Chapter 15: The Loan
The数码 lock on the cheerleading gym door beeped, and Patricia shouldered it open, pulling Ben inside by the collar of his shirt. The air was different here—thick with the sweet-tart scent of silicone grip aids, fruity body spray, and the unmistakable, deepening odor of exhausted bodies. The vast space echoed with the afterglow of rigorous practice; mats were pushed against walls, and a single forgotten pom-pom lay deflated in a corner like a shed skin.
“Ladies!” Patricia called out, her voice bouncing off the high ceiling. “Delivery!”
The Riverside University cheer squad was in various states of cool-down. Some were stretching against the mirrored walls, others guzzling water, their faces still flushed. All activity stopped as they turned. Recognition and a kind of predatory glee flashed in their eyes. This was the promised entertainment.
Mia straightened up from a hamstring stretch, not bothering to hide her wide smile. “You actually brought him. I thought you were joking.”
“When do I ever joke about winning?” Patricia said, giving Ben a slight shove forward. He stumbled, his shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood. He looked worse than he had in the hallway. The defiance had been scoured out, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell, eyes fixed on a distant scuff mark on the floor. “He’s all yours for the afternoon. Consider it a… team-building exercise.”
Chloe clapped her hands together lightly. “What are the rules?”
“No permanent marks,” Patricia said, as if outlining safety protocols for a lab experiment. “Otherwise, he follows orders. Your orders. He’s your personal foot slave for the day. You’ve just finished practice. I’m sure your gear could use some… attention.” She leaned against the folded-up bleachers, crossing her arms. “I’ll just observe.”
The phrase ‘foot slave’ hung in the air, ridiculous and absolutely serious. The girls exchanged glances, a silent communication humming between them. Then, as one, they began to move.
They didn’t rush. They orbited him slowly, a flock of brightly colored, sleek predators. Ben stood frozen in the center of their circle, his breathing shallow.
“Okay… Ben,” Mia said, dragging out his name. She was the captain, and she took the lead. She pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of her. “Knees. Now.”
His jaw twitched. A last, ghostly impulse to resist. It died before it reached his muscles. He sank down stiffly, the hard floor biting into his kneecaps through his thin sweats.
“Better.” Mia turned her back to him. She was wearing tight, royal blue shorts. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression playful. “You know, after a two-hour practice, it’s hard to tell how you smell. We gotta be presentable for the squad photos later. Give me a quality check.”
The request, wrapped in casual cruelty, took a second to land. Ben blinked, uncomprehending.
“Sniff, genius,” Zoe clarified from the side, rolling her eyes. “Check the merchandise.”
A hot, dizzy wave of shame washed over him. He closed his eyes, hoping for a second of darkness, but it just amplified the sounds: the whisper of nylon shorts, a stifled giggle, Patricia’s steady, observing breath from the bleachers.
He leaned forward the barest inch.
“Get in there,” Chloe commanded, and her hand came down on the back of his head, not violently, but with enough firm, steady pressure to guide him forward until his face was buried in the fabric of Mia’s shorts.
The smell was immediate and complex—lycra, sweat, a hint of detergent, and the intimate, musky warmth of exertion. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily, and the scent filled his nose and mouth, becoming a taste. It was the smell of her victory, his defeat, made personal and absolute.
“Well?” Mia prompted, wiggling her hips slightly. “Opinion?”
He jerked his head back, gasping for clean air. “It’s… fine.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t a review,” Patricia called out from her perch. “Use descriptive words. Be specific.”
“It’s… athletic,” Ben forced out, the word tasting like ashes.
“Athletic!” Mia laughed, looking at her friends. “I’ll take it.” She stepped aside. “Your turn, Zoe.”
The process repeated. Each girl took a turn having him bury his face in their practice shorts, forcing him to assess and verbalize the scent of their effort. “Potent,” he muttered for Chloe. “Sharp,” for another. The words were mechanical, stripped of all meaning, just sounds he had to produce to make the pressure on his head stop.
After the last one, a petite flyer named Jess, stepped away, they left him kneeling, head bowed, breathing heavily through his mouth to try and clear the clinging, intimate odors.
“Aw, he looks tired,” Chloe pouted mockingly. “All that hard work sniffing. But we’ve got more for you.” She waved a hand towards the corner of the gym. A haphazard pile of cheer sneakers—neon, white, sequinned—had been kicked off. They lay in a heap, still steaming faintly in the cool air of the gym.
“Practice was intense today,” Mia said, walking over to the pile. She hooked a finger into the heel of her own bright white shoe and lifted it. She held it out, dangling it by its laces. It swayed like a pendulum. “We ran suicides in these. The floor in here… it’s not dirty, per se, but it’s not clean. You understand.”
Ben understood. The memory of licking Tiffany’s shoe in the hallway was a fresh brand.
“Crawl,” Zoe said.
