Chapter 3: Team Initiation
The victory in Val’s eyes solidified into a plan. “Showers,” she declared, not to Bart, but to her team. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Hands were on him again, hauling him up from his knees. His legs were rubber. They half-dragged, half-marched him out of the locker bay and through a frosted glass door into the humid, echoing expanse of the team shower room. Steam clouded the air, smelling sharply of chlorine and cheap body wash. The walls were slick, institutional tile, grout stained with years of use.
They shoved him, back first, against a cold, wet wall beneath a shower head. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Before he could slide down, Chloe and Sonia pinned his shoulders. Maria, a powerful setter with sharp eyes, stepped forward and got in his face.
“Open,” she said, her voice flat, already working at the tie of her shorts.
There was no ceremony this time. It was a production line. Val stood back, arms crossed, a foreman watching her workers operate a fascinating, filthy machine.
Maria presented herself. Bart, operating on raw, shameful autopilot, did what was expected. The taste was different, tangier, mixed with the lingering iodine of pool water. She didn’t make a sound, just stared down at the top of his moving head with detached curiosity, one hand braced against the wall next to his ear.
When she was done, she pushed his face away with her thigh. “Next.”
It was Yuki, small and fierce, who used her fingers in his hair to guide him with brutal precision. Brittany laughed the whole time, a high, nervous giggle, squirming against his mouth until she shuddered and soaked his chin. Kimberly was silent, intense, grinding against him until he choked. Each one left their mark, their smell, their taste layered over the last.
And through it all, their hands were on him. Not just to hold him still. As Bex, a tall blonde with relentless hands, leaned over him, another girl—Moriah—yanked at the button of his jeans. The denim, strained to its limit, gave way with a rasp. The zipper trundled down.
A collective, sharp gasp echoed off the tiles, even from those who’d seen the outline.
“Oh my god,” Bex breathed, pulling back to look.
It sprang free, incongruous and monumental against his pale, skinny frame. A thick vein pulsed along its length. It looked painful. It looked impossible.
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“No fucking wonder he’s a creep,” Michelle said, her voice hushed. “Carrying that thing around. Probably thinks about it all day.”
“Looks like he’s thinking about it right now,” Sarah chuckled, reaching out.
Her fingers wrapped around the base. Bart cried out, a strangled, broken noise. It wasn’t pain. His hips twitched forward involuntarily. The girls holding his shoulders laughed.
“She’s not even really touching it and he’s gonna blow,” Chloe snickered.
Sarah began to stroke, a rough, experimental pump. “It’s like holding a fucking can of Pringles.”
The taunts came faster now, mingling with the hiss of a distant shower.
“You like being our little flashlight, Higgins?”
“All that just to eat pussy? Pathetic.”
“Bet you jerk off thinking about this, don’t you? Bet you’re gonna think about this forever.”
Their words were like hail, pelting him. Val finally stepped forward, cutting through the group. She looked from Bart’s glazed, tear-streaked face down to Sarah’s fist moving on him. A slow smile spread.
“Careful,” Val purred. “Don’t let him finish. That’s not his job.” She looked at Bart. “Your job is to take what we give you. That’s all. You don’t get to come. You just get to serve.”
She gave a short, sharp nod. The line resumed.
Now, it was worse. Now, with him exposed, each girl who leaned into his face would reach down as she did so—a rough grab, a contemptuous stroke, nails dragging along the sensitive skin. They used it like a handle, a lever to control the angle of his head. The stimulation was maddening, a brutal counterpoint to the degrading service.
He was cracking. Pleasure and shame fused into a single white-hot wire in his spine. His body was a traitor, bucking and trembling, desperate for a release he knew he wouldn’t be allowed.
Michelle was the last. She took her time, one hand fisted in his hair, the other working him with a cruel, rhythmic efficiency. “You’re our toilet,” she whispered, grinding against his lips. “A dumb, pretty toilet.” She came with a sharp cry, her thighs clamping around his ears, and the hot rush joined the cool cocktail already drying on his skin.
Silence, except for the drip of water and Bart’s ragged, sobbing breaths. He was painted. His face, his neck, his chest, his ridiculous, twitching cock—all glistened under the fluorescent lights.
Val grabbed a gym bag and pulled out a dry-erase marker from a side pocket. She tossed it at his chest. It bounced off and clattered on the tile. “Number. On the wall.”
With shaking, slippery fingers, Bart picked it up. The girls released him. He slumped against the wall, then turned and scrawled his ten digits in shaky blue cursive on the white tile.
Val took a picture of it with her phone. Then she stepped close again. She was pristine, freshly changed into clean sweats while he was destroyed. She looked him up and down, her nose wrinkling slightly at the smell.
“Take a shower, pervert,” she said, her voice low and final. “In your fucking locker room, not ours. Walk of shame’s part of the deal.” She leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear. “And when we text you…” she paused, gathered a small amount of saliva in her mouth, and spat, warm and contemptuous, onto his cheek. “…you answer.”
With that, she turned. The team fell in behind her, a victorious troop filing out. The door swung shut with a heavy, definitive clang.
Bart was alone.
The steam swirled around him. He slid down the wall until he was sitting in a puddle of runoff, his head in his sticky, reeking hands. The sound that came out of him was hollow, a dry heave of pure despair. His body still throbbed, aching for a finish that wouldn’t come. The echo of their laughter clung to the tiles. The blue numbers on the wall stared back at him, a promise of more to come.
He had gotten exactly what he’d wanted. And now he had no idea how to live with it.