Chapter 6: The Volleyball Player's Initiation
The first thing Brita noticed was the silence. It was a different silence than her dorm’s—thick, expensive, absorbed by rugs and vast spaces. She stood in the foyer of Henry’s penthouse, her oversized volleyball duffel at her feet feeling ludicrously suburban. She’d worn running tights and a moisture-wicking tank, her blonde hair in a severe high ponytail. She’d been told to dress for a 5k.
Henry appeared from around a corner, already in grey athletic shorts and a faded DePaul baseball tee. He looked her up and down, not lecherously, but appraisingly, like a coach. “You’re right on time. Good.”
“I hate being late,” Brita said, her Swedish accent clipping the words.
“I know. Kailani mentioned.” He smiled. “She said you run a sub-twenty-minute 5k. That true?”
“Twenty-one, on a good day,” Brita corrected, a flicker of pride cutting through her nerves. She never overstated her stats.
“We’ll see. The run club meets at the riverwalk in ten. Car’s downstairs.”
The run was a bizarre slice of normalcy. The club was a mix of young professionals and dedicated amateurs, clad in technical fabrics and friendly smiles. Henry introduced Brita simply as “Brita, a friend from DePaul.” She played her part seamlessly, laughing at jokes about pace groups, chatting about the unseasonable warmth, accepting a water bottle from Henry with a public, affectionate brush of fingers. She could feel the eyes of other women on them—the tall, striking blonde and the powerful, bald Black man. She leaned into it, hooking her arm through his at the starting line, feeling the solid muscle of his bicep. It felt like putting on a well-designed uniform.
They ran. He let her set the pace, hanging just off her shoulder. The rhythm of her breathing, the slap of their shoes on the pavement, the panoramic view of the cityscape—it was meditative. Competitive fire lit in her gut. She pushed harder up the final incline, finishing a full three strides ahead of him, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the evening sun.
He caught up, not even winded. “Twenty-two flat. Not bad with the hill.”
“You let me win,” she accused, hands on her knees.
“I enjoyed the view from behind,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. The double meaning was clear. A different heat bloomed in her stomach.
They returned to the penthouse flushed and energized. The place was quiet, twilight seeping through the windows. Henry nodded toward the master suite. “Kailani’s napping. She had a late study group. We’ll use the guest shower.”
The guest bathroom was all marble and chrome, stocked with unopened luxury products. Brita felt suddenly self-conscious, gritty with dried sweat. Henry turned on the rainfall showerhead, steam beginning to fog the glass enclosure. He didn’t wait. He peeled his damp shirt off, then hooked his thumbs in her tights and underwear, dragging them down her legs in one motion. She stepped out of them, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The water was scalding and perfect. He soaped her back, his hands strong and thorough, rinsing the suds away. Then he turned her to face him. Water sluiced over his bald head, down the carved muscles of his chest and abdomen. His cock was already half-hard, thickening against her thigh.
He didn’t say a word. He just looked at her, a silent command in his dark eyes.
Brita understood. This was the test, the real beginning. The run was the audition; this was the first performance. She sank to her knees on the textured marble floor, the hot water cascading over her shoulders. She took him in her hand, feeling the heavy, silken weight of him. She leaned forward and licked a bead of water from the tip, tasting clean skin and a faint, primal musk.
Then she took him into her mouth.
She used her tongue, flat and firm, along the prominent vein on the underside. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper, until the head nudged the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, a skill she’d practiced before in dorm rooms, but never with such high, tangible stakes. Her eyes flicked up to his. He was watching her, his expression intense, one hand braced against the shower wall.
“Use your hand, too,” he instructed, his voice rough. “Base of the shaft. Yeah, just like that. Now suck. Harder.”
She obeyed, her movements growing more confident. She worked him with a determined rhythm, her hand twisting in time with the suction of her mouth. The sounds were obscene and thrilling—wet, slurping noises amplified by the shower’s echo, his low groans vibrating down into her. His fingers tangled in her wet ponytail, not guiding, just possessing.
“You’re a quick study,” he grunted. “Fuck, that’s good. Don’t stop.”
His hips began a shallow, involuntary thrust. She took it, letting him fuck her mouth in short, sharp jabs. She could feel him tightening, the muscles in his thighs going rigid. Just before he came, he pulled her head back by her hair. He spent himself on her face, hot stripes marking her cheeks, her chin, her open lips. She knelt there, panting, water washing some of it away, the rest a sticky claim.