He moved on his hands and knees across the smooth floor. The journey felt endless. He stopped before Mia, the offered shoe hovering at his eye level.
“Lick it clean,” she said, her voice losing its playful edge and becoming simple, direct instruction. “The whole sole. I want to see it shine.”
He looked at the shoe. The patterned rubber sole was dusted with fine gym floor grit and marked with dark, sweaty smudges. He could smell it from here—a sour, salty, rubbery aroma.
From the bleachers, Patricia sighed, a sound of exaggerated boredom. “Ben, we don’t have all day. Either your tongue starts working, or I call Coach Merrill and tell him you were caught trying to steal from the girls’ locker room. Imagine that on your disciplinary record. After the… incident in the hall.”
The threat was ludicrous. It was also utterly believable. She would do it, and the university, seeing the strange, cowed demeanor of the once-star student, might just believe it. The institutional momentum was all hers now.
He leaned forward and extended his tongue.
The first touch was a shock of flavor—dust, salt, the chemical tang of synthetic rubber. He flinched but kept going, dragging his tongue in a long, wet stripe from heel to toe. Grit stuck to his tongue. He made a soft, involuntary gagging sound.
“Music to my ears,” Chloe whispered.
He kept going. Long, methodical swipes. Saliva mixed with the dirt, creating a dark, muddy paste on the sole. His jaw ached. The taste was a constant, oppressive layer on his palate.
When Mia’s shoe was slick with his spit, she pulled it back, examining it with a critical eye. “Hmm. Not bad. A little streaky. You’ll get better with practice. Next!”
He moved to the next shoe in the pile. Then the next. Each had its own specific topography of wear and smell. One had a wad of old gum stuck near the arch he had to work around. Another reeked strongly of antibacterial spray that stung his tongue.
The girls stood around him, chatting casually as he worked.
“So, are we getting pizza after this?” Zoe asked.
“Only if we can make him pay,” Chloe said, nodding down at Ben. “You got wallet money, foot slave?”
He didn’t answer, focusing on a stubborn black mark on a tread.
“He’s not much of a talker,” Mia observed. “Just a licker.”
“Pat, is he gonna be our, like, permanent thing?” Jess asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Patricia’s voice floated over, amused. “We’ll see. He hasn’t earned a permanent position yet. This is just a trial run.”
The conversation swirled above him, about parties, about biology exams, about a rival squad’s new routine. It was all so normal, so utterly detached from the degradation happening at their feet. He was machinery. A living, breathing cleaning tool they sometimes pitched their chatter at, but never truly included.
He lost track of time, lost in the rhythm of humiliation: the feel of textured rubber, the scrape of grit on his teeth, the acidic bloom of sweat in the back of his throat. His world became a sequence of soles.
Finally, he reached the last shoe—a tiny, glittery one belonging to Jess. As he finished the final lick, a profound emptiness settled in him. The anger was gone. The shame had burned so hot it had cauterized the feeling. There was just a hollow, numb static.
The stale, sweat-scented air of the cheerleading practice gym clung to Ben’s skin, a humid prison. His knees ached against the unforgiving vinyl mats, the position forced and perpetual. Patricia’s championship belt, the same one she’d used as a leash down the dorm hallway, was now a heavy, studded collar around his neck, the end of the leash held loosely in her hand as she leaned against the balance beam, holding court.
“Alright, squad, listen up!” Pat called out, her voice bright and authoritative. “Today’s ancillary training focuses on balance, core stability, and…” she paused, a wide, wicked grin spreading across her face, “…assertiveness. Meet our new piece of equipment. Ben, say hello.”
The six other cheerleaders, in varying states of practice wear—shorts, leggings, glittering tops—formed a loose, giggling circle around him. Their sneakers, a kaleidoscope of neon and worn leather, were inches from his face. He recognized them all: Maya, the flyer with a seemingly permanent sweet smile that now looked razor-edged; Chloe, the base whose grip could probably crush stone; Jess, who’d filmed the whole hallway parade on her phone.
“He already said hello last night,” Jess chirped, waving her phone. “It was more of a ‘woof,’ though.”
Patricia laughed, a clear, ringing sound that bounced off the high ceiling. “True! But today we’re working on a different skill set. You all have the big rivalry game this weekend. You need to feel unstoppable. Powerful. Like queens.” She gave the leash a little flick, making the metal buckle click against itself. “And nothing makes you feel more powerful than having a former rival literally beneath you. Or, more specifically, beneath your feet.”
Ben’s stomach clenched. He kept his eyes on the mat, on the scuff marks and dust, focusing on the grain of the vinyl. Humiliation was a cold, lead weight in his gut, but a stubborn ember of defiance still smoldered in his chest. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing it break.
“Maya, you’re up first,” Patricia directed. “You’ve been hesitant on your landings. I want you to practice your stability. Use his… shoulders.”
