Chapter 51: Locker Room Service
The walk home was supposed to be a cleansing. A mile of chilly autumn air to scour the taste of blood and intimate filth from his mouth, to let the trembling in his hands subside. He had scrubbed his face in Holly’s sink, but the metallic ghost lingered, a phantom stain on his soul. His briefcase felt heavier than usual, weighted with the day’s secret rotations.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. A local number he didn’t recognise. He stopped under a streetlamp, its orange glow doing little to push back the deepening dusk.
The text was blunt. “Heya, it’s Astrid. Swimming practice is boring. I’m at the pool. Come and be useful. Changing room 3.”
A dial-an-orgasm oral delivery service. For the second time today. The realisation was a cold stone in his gut, but it settled there with a dreadful familiarity. This was the currency. This was the membership fee for Odette’s world. Hayley’s piss, Holly’s blood, and now whatever Astrid required. He turned on his heel, the path home forgotten, and headed towards the distant, glowing bulk of the leisure centre.
The pool’s reception area was bright and echoing, smelling of chlorine and cheap chips. He paid his entry fee, avoiding the attendant’s eyes, and pushed through the turnstile. The noise hit him first: the shrieks of children, the cavernous splash of bodies, the amplified whistle of a lifeguard. A world of normal, vigorous life. He felt like a ghost moving through it, his polished shoes silent on the wet tiles.
The women’s changing room entrance was a hazard. He paused, the absurdity of it a brief, paralyzing wave. Then his phone buzzed again. “Hurry up. I’m getting wrinkled.”
He pushed the door open, the sound of his entrance swallowed by the general clamour. The changing room was a stark, tiled labyrinth of blue lockers and wooden benches, steam curling from the shower areas. It was momentarily empty, the last of the evening’s lane swimmers not yet finished. His heart hammered against his ribs. “Astrid!” He hissed in a stage whisper.
“Cubicle three.” Her voice came, low and amused, from behind a door near the end. A tall, powerful blonde Dutch woman he knew by sight and reputation. Astrid. A friend of Odette’s. A lawyer from a rival set, famously competitive, physically formidable.
He knocked, the sound frail against the polycarbonate door.
It swung open.
Astrid dominated the small space. She was leaning back against the far wall, one long, muscled leg propped on the bench. She wore a sleek, competition-cut black one-piece swimsuit, the fabric gleaming under the fluorescent light. It was peeled down to her waist, bunched in a thick roll around her narrow hips. Her breasts were magnificent, heavy and high, tipped with large, pale pink nipples pebbled from the cool air.
Her legs were spread in a wide, unequivocal V. Between them, her cunt was on full display, shaved bare, the lips already plump and glistening with a clear, slick arousal. The chlorine-tinged air was underscored with a warmer, saltier scent.
“Paul,” she said, her accent clipping the word. She didn’t smile. Her blue eyes held a flat, assessing challenge. “You took your time. Get on your knees and start. I’ve been thinking about this all through backstroke.”
No preamble. No pretense. He was a tool for her boredom. He stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him, muffling the outside world to a distant echo. He knelt on the damp tiles, the cold seeping through his trousers. The space was so tight his shoulders almost brushed the walls.
His face was level with her sex. The neat, bare mound, the swollen, parted lips, the glistening hint of her inner darkness. The smell was clean, athletic, intensely female, cutting through the chlorine.
“Well?” she prompted, shifting her hips forward an inch. “I haven’t got all night. Some of us have actual training schedules.”
He leaned in, his hands finding the solid, quads of her thighs for balance. Her skin was cool, slightly damp from the pool. He pressed his mouth to her.
Her flavour was different. Sharper, cleaner, like the sea. There was no artifice, no perfume, just the honest, potent taste of her arousal. He licked a broad, flat stripe from her perineum up to her clit, and she rewarded him with a sharp intake of breath, a slight tensing of the powerful muscles under his hands.
“Use your tongue properly. Don’t be genteel.” Her voice was a command from above.
He obeyed, spearing his tongue into her opening, fucking her with it in short, firm strokes. She was tight, incredibly so, her inner muscles clenching around the intrusion. He cupped her arse with one hand, pulling her harder onto his face, his nose buried in her coarse blonde curls. With his other hand, he found her clit, a hard, eager nub, and began to circle it with his thumb.
“Yes,” she grunted. “Like that. Faster.”
He doubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his tongue plunging deep before flattening to lap at her hungrily. The slurping, wet sounds were grotesquely loud in the tiled cubicle, a filthy counterpoint to the innocent shouts from the pool beyond. He could feel the tension coiling in her thighs, hear her breathing grow ragged.
“You are good,” she gasped, her hips beginning to piston against his face, fucking his mouth with a steady, athletic rhythm. “Oh, fuck, right there. Keep that exact spot.”
