before I touched them. The wet fabric piled at my feet and the smell of it filled my nose, grass and sweat and deodorant fighting each other.
Somewhere past the fourth jersey, I looked up and noticed Coach Williams was gone.
She wasn't where I'd last seen her. Not by the lockers, not at the whiteboard.
She was at the back of the line, behind her two assistants, both in navy polos, whistles hung on their collarbones just like hers.
My hands were wet to the wrist, and I still had a jersey in one fist when I finally processed it. Coach Williams at the back of the line meant the line ended with her. Twenty-six players, three coaches. Twenty-nine. Every woman in the room.
The next girl stepped in, number 14, and turned her back to me without a word, and I lifted her jersey off while I counted the polos in my head. Between two navy shoulders, Coach Williams watched me with her arms folded, her whistle catching the light.
"Keep going, Mr. Mayhew," she said. "We're all on the clock."
The girl in 14 turned away, and the line shuffled forward. Then a compact blonde stepped up, number 41, and stopped in front of me with a grin that took up most of her face.
"It's good to see you again, Alan," Sally said, and lifted her arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I knew that smile. The hotel bar, the winter, six appointments and one night in this exact uniform. "Sally," I said, and my voice cracked on it.
"Still shy," she said, softer, and wiggled her fingers at me. "Come on. You remember where the hem is."
I laughed. It came out of me sideways, a small, breathy thing I couldn't help, and Sally's grin widened like she'd won something.
"Hey, there he is," she said. "Took a year."
"I know. Sorry." I found the wet hem at her waist and pulled, fabric dragging up her ribs. She smelled like grass and sweat and that same coconut stuff from the hotel. Her jersey came off, and I held it, dripping, and she folded her arms under a small grey bra, watching me.
She looked at me flat and steady, still holding her arms folded under her bra, and said it like she was reading the weather. "I can't wait to feel your cock inside me again." Then she tipped her head at the line behind her, and I followed the nod to the tall blonde in number 38, who was already watching me with a small, patient smile. "Julie can't wait either."
Julie lifted two fingers in a little wave I remembered from a hotel elevator a year ago.
Sally peeled her shorts down past her knees and stepped out of them.
Julie stepped past Sally before I could find anything to say to that, and she was taller up close than I remembered, or maybe it was the cleats. She turned her back and swept her ponytail aside with one hand, baring her neck.
Julie laughed and set my palm on her waist herself. The fabric was cold and clinging, and it took one pull to peel it up her ribs, then two more past her shoulders.
The jersey came free, and I held it dripping. She caught my wrists and dragged my hands down to her waistband. The shorts stuck at her hips like they'd been painted on, and it took both of us, her thumbs hooked in the sides, to peel them past her thighs. They dropped to her ankles, and she stepped out of them.
Then she leaned in, close, her ponytail brushing my jaw, and her lips found my ear. "I missed you," she whispered, quiet enough that only I heard it. She straightened, gave me a small smile, and went to her locker. The next girl stepped up.
Number 6 stepped up without ceremony, short, dark-haired, already tugging her own hem loose. I took the jersey, wrung it once, and added it to the pile. Her shorts followed, then the next girl, number 19, who laughed at something Marnie said across the room and never once looked at me while I peeled her kit down her legs.
The line thinned. The pile grew. My wrists ached.
Then the next set of shoulders turned, and instead of a jersey, I was looking at the crisp navy back of a polo shirt.
It was one of the assistant coaches.
The assistant coach turned around, and I found myself face to face with a woman whose eyes were the exact shade of the navy on her polo. She had the whistle and the clipboard and the look of someone who'd been running drills all afternoon.
"Mr. Mayhew," she said, and she wasn't smiling the way the players had. She was measuring me.
"Hi," I said, and immediately felt stupid.