He helped her up. “Good,” he said again, and kissed her, tasting himself on her mouth. It was shockingly intimate.
They dressed for the night. Henry took her to a boutique on Oak Street where the staff knew him by name. He pointed to a dress—a slip of emerald green silk. “Try that.”
Brita emerged from the changing room feeling transformed. The dress clung to her athletic frame, the color making her eyes seem paler, her hair more platinum. Henry looked at her like she was an acquisition he was particularly pleased with. He didn’t ask the price. He handed a black card to the hovering sales associate. “And the heels she walked in with are wrong. The Saint Laurent sandals, the black ones. Size forty.”
At the club, a basement space throbbing with deep house, they had a table. Bottles arrived without ordering. Brita danced, feeling the silk move against her skin, feeling the eyes of the room on her, on them. Henry watched from the shadows, sipping whiskey, a king surveying his domain. A man from the run club approached, clapping Henry on the back. “Didn’t know you were hiding this one, man!” Henry just smiled, a slow, easy thing, and pulled Brita onto his lap, his hand resting possessively high on her thigh.
His hand was a brand through the thin silk, his thumb stroking the bare skin of her inner thigh. The man from the run club melted back into the crowd. Henry’s lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice cutting through the percussive thump. “Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a request. He guided her onto the packed floor, the bass a physical pressure in their chests. They started with space between them, Brita moving with an athlete’s natural grace. He watched her, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes tracking the shift of silk over her hips.
He closed the distance. His hands found her waist, big and sure, pulling her back against him. The connection was electric. She could feel the entire, hard line of his body. He moved with a restrained, rolling rhythm, his hips dictating a slow, grinding counterpoint to the faster beat. Brita let her head fall back against his shoulder, her ass pressing into his groin. She felt him hardening against her.
“That’s it,” he murmured into her hair, his breath hot. His hands slid from her waist, one flattening low on her stomach to hold her in place, the other roaming up her ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the silk. A sharp ache pulsed between her legs. She turned in his arms, facing him now, her arms looping around his neck.
Their dancing became a slow, public fuck with clothes on. She ground her pelvis against his, a shameless, seeking friction. His hands gripped her ass, squeezing, pulling her tighter into each deliberate roll of his hips. The music faded into a blood-rush in her ears. She was slick and swollen inside her new underwear, each movement a tantalizing torment.
She was slick and swollen inside her new underwear, each movement a tantalizing torment. His erection was a firm, insistent ridge against her stomach. She turned her face, her lips brushing the rough stubble of his jaw. “Everyone’s watching us,” she whispered, not as a complaint but as a confession. “I love it. I want them to see who I’m with.”
Henry’s hand slid from her ass to the small of her back, pressing her even closer. “What else do you want?”
“I want to get out of here.” Her voice was a husky scrape against his ear, every word practiced yet perfectly delivered. “I want to be back in your penthouse. I want you to fuck me on that rooftop where the whole city can see.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were glassy with desire and the low light, her pupils blown wide. She wasn’t lying. The competitive eagerness he’d seen on the run was here, too, channeled into this. She was playing her role flawlessly. “A few more songs,” he said, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “Let them remember.”
They danced like that for three more tracks, a sustained, simmering preview. When the synth line of a fourth song began to swell, Henry simply took her hand and led her off the floor. They didn’t say goodbye to anyone. The night air on the street was a cold shock, raising goosebumps on her bare arms. His black SUV was idling at the curb. He opened the door for her, his hand a gentle press on the crown of her head as she slid across the cool leather.
The partition was up before his door closed. The city slid by, a blur of neon and shadow. Brita didn’t wait. The car’s movement, the privacy, the residual thrum of the club in her veins—it was all permission. She unbuttoned his trousers with efficient, shaking fingers. He watched, his head resting against the seatback, as she freed his cock. It was fully hard now, jutting up from the dark fabric.
“You didn’t let me finish in the shower,” she said, her accent giving the words a blunt, matter-of-fact quality. She leaned over, her blonde hair a curtain around her face, and took him into her mouth.
This was different. No water, no performance for an audience of one. This was purely functional, a direct transaction of sensation. She sucked him with a relentless, hungry rhythm, her hand working the base in a tight, twisting grip. She gagged once, softly, then relaxed her throat and took him deeper. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the dark cabin. Henry’s hand settled on the back of her head, his fingers tightening in her hair with every downward plunge.