He was drowning in her. The chlorine, her sweat, her cunt’s salty tang. His world narrowed to the feel of her swollen flesh against his lips, the twitch of her clit under his thumb, the raw, powerful scent of her impending orgasm. He was a service engine, running efficiently, ruthlessly.
Her hand fisted in his hair, not to guide but to anchor herself. “I’m going to come. Don’t stop. Swallow every fucking drop.”
Her climax broke over her with a stifled, guttural cry. Her back arched off the wall, her thighs clamping like steel vices around his head, threatening to crush his skull. A hot, copious flood of juices spilled into his mouth, bitter and strong. He gulped it down, nursing at her as she shuddered, his tongue gentling now, coaxing out the last few tremors.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant, watery echoes.
Her grip on his hair loosened. She pushed his head away, not ungently. He knelt back, breathing hard, his face slick with her. She looked down at him, her expression one of satiated appraisal. She pulled her swimsuit back up over her breasts with a practised snap, the fabric clinging to her damp skin.
“Not bad,” she said, her voice returning to its normal, cool tone. “A solid eight out of ten.” She reached for her towel, the moment clearly concluded. Paul’s knees ached against the hard tile, the taste of her a sharp, lingering commitment in his mouth.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice cleared her throat from somewhere beyond the cubicle door. “Sounded like a ten out of ten to me.” The voice was warm, laced with a scandalised amusement. “Is it my turn next?”
Silence, thick and sudden, swallowed the humid air. Paul froze, his blood running cold, then hot with a fresh wave of shame. Astrid didn’t miss a beat.
“If you want his tongue between your legs, then yes.” Her reply was pure, forthright Dutch simplicity, devoid of embarrassment. “It can be your turn next.”
There was a pause, filled only by the echo of a diving board slapping water. Then Paul heard the distinct slide of a cubicle door lock opening down the row. “Two cubicles down.” The voice called, now a conspiratorial whisper.
Astrid looked down at him, a faint smirk on her lips. She shrugged one powerful shoulder. “You heard her. Your audience awaits.” She finished drying her hands, dismissing him as she turned to her locker. His next assignment was issued without a second thought.
Paul stood, his legs stiff, and opened the cubicle door. The main changing area was still empty. He walked, the click of his shoes absurdly loud, to the second door down. It stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.
This cubicle was identical. The same blue tile, the same wooden bench. The woman was older, perhaps in her late forties, with a kind, smiling face and curly, damp auburn hair. She wore a practical one-piece floral swimsuit. She looked like someone’s friendly mother. Her eyes were wide, sparkling with a mix of shock and unholy delight. She had one hand pressed over her mouth, as if stifling a giggle.“Wow!” the woman exclaimed, the word bursting from her in a hushed, thrilled whisper.
She leaned closer, the scent of chlorine and her own damp skin filling the small space. “What on earth is going on here then? That sounded… intense.”
Paul’s mind scrabbled for purchase. The taste of Astrid was still slick on his tongue. His tie felt like a noose. “I have a rule to follow. I have to go down on any woman who asks.”
The woman blinked. “A rule? Whose rule?”
“My fiancée’s.” The situation, a well-practiced explanation, fell from his lips with a hollow rhythm. “I have to go down on any woman who asks. It’s her rule.”
A long silence stretched, punctuated by a distant shout from the pool. The woman’s expression cycled through astonishment, disbelief, and then a dawning, heated comprehension. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, still visibly wet.
“Was that… was that your fiancée just then? In the other cubicle?” Her voice was barely a breath.
“No.” Paul shook his head, the motion stiff. “That was one of my fiancée’s friends.”
The woman’s breath hitched. Her hand left her mouth, revealing a smile that was all teeth and wicked curiosity. “You’re kidding me.” She stared at him, seeing the expensive suit, the handsome face, the absolute debasement of his posture. “And you just… do it? For her? Any woman?”
Paul simply nodded. He saw it click into place behind her eyes—the sheer, illicit naughtiness of it, the transfer of power, the forbidden thrill. Her shock melted into something warmer, darker. A pink flush crept up her chest, visible above her floral swimsuit.
“Well,” she said, her tone shifting, becoming low and conspiratorial. She took a small step back and settled herself on the wooden bench. The plastic laminate creaked. “I did ask if it was my turn.”
She looked at him, expectant, a challenge in her now-bold gaze. The friendly mother was gone, replaced by a stranger pulsing with opportunistic desire. She slowly, deliberately, spread her knees.
“Don’t just stand there,” she murmured, her voice thick. “It’s your rule.”
Paul’s body moved on a conditioned wire. He lowered himself back onto the cold, damp tiles for the second time in ten minutes. The ache in his knees was a grounding, familiar pain. He positioned himself between her thighs, his world narrowing to the vibrant floral lycra stretched over her mound.
He hooked his thumbs into the leg holes of her swimsuit. The material was stretched thin from wear. He pulled the gusset aside, revealing her. She was neatly trimmed, her lips a deeper pink, already slick with an arousal that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectacle he represented. The intimate, musky scent of her, under the chlorine, was overwhelming.