She lifted her chin and raised her arms, and I reached for the hem of her polo. The fabric was dry, crisp, nothing like the soaked jerseys. She didn't smell like grass. She smelled like laundry soap and sunscreen, and when I pulled the polo over her head she shook her hair out and held out her hand for the shirt.
"Thank you," she said, like I'd passed her a folder.
Her trousers had a crease down the front. She unbuttoned them herself, unhurried, and stepped out of them, and folded them over her arm. Black briefs, sensible, plain. She wasn't performing anything. She just stood there in a matching set and waited for me to finish looking, which I did, and she nodded once and walked to her locker.
The second assistant stepped up before the first had cleared the space. She was younger, maybe twenty-four, and she winked at me.
"Don't get flustered," she said. Her voice was calm, almost clinical.
I reached for the hem of her navy polo, my fingers brushing against hers for just a second. The fabric was stiff, expensive. I pulled it up over her head, revealing the smooth brown skin of her torso. She was wearing a dark blue sports bra that strained slightly against her breasts. Her nipples were hard, pale points against the fabric.
She shook her hair out, the dark brown strands falling around her shoulders, and took the polo from me, folding it with precise movements. Then she unbuttoned her black trousers, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet locker room. She pushed them down over her hips, revealing matching black lace panties that hugged the curve of her ass.
I could see the faint indentations of her hip bones and the smooth skin of her thighs. She stepped out of the trousers, folded them, and placed them neatly on the bench beside her polo.
Then Coach Williams stepped forward. The line behind her was empty. She stopped an arm's length away, closer than the assistants had stood, and folded her arms. The whistle hung against her collarbone and lifted and fell with her breathing.
Behind her, the room went quiet.
"Be a love," she coaxed with her gentle accent. "Uncover me until I'm only in my knickers."
I looked at her, then at the room, then at her again. Coach Williams stood there with her arms folded and her eyebrow up, waiting like a woman who had never been kept waiting in her life.
So I reached for her hem.
The polo was crisp under my fingers, nothing like the wet jerseys. Cotton with a bit of give, and warm from her body. I pulled it up, and she lifted her arms to help, and the whistle swung on its chain and caught against my knuckle. Her stomach was flat and pale, a faint line of muscle down the middle. No bra, just small breasts with dark nipples already hard from the air.
I dropped the polo on the bench with the assistants' clothes.
"Trousers," she said, and tipped her hips forward.
The button was cool, the zipper stubborn, and my knuckles brushed the warm plane of her belly before she did it for me, peeling them down. Black knickers, plain, a small scar puckered on her right knee from the surgery.
I stood there with her trousers bunched at her shins and my heart hammering. She stepped out of them and held out her hand.
"Good lad," she said. "Right. Your turn."
I looked at her, and at the room, and didn't understand what turning meant.
"Which one of us do you want to have the honors?" she asked, and folded her arms again, and now every woman in the room had stopped moving and was watching me.
I blinked at her like a man reading a language he'd only seen in books. "Have the honors?"
"To undress you," she said, slow and patient, the way you'd explain something to a bright child.
My mouth went dry. "May I choose more than one?"
"Of course," she said, and something in her blue eyes went bright.
"Three," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. "Sydney. Julie. Sally."
"Sydney, Julie, Sally," Coach Williams called, her whistle gleaming against her chest. "You heard the man," she said, her voice cutting through the room. "Undress him." Her blue eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "Now."
Sydney crossed the room, her bun coming loose, strands of honey-blonde hair framing her face. Her black underwear was visible through the damp uniform, a dark patch between her thighs. Julie and Sally followed without being told, their movements practiced and deliberate. The other twenty-six players stepped back to the lockers in a loose ring, arms folded, their eyes fixed on me.
I stood there in the middle of them, still dressed, still the only man in the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Coach Williams watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Don't keep the man waiting," she said, her voice a low purr.
Sydney's fingers found my top button, her touch feather-light as she worked it free. Sally took my wrist and unclasped the watch first, her fingers cool against my skin. Julie knelt behind me, her breath warm on my neck as she started on my shoes, her nimble fingers working the laces with practiced ease.