“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted, his hips lifting off the seat. “Use your tongue. Right there.” She could taste the faint, clean salt of pre-cum. She swirled her tongue over the slit, coaxing out more. The car hit a pothole, jolting her forward, and he groaned, his thighs tensing. She felt him swelling, the pulse at the root becoming frantic. She redoubled her efforts, wanting to taste his finish, to have that proof.
But he pulled her head back, his grip unyielding. “Not yet.”
Brita sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, confused and aching. He tucked himself away, his breathing still uneven. “We’re here,” he said, as the SUV glided into the building’s underground porte-cochère.
The penthouse was silent. A single lamp glowed in the living room. Henry didn’t turn on any others. He led her past the dark master suite, down a hall, and through a steel door that opened onto the private rooftop. The Chicago skyline surrounded them, a breathtaking crown of light. The wind up here was a live thing, snatching at her dress.
He didn’t speak. He turned her to face the view, her back to his chest. His hands pushed the slim straps of the emerald dress off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her waist. He unclasped her bra, letting it fall. His palms covered her breasts, squeezing, his thumbs rasping over her nipples. Then his hands were on her hips, yanking the dress and her underwear down to her ankles in one violent motion. “Step out.”
She did, naked now but for her heels, shivering in the night air. He spun her around and bent her over the cold glass of the perimeter safety wall, her cheek pressed against it. The city sprawled infinitely below. He kicked her feet wider apart. She heard the tear of foil, then the blunt, burning pressure of his cockhead against her entrance.
He didn’t ease in. He drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in a single, brutal stroke that stole her breath and drew a ragged cry from her lungs. The pent-up energy from the dance floor, from the car, from weeks of anticipation, exploded out of him. He fucked her with a punishing, athletic rhythm, each thrust slamming her into the glass. The wall vibrated with their impact.
“God, you’re so fucking deep,” she moaned, the words torn from her by his motion.
“You wanted this.” His voice was a guttural growl at her ear. “You asked for it.”
“I did. Fuck me harder. Fill me up.” She was babbling, embracing the filthy script. “Your cock is so thick. I can feel you in my guts.” She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. “Are you gonna cum inside me? Do it. I want to feel it.”
Her words tipped him over the edge. With a raw, shattered sound, he plunged into her one final time and held there, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing release flood into her, a shocking intimacy that made her own climax break—a sharp, convulsive tightening that milked him through the last of his spasms.
They stayed like that for a long minute, joined, gasping, the wind cooling the sweat on their skin. He slowly pulled out. The dampness between her thighs was immediate and unsettling.
Inside, he led her to the guest bedroom she’d used earlier. He handed her a towel from the en-suite bathroom. “You can spend the night. The bed’s made. Or you can clean up and leave. The driver will take you back to campus.”
Brita looked at the perfectly made bed, then down at her own sticky thighs. Staying felt like an overstay, a confusion of roles. This had been a session, spectacular and complete. “I’ll clean up,” she said.
He nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else. “The car will be ready.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him. Brita stood in the middle of the silent, luxurious room. She showered quickly in the guest bath, the hot water washing away the sweat, the scent of him, the physical evidence of the night. She dressed in her original running clothes, folding the emerald silk dress and placing it neatly on the bed like a returned uniform. She didn’t look in the master bedroom’s direction as she let herself out.
Henry washed up in his own bathroom. The house was quiet again, just the hum of the climate control. He opened the door to the primary bedroom. Kailani was a small, solid shape under the duvet, asleep. He slid in beside her, his body radiating heat. She stirred, murmuring something incoherent, and shifted back into the curve of his body. He draped an arm over her waist, his face in her hair. Sleep pulled him under almost immediately, a dark, dreamless tide.
Downstairs, Brita slipped into the back of the waiting SUV. As it pulled into the empty street, she pulled out her phone. The notification was already there. The deposit, larger than any athletic stipend she’d ever received. She stared at the number until the streetlights blurred into streaks.
She stared at the number until the streetlights blurred into streaks. A profound, trembling exhaustion settled into her muscles, deeper than any post-game fatigue. She leaned her head against the cool window, the city gliding past like a film reel of a life she was now watching from the outside.