He didn’t wait for further instruction. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her.
She was different from Astrid, from Holly. Softer, lusher. He licked into her with a weary expertise, his tongue finding a rhythm designed to please. A high, thin gasp escaped her. Her hands fluttered, then landed on his head, not to force but to feel.
“Oh, God, yes,” she whispered to the ceiling, her hips giving a small, reflexive jerk. “You really have the knack don’t you? That’s really it.”
He answered with his tongue, plunging it deeper, lapping at her with broad, flat strokes. He focused on the mechanics: the flick against her clit, the suction on her swollen lips, the penetration. He could feel her watching him, feel the intensity of her voyeuristic pleasure. He was a performance act, a living fantasy she’d stumbled into.
He worked her with a detached, practiced precision, the kind that came from having one’s focus narrowed to a single, wet task. Her breathing grew ragged, a series of sharp, punched-out gasps that echoed off the tiles. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her hips lifting off the bench to grind her cunt against his mouth, seeking a more urgent friction.
“Right there, don’t stop, oh fuck that’s it,” she chanted, her voice losing all its earlier amused curiosity, dissolving into pure, needy sensation.
Her climax took her suddenly, a violent, bucking shudder that rippled through her entire body. A choked cry escaped her, followed by a hot, sweet gush over his tongue. He drank it, mechanically, until her thighs fell slack against his ears.
For a long moment, the only sound was her panting and the muffled aquatic din beyond the door. Then she giggled. It was a light, astonished sound, utterly incongruous with her age and the setting. She looked down at him, her expression softened with wonder and a dazed gratitude.
“Bloody hell,” she breathed, a hand over her heart. “I haven’t come like that in… Christ, I can’t remember.” She giggled again, pushing a damp curl from her forehead. “You’re something else.”
She leaned forward, her eyes bright and searching. “I’m Sue, by the way. And you are… utterly fucking marvellous.” She reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. The gesture was intimate, possessive. “I want you to fuck me. Properly. Right here. I want to feel that talented mouth of yours all over my tits while you’re inside me.”
Paul’s gaze dropped to the wet, glistening openness before him. Her pussy lips were parted, swollen from his attention, inviting. A deep, visceral ache tightened his own groin. He wanted to bury himself in that heat, to lose the swirling memories of Hayley’s phone, Holly’s blood, Astrid’s chlorinated dominance in the simple, driving rhythm of his own hips.
“I can’t,” he said, the words ash in his mouth. He looked up at her, his eyes hollow. “I’m not allowed. That’s the rule, too. I’m not allowed to fuck anyone.”
Sue’s face fell, a brief flicker of confusion and disappointment. Then she shrugged, a philosophic acceptance settling over her features. “Shame. A real fucking shame.” Her eyes trailed down his front. “Can I see it anyway? Your cock? I just want to see what I’m missing.”
Paul complied, his movements automatic. He unfastened his trousers, pushing them and his briefs down just enough to free his erection. It sprang out, fully hard, the head dark and leaking, a painful-looking contrast to the pale, tailored wool of his suit.
“Oh my,” Sue whispered, her voice full of genuine appreciation. She leaned closer, her warm breath ghosting over the tip. She didn’t touch it at first, just looked. “That’s a beautiful piece of equipment. A proper shame.”
Finally, she reached out, wrapping her fingers around his shaft. Her grip was firm, exploring. She pumped him slowly once, twice, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the slick head. “Such a waste,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Then, decisively, she bent her head and took him into her mouth.
Her mouth was hot, wet, wonderfully inexperienced. There was no skilled technique, just a hungry, enthusiastic suction. She bobbed her head a few times, her tongue flattening against his underside, her lips creating a tight seal. The sensation was a blunt, shocking pleasure after the prolonged, one-sided service of his day. A groan ripped from his throat.
After a few more pulls, she released him with a soft pop. She sat back, a knowing, sympathetic smirk on her lips. His cock stood between them, glistening with her saliva, achingly untouched.
“There,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “A little thank you, I suppose.” She pulled the gusset of her swimsuit back into place with a finality that closed the encounter. “You probably better go, love. If you can’t fuck me properly, you’re just a lovely, frustrating tease.”
She stood, adjusting her suit, becoming just a woman in a floral swimming costume again. “I hope to see you around, though. Maybe the rules’ll change.” She gave him a final, warm wink, then opened the cubicle door, slipping out into the echoing changing room without a backward glance.
Paul was left alone, kneeling on the damp tiles, his cock throbbing in the cool air. He tucked himself away, the fabric a cruel mockery against his sensitive flesh. The taste of two different women layered in his mouth. He fumbled with his zip, his fingers clumsy.
Outside, a whistle blew. The session was over. The thunder of footsteps and children’s voices suddenly swelled, heading right for the changing room doors. Paul got out of there quickly.