Julie got both shoes off before I'd finished the thought, and then my socks, rolling them down my heels with her thumbs. Sydney had my buttons half done. Sally unbuckled my belt and drew it out through the loops in one long pull that made the leather hiss.
The ring of players behind them had gone still. Twenty-six women, arms folded, watching three of their own take a forty-five-year-old man apart in the middle of their locker room.
Sally got the zipper. Julie hooked her fingers in my waistband from behind and pulled my slacks down over my hips. Sydney slid the shirt off my back. I stood there in boxers and gooseflesh while my clothes went onto the bench in a folded stack I hadn't made.
"Not bad, Mr. Mayhew," Marnie said from the ring.
Coach Williams uncrossed her arms and stepped in. Her palm landed flat on my chest, warm from the polo she'd been wearing, and she moved me back a step until my shoulders touched the cold rim of a locker.
"Now then," she said. "Let's have some fun."
Her palm didn't move off my chest. It stayed there, flat and warm, while her other hand dropped to the waistband of my boxers and hooked a thumb inside it.
"You're shaking," she said, quiet, just for me.
"I know."
"Good." She pulled the elastic out and let it snap back against my hip. "Nerves mean you're paying attention."
Behind her, twenty-six women had stopped pretending to fold clothes. Sally crouched by the bench and sorted my shirt and slacks into a tidier stack than I'd ever managed. Julie stood at my shoulder, close enough that her bra strap brushed my arm, and Marnie leaned against the far locker with her arms crossed, grinning like the whole thing had been her idea.
Coach Williams dragged my boxers down my legs herself. They pooled at my ankles and I stepped out of them, and there I was, bare in the middle of a locker room with twenty-nine pairs of eyes on me and my cock already half hard from nothing but the attention.
She looked down at it, then back up at me, unhurried.
"Well," she said. "That answers that."
Then she took my cock in her mouth.
No warning, no preamble, just her hand around the base and her lips sliding down over the head. Her tongue flattened along the underside and dragged a slow line to the tip, and my knees nearly gave out against the locker door.
She worked me with her eyes up, blue and calm, her whistle ticking against my thigh each time she bobbed. I got a hand on the cold locker rim for balance. The room made a low, pleased noise behind her; someone whistled, and Marnie said, "Oh, she's good," and Sally laughed and told her to shut up.
I lasted maybe a minute before my hips started moving on their own. Coach Williams pulled off with a wet sound and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Right," she said.
"That's good. Very good." She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the side of her thumb. I was hard as a rock, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"You're ready," Coach Williams continued. "Please lie on a bench, Mr. Mayhew."
I walked to the nearest bench and lay down. The wood was cold against my back, and my cock stood straight up off my stomach like a mast, dark at the tip from her mouth. Every woman in the room had turned to look at it. Nobody said anything for a beat. Then somebody near the showers made a low, appreciative noise.
"Ladies," Coach Williams called, and her voice carried down both walls. "Line up and finish undressing. Each of you will have a turn. I want your pussies ready. We have lube, in case any of you need any. Please try to keep yourself from coming until you ride Mr. Mayhew's cock. That will make it more fun for both of you. If Mr. Mayhew comes and his cock begins to go soft, use your mouth and hand to make him hard again. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Coach," twenty-eight women said at once. Bras and panties dropped onto the locker shelves, completing the scene, and the line began to move.
The first woman out of the line was number 27, the one who'd folded her arms at me from the second row. She was naked and beautiful. Up close, she was smaller than I expected, with black hair and a swallow tattooed over her hip bone. Her thighs were cool against my hips.
She placed one hand on my chest. Then she reached between us and took me in her fingers, guiding me to her cunt. "I haven't done this in a while," she said. "So don't judge me."