Maya stepped forward, her delicate features alight with a curious cruelty. She placed her hands on Patricia’s shoulders for balance, then, with deliberate slowness, raised one foot and planted it firmly on Ben’s collarbone. Then the other. Her full weight, surprisingly substantial for her petite frame, settled onto him. The pressure was immediate, sharp. He grunted, his arms trembling as he bore her.
“Good! Now, deep squat,” Patricia coached. “Hold it. Feel that support. Or lack thereof.”
Maya sank down, her calves pressing into the sides of his neck. The world narrowed to the smell of her coconut-scented lotion and the intense, burning strain in his muscles. “He’s kinda wobbly, Pat,” Maya said, her voice sweetly concerned.
“He’ll stabilize. Or he’ll collapse. Either way, it’s a lesson.” Patricia looked down at Ben, her head tilted. “What’s the matter, Ben? Not as easy as acing a calculus final, is it? This is a different kind of test. And you’re failing.”
The girls laughed. It wasn’t the raucous laughter of the hallway crowd; this was more intimate, more cutting. It was the sound of shared power, of a secret joke they were all in on.
After a minute that felt like an hour, Maya dismounted with a little hop. “Thanks, chair!” she trilled, patting his head like a dog.
“Chloe,” Patricia said. “Your turn. Core exercise.”
Chloe, solid and smirking, didn’t use his shoulders. She simply turned her back to him, then lowered herself to sit directly on his upturned face, her full weight crushing his features into the seat of her tight cotton shorts. The world went dark, muffled. He couldn’t breathe. Panic, raw and animal, flared in his brain.
“Don’t squirm, now,” Chloe’s voice was a distant, vibrating rumble above him. “This is the best seat in the house. You should be honored.”
The other girls howled with laughter. “How’s the view, Ben?” Jess called out.
“Probably all sweaty!” another added.
Patricia’s voice cut through his panic. “And while you’re down there, Ben, make yourself useful. Those mats are gross. Lick the dirt off Chloe’s sneakers. They need a shine.”
The command, so casually vicious, shattered the last of his focused resistance. Tears of frustration and shame burned behind his closed eyelids. He felt Chloe shift her weight, lifting one foot and placing the rubber toe of her sneaker against his mouth. The taste was overwhelming: synthetic rubber, old gum, the dust of the gym floor, and a faint, salty tang of dried sweat.
“C’mon, loser,” Chloe goaded, grinding the toe against his lips. “You heard the captain. Lick.”
A low, guttural sound escaped him. He did it. The act was less physical than profoundly psychological, a deliberate erasure of the person he was. The sharp, chemical taste filled his mouth as he obeyed.
“Wow, he’s actually doing it,” someone whispered, a note of awe in the cruelty.
“Of course he is,” Patricia said, her tone one of pure, satisfied possession. “He’s not Ben Thompson, Academic Decathlon star anymore. Look at him. He’s just a thing we use. A footstool that barks. Right, Ben?”
He couldn’t answer. His tongue moved in mechanical, degrading strokes.
Chloe finally stood up, letting light and air crash back into his world. He gasped, coughing, his face flushed and wet. Pat yanked the leash, pulling his head up to face the circle of young women. Their expressions were a mix of delight, disgust, and fascination. They were seeing him unmade.
“Everyone, gather round,” Patricia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. She knelt beside him, her face close to his. Her breath smelled of mint gum. “I want you all to understand something. This? This is what happens when someone thinks they’re your equal. When they think they’re smart, or strong, or anything other than beneath you.” She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at each girl in turn. “Ben thought he could beat me. He thought all those A’s and his smug little smile meant something. But in the end? This is all he’s good for. A tool for our practice. A joke for our entertainment.”
Jess leaned in, her phone now recording Ben’s tear-streaked, dust-smeared face at close range. “Say it for the clip, Ben. Say ‘I’m a loser.’”
He clenched his jaw, the ember flaring.
Patricia’s grip tightened, her nails digging in. “Say it.”
The words crawled up his throat, thick and toxic. “…I’m a loser.”
“Again. Louder.”
“I’M A LOSER!” The shout echoed in the gym, a stark, final surrender. The ember guttered, drowning in a flood of shame.
The cheerleaders erupted in cheers and applause, a twisted mimicry of their sideline enthusiasm. Patricia stood, basking in it, the conductor of his humiliation. She placed her own clean, white sneaker on the center of his back and pushed, not hard, but enough to make him bow forward, his forehead touching the cool mat.
“See?” she said to her squad, her voice full of warm, proud authority. “Total clarity. Now, who’s next for balance drills? Remember, he’s not a person. He’s a piece of equipment. Treat him like one.”
As the next girl approached, stepping onto the small of his back with a giggle, Ben closed his eyes. The sounds of their laughter, the casual instructions from Pat, the squeak of rubber on his skin—it all blended into a single, oppressive noise. The narrative was set, cemented in the eyes of his peers. Patricia’s champion, and Ben, the loser. A fact as solid as the floor beneath his bruised and aching knees.