Chapter 6: The Irish Takeover
The water ran cold for a full minute before any of them moved. Cameron sat slumped against the tile, the chill seeping into his bones, contrasting with the lingering heat thrumming under his skin. Rhea’s head was heavy in his lap, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and even. Bayley traced patterns on his wet shoulder, her own body boneless beside him. The steam began to thin, revealing the grimy ceiling of the large, communal shower room. Their private sanctuary was an illusion; the main locker room lay just beyond the fogged glass door.
“We’re going to prune up,” Bayley murmured, her voice hoarse.
Rhea stirred, pressing her face against Cameron’s thigh. “Five more minutes.”
But the spell was broken. Distant sounds filtered in—the clang of a locker door, the thud of a dropped weight belt, a low chuckle from the other side of the wall. Their time alone was borrowed. Cameron gently shifted, helping Rhea sit up. She looked at him, her gaze soft and sated, a stark contrast to the fury that had greeted him at the door. She leaned in, kissed him once, slowly, a punctuation mark.
“Go,” she said softly, nodding towards the door. “We’ll follow in a bit.”
He understood. This world thrived on perception. He stood on unsteady legs, found his discarded clothes in a damp heap, and dressed quickly. The fabric clung to his still-damp skin. He left them there, two powerful women curled together on the shower floor, and pushed through the glass door into the empty, cavernous locker room.
The air was cooler out here, smelling of leather, sweat, and antiseptic. He walked through the maze of benches and lockers, the only sound the squeak of his shoes on the linoleum. He needed to wash off the evidence, to find a sink and scrub the scent of sex and submission from his skin before facing the fluorescent lights of the public areas.
He turned a corner and found a row of older, individual shower stalls tucked away, relics from a prior renovation. The lights here were dimmer, one flickering erratically. He pushed open the door to the furthest stall, the hinges groaning in protest.
The spray from the rusted showerhead was a weak, lukewarm trickle. He stripped again, letting his clothes fall to the wet floor, and stepped under the pathetic stream. He was soaping his arms, head bowed, when the stall door crashed open.
Becky Lynch filled the narrow space, backlit by the flickering light. Her red hair was wild around her shoulders, her gear still on—the signature leather jacket over her wrestling singlet. Her face was a mask of controlled fury, her eyes blazing.
Before he could speak, she was on him. Her hand slammed into his chest, pinning him against the cold, slick tiles. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
“You reek of her,” Becky snarled, her Irish accent sharp as broken glass. Her other hand fisted in his wet hair, yanking his head back. “You smell like her sweat and her fucking cum. I can smell it on you from across the goddamn room.”
“Becky, what—”
“Shut up.” She released his hair only to grab his jaw, her fingers digging into his cheeks. She studied his face, her gaze raking over him like a physical blow. “I saw her after. Walking like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet. A smile on her face she couldn’t wipe off. She looked…ruined.” The last word was a venomous hiss. “My tag partner. My best friend. Ruined by a fucking production assistant.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Show me what you did to her.”
With a brutal wrench, she tore open her own jacket, letting it fall to the flooded floor. Her hands went to the straps of her singlet. “No,” she said, seeing his eyes dart down. “Not like that.”
In one fierce movement, she spun him around, facing him towards the wall. She pressed her body against his back, her mouth at his ear. “You don’t get to look at me. You don’t get that.” One hand snaked around his waist, her fingers closing around his cock. He was soft, shocked, but her touch was merciless, a rough, punishing stroke that made him gasp. “You don’t get hard for me. You’re her toy.”
Her other hand pushed between his shoulder blades, forcing his chest flat against the tiles. “Now,” she commanded, her breath hot on his neck. “You’re going to show me what your mouth did. What made her look at me afterward like she didn’t even know my name.”
She shoved him downward.
He understood. He dropped to his knees in the inch of grimy water. The tiles were cold and unforgiving. She didn’t move. He stayed there, waiting, the water from the showerhead plastering his hair to his scalp.
“Well?” she demanded, her voice cracking.
He reached out, his hands finding the buckles at her hips. He undid them slowly, his fingers clumsy. He pushed the wet, heavy material of her singlet down her legs. She stepped out of it, kicking it aside. She wore nothing underneath.
He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the patch of dark, wiry hair between her muscular thighs, glistening already. He could smell her too—a different scent than Rhea’s, sharper, tinged with the adrenaline of a match and something else, something bitter like jealousy.
He leaned forward and buried his face in her.
He didn’t start gently. He gave her what she asked for—raw replication. His tongue lashed against her clit with the same hungry aggression she’d shown him. He sucked the stiff bud into his mouth, his lips sealing around it. He fucked her with his tongue, plunging it deep inside her, tasting the sharp, salty tang of her arousal mixed with the chlorine from the shower water.
A strangled sound escaped her throat. Her hands, which had been balled into fists at her sides, flew to his head. Not to guide him, but to grip, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him in place as if he might try to escape.
“Yeah,” she grunted, her hips giving an involuntary jerk. “That’s it. That’s how you did it, you filthy bastard.”
He worked her over with a single-minded intensity, his nose pressed against her, breathing her in. He used the flat of his tongue, then the point, alternating broad strokes with focused, rapid flicks. He could feel her thighs beginning to tremble against the sides of his head. Her grip on his hair tightened painfully.
“Don’t you stop,” she commanded, but her voice had lost its steel, fraying at the edges. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
He didn’t. He redoubled his efforts, adding a finger, then two, curling them deep inside her. He found the spot that made her whole body seize, and he pressed it ruthlessly, in time with the rhythm of his tongue on her clit.
Her swearing dissolved into gasps. The pressure on his skull lessened from a vise-grip to a frantic clutch. “Oh, Christ… oh fuck…” Her hips began to grind against his face, seeking more friction, more depth, more of everything. The powerful, dominant woman was crumbling above him, her vengeance narrative unraveling under a more basic, urgent need.
“Please,” she whimpered, the word so soft he almost didn’t hear it over the shower’s drizzle. It was a surrender. “Please, right there… don’t stop… I’m gonna…”
Her orgasm hit her like a train. It wasn’t a gentle wave but a violent, convulsing explosion. Her legs locked around his head, her back arched violently, and a raw, ragged scream tore from her lungs, echoing off the tiled walls of the stall. She flooded his mouth, her muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers.
He rode it out with her, softening his movements until her shuddering subsided. Her body went limp. Her hands fell from his head, dangling at her sides.
For a long moment, the only sound was the dribbling shower and Becky’s shattered breathing. Slowly, he pulled back. He looked up.
She was leaning against the stall wall for support, her head bowed, her red hair a curtain hiding her face. Water from the shower beaded on her skin. Her shoulders were shaking. Not from cold.
He stood up, wincing at the ache in his knees. He didn’t touch her. He waited.
Finally, she lifted her head. Her face was flushed, her eyes red-rimmed. The fury was gone, burnt out in the fire of her climax. In its place was a hollow, vulnerable exhaustion. She looked at him, really looked at him, seeing him kneeling there, his face wet with her.
A sob escaped her, ragged and broken. She slid down the wall until she was sitting in the water, her knees drawn to her chest. She buried her face in her hands.
“I hate you,” she whispered, the words muffled. “I hate that she has you.”
He sat down beside her in the dirty water, not touching her, just sharing the same cold space. The flickering light cast jumping shadows over them. The rage had been a performance, a costume. This naked defeat was the truth underneath.
After a time, her breathing steadied. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing