Chapter 4: Victory
The text came three days later. Bart’s phone buzzed on his keyboard, a seismic event in the quiet of his bedroom. The screen lit up with a single, unfamiliar number and a message that turned his stomach to liquid nitrogen.
3PM. 2147 Oak Crest. Back gate’s open. Don’t be late.
He knew who it was. The phantom smells of chlorine and perfume haunted him. His body, sore in places he didn’t know could be sore, tensed with a jolt of dread and something else, something traitorous and eager that made him hate himself.
He showed up at 2:58, heart hammering against his ribs. Val’s house was a large, slightly decaying colonial with a weed-choked lawn and a screened-in pool out back. The roar of female laughter and thumping bass seeped through the walls.
He slipped through the creaking back gate into a scene of chaotic celebration. The team was everywhere, giddy from another straight-sets victory. Red plastic cups dotted the patio. A speaker blared aggressive pop music. The air smelled of grilled meat, coconut sunscreen, and beer.
No one noticed him at first. He stood frozen by the fence, a scarecrow in a cheap graphic tee.
Chloe spotted him. She elbowed Sonia, who was flipping burgers on a grill. A ripple of attention moved through them. Conversations dipped. Smiles turned sharp.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Sonia called out, not unkindly, but with a proprietorial amusement that was worse.
Val emerged from the sliding glass door, holding a cup. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a tight tank top, her hair piled high. She assessed him with a single sweep of her eyes. “Took you long enough to get here. We’re celebrating. Make yourself useful.”
For an hour, he was a ghost servant. He fetched drinks from the cooler. He took over flipping burgers when Sonia got bored. He stood silently as they talked over him, reliving spikes and blocks, their conversations laced with inside jokes and casual, brutal assessments of their opponents. They were gods, and he was the altar boy.
The sun began to dip, painting the sky in oranges and purples. The party migrated, fluidly, inevitably, into the large, open garage. It was a clutter of sports equipment, weight benches, and folding chairs. Someone killed the outside music, leaving a tense, expectant quiet.
Kimberly closed the garage door with a definitive clatter. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
“Alright,” Val said, setting her cup down on a workbench. “Enough chores.”
It happened faster than in the showers. This wasn’t about punishment for peeping. This was sport. A reward for themselves.
Yuki and Michelle guided him to a worn-out couch against the wall. They pushed him down. Hands were on his jeans before he could breathe. They yanked them down to his ankles, his ridiculous inheritance springing free in the stark light.
“Still can’t believe it,” Anna giggled, crouching in front of him. She didn’t touch him with her hands. Instead, she leaned forward and, with a playful smirk, took him into her mouth.
The sensation was electric, devastating. Bart’s head thumped back against the couch. He whimpered.
This was the tease. They took turns. Sarah, after a swallow of beer, went down on him with a brisk, businesslike efficiency that made his toes curl. Brittany would alternate between using her mouth and then rubbing his length between her cleavage, which was slick with sweat and sunscreen, laughing at the face he made. They’d back off just as he felt the coil tighten, leaving him gasping and desperate on the precipice.
They surrounded him. A kaleidoscope of toned limbs, sports bras, and predatory smiles. They touched themselves as they watched, as they took their turn. The air grew thick with the sound of their enjoyment, their encouragement to each other, their taunts directed at him.
“Look at him, he’s gonna cry.”
“Think he likes Sarah’s mouth or my tits better?”
“Just a tool. A cute, dumb tool.”
He was a specimen under a microscope, a toy being passed around. The pleasure was intolerable, a cresting wave they kept holding back. His hands gripped the cracked vinyl of the couch. He couldn’t last. The build-up from the showers, from days of shame and confused fantasy, from this new, agonizing rotation of lips and hands, was too much.
When Moriah leaned over him, her nipple brushing his lips as she stroked him with a fast, twisted grip, the wave broke. He shouted, a raw, unfamiliar sound, and shuddered through a release that was less pleasure than a violent, involuntary convulsion.
Silence.
He slumped, spent, trembling, tears of relief and shame leaking from his closed eyes.
A shadow fell over him. He opened them. Val was standing there, arms crossed. She slowly shook her head, clicking her tongue.
“Tsk tsk tsk,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous purr that cut through the quiet. “Shouldn’t have done that, pervert.”
The finality in her voice iced his veins. The other girls exchanged looks, smiles widening.
“You know what that means,” Val said, not looking away from Bart’s horrified face.
From behind a stack of storage bins, Bex emerged. The tall, powerfully-built blonde had changed. She’d stripped down to just her sports bra and a pair of black boyshorts. But it was what she was holding that made Bart’s breath stop.
It was a strap-on. The harness was black leather, stark against her pale, freckled skin. The attachment was substantial, veined, and a dull, lifeless gray.
Bex’s face was a mask of focused excitement. Her eyes, behind the small silver nose ring, glittered. She adjusted the harness, the straps biting into the muscle of her hips and thighs.
“Means Bex gets to fuck you now,” Val said, her smile all teeth. “And she’s been very excited.”
Bex stepped forward, the artificial appendage bouncing slightly with her movement. She loomed over the couch. The other girls moved with a new, electric energy. This was the main event.
“Hold him,” Bex said, her voice husky. “Not like the showers. On his knees.”
Michelle and Yuki hauled him off the couch. His legs gave out, but they held him up, forcing him onto his knees on the cool concrete floor. They pushed his chest down over the arm of the couch, his bare backside exposed and vulnerable. Sarah grabbed a half-empty bottle of coconut oil from a nearby shelf.
“Gotta prep the pitching mound,” she joked, squirting a cold, slick stream onto him.
He flinched, sobbing. “Please,” he whispered into the vinyl.
“Please what?” Bex asked, stroking the false length with more of the oil. The sound was obscenely slick. “You came without permission. This is the forfeit. You take it.”
She positioned herself behind him. He felt the blunt, unyielding pressure, so different from anything he’d ever imagined.
“Look at him shake,” someone murmured.
Bex placed a strong, callused hand on the small of his back, pinning him. “Relax,” she said, not kindly. “It’ll be worse if you don’t.”
With one brutal, relentless thrust, she seated herself inside him.
White, searing pain obliterated thought. Bart screamed, the sound tearing from his throat. It was a violation so complete it felt like being split in two. The girls cheered, a roaring in his ears.
Bex didn’t wait. She set a punishing, athletic rhythm, each thrust driving him into the couch arm. The pain shifted, blurred at the edges, mixing with a deep, terrifying sense of fullness and a shocking, shameful echo of the pleasure he’d just felt. She grunted with effort, her powerful legs driving her forward.
“Yeah, take it, you little bitch,” she growled, her hand fisting in his hair and yanking his head back. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you get.”
The world narrowed to the slam of her hips, the burn, the roar of the girls, the smell of sweat and coconut oil. He was nothing. A hole. A used, broken thing.
When Bex finally shuddered to a stop, letting out a long, satisfied sigh, Bart was hollow. Empty. She pulled out with a wet, sickening sound and slapped his ravaged backside, the sting a final punctuation mark.
The girls, chattering and laughing again, began to disperse, heading back towards the house and the pool. Val was the last. She walked over and looked down at him, crumpled and weeping on the floor.
She crouched. Her voice was almost conversational. “Get your shit together. Clean yourself up in the bathroom by the laundry. Then get out.” She patted his cheek, hard. “We’ll text you.”
He listened to her footsteps recede, the slam of the screen door. The garage was silent except for the hum of the freezer in the corner and his own ragged, shattered breathing. The concrete was cold against his cheek. The ghost of the thrusts still echoed in his bones. He had no idea how to move, how to ever stand up again. He just lay there, in the oily, intimate dark, wondering if this was all he was ever going to be.