Behind her, Coach Williams folded her arms and watched without blinking. The girl sank down half an inch and stopped, breathing through her teeth, her grip on my chest tightening.
The girl sank another inch and stopped again, jaw tight. I could feel her cunt give around me, hot and slippery, taking me in one small fraction at a time. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed my hips.
"Fuck," she whispered, eyes shut. "Okay. Okay."
Coach Williams stepped close and looked down at the join of us. "Is he in?"
"Half."
"Take your time." Coach Williams scanned the line behind her. "Plenty of you to go around."
The girl braced both hands on my chest and pushed. My whole cock slid into her at once, and we both made a noise. Then she rolled her hips slowly, and my hands found her waist without asking me first.
She rolled her hips slowly, and my hands found her waist without asking. Her cunt gripped me in a hot squeeze on every stroke, wet enough that I could hear it over the showers.
"Can I come?" she asked, breathless, riding faster now.
Nobody answered her. Coach Williams just watched, arms folded, chin down.
I didn't care what the answer was. I wanted her to enjoy this. I wanted all of them to enjoy this.
My thumb slid down the seam of her belly and found her clit, and I pressed flat and small circles while she rode. Her back arched, hands slid up my chest to my throat, and the first loud, raw sound ripped out of her and bounced off the metal lockers.
"Oh god, oh fuck, right there," she shouted, riding me like the bench was on fire. Her tits swung with every drive, and she ground down hard on my thumb, working her clit against it. "I'm coming, I'm coming, don't stop, please don't stop."
Her cunt clamped down on me in waves, and she screamed through it, head back, sweat flicking off her hair onto my chest. Nobody in that room looked away. Some of them cheered.
She slid off me with a wet sound, found her feet, and wobbled. Somebody took her elbow and steered her away from the bench. My cock lay slick and cooling against my belly, and every woman in that room had just watched her come on it.
Marnie Boyd stepped forward and straddled the bench. "You're not gonna tap out on me already, are you, Mr. Mayhew?"
She didn't wait for an answer. Her hand closed around the base of me, warm, and lined me up herself.
Marnie rolled her hips down and took me to the hilt in one wet stroke, no pause, no breathing through it. Her cunt was slick and hot, and she bottomed out with a little gasp right against my ear. "There we go," she murmured, and then she started moving, long slow grinds, her tits pushing into my chest on every drive.
"You're quieter than I thought you'd be," she said.
"I'm conserving energy."
She laughed, loud and real, and a couple of the girls behind her laughed too. "Smart man."
Marnie rode me like she was settling a score, and every downward grind pushed a grunt out of me I couldn't hold. She leaned back and put her palms on my thighs, which changed the angle and let me see the slick shine of her cunt stretching around my shaft, dark and wet and greedy. "There," she said, catching my stare. "You like watching it go in?" I didn't answer, just got both hands on her hips and hauled her down harder, and she threw her head back and laughed at the ceiling. "Coach, he's got some hips on him." A few of the girls behind her murmured. Then her laugh cut off, her thighs locked, and she ground down slow and hard, working herself on me with this tight, rhythmless need that had nothing funny left in it.
I knew exactly what she was doing. Long grinds, a tight squeeze on every downstroke, her cunt working me like a fist. She wanted me to come, and I was close enough that she'd have gotten it.
So I sat up.
Her eyes went wide, and her rhythm broke. "What are you doing?"
I got an arm around her back and hauled her chest to mine. That changed the angle and put her clit flat against my belly. Then I moved from underneath, short, hard thrusts off the bench, one hand spread between her shoulder blades. My other hand slid down and pressed two fingers either side of her clit.
"Oh, fuck," she said, and the laugh was gone.
She came in about twenty seconds, thighs clamped, nails dug into my shoulders, a long groan that rattled the lockers behind her head. She slumped forward, forehead on my collarbone, breathing hard through her nose.
"Right," Coach Williams said from somewhere above us. "Next."
Four more came through, and I'll remember every one. A redhead with a freckled back who came twice and needed help getting off. A girl of Latin descent who rode me like a storm, hips rolling with fierce rhythm, dark hair cascading across her sweat-glistened face as she moaned my name between ragged breaths. A quiet, intense woman who was the goalie came so hard her thighs quivered, and her breath hitched in ragged gasps. And an Asian woman who screamed so loud the entire room fell silent in stunned awe.
I made each of them come. I still hadn't.
Then Sydney stepped forward, and to me, the room went silent.
She was all of it. Sun-streaked blonde down from the bun, shoulders with muscle running over the bone, small hard tits with wide dark nipples, stomach flat with a seam of definition down to a trimmed patch of pale hair. Her thighs were heavy and corded, calves cut like rope, and when she turned I saw the shelf of muscle over her hips and the long dip of her spine into a perfect, small, wet cunt. Sweat along her collarbone.
"Ready for me, Mr. Mayhew?"
She climbed onto the bench and hovered over me, and I watched her hand close on my cock and notch the head against her cunt. Wet, hot, and already gripping.
I knew I wouldn't hold it with her. Not the captain. Not with those thighs and that flat, steady look. She'd get me in three minutes and smile about it.
So I made a decision. She'd come twice. The first one now, on her own terms, riding me however she wanted. The second one at the end, timed to mine, her cunt milking me while I spent inside her.
She sank down and took every inch in one slow slide.
Her cunt took the last of me, and she held it there, thighs locked, letting me feel the whole depth of it. Three breaths and she didn't move. Twenty-eight women watched the captain do nothing at all, and that was plainly the point.
Then she started, a long grind down, a slower lift, hands braced on my chest. Every stroke came wet and loud, and her small tits swung low over my face.
"You feel that?" she asked. "That's what six years of conditioning buys you."
Her cunt flexed in a slow ring around my shaft. I got both hands on her thighs because I needed something solid to hold, and hung on.
I didn't keep my hands there for long. I wanted to feel all of her, and I did. Up the outside of her thighs, where the muscle was hard as a saddle and slick with sweat. Over the shelf of her hips, thumbs dragging the sweat into little wet paths. Up her ribs, which she sucked in when I passed them. Her tits came next, small and heavy for their size, and her nipples were wide and coarse under my palms. She rode slower while I handled them, watching me do it.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"You. Everything." I got both hands up her back, over the wings of her shoulder blades, into the wet mess of hair at her nape. The bun came apart, and pale hair fell down around her face and swung with every grind. I hauled her down by the back of the neck until her tits were flat on my chest, and I could feel her heart going like a drummer.
I kept her there by the nape and fucked up into her off the bench, short strokes, the wood creaking under my shoulders. Her mouth was slack against my neck, and her breath came in wet bursts. I let go of her hair and got both hands on the shelf of her ass, spreading her, dragging her down onto every thrust.
"Don't stop," she said into my throat. "You hear me?"
She came with a long, grinding shudder, her cunt flexing in tight pulses around my shaft. Then she pushed up off my chest, sweating, hair stuck to her cheek, and looked down at me.
"One more," she said. "When you're ready to fill me."
I didn't need telling twice. I got both hands under her ass and rolled us off the bench onto the cold tile, and she landed on top of me with a grunt that turned into a grin. Her knees dug in either side of my hips, and she rode me hard and fast, no showmanship left, just wet, filthy work. I let go, and she screamed into the tile, and her cunt milked me through all of it, tight and wet and rhythmic. Then she sagged down onto my chest, breathing hard, sweat going cold between us.
I got a hand in her hair and pulled her mouth down to mine and kissed her. She kissed me back for a second, then eased off, palm flat on my sternum, and looked at me. Her face was a mystery. Not angry. Something else.
"Why did you do that?" She asked.
"Sorry, I had to know."
"Know what?"
"What it would be like."
Then a shrill whistle went off from the far end of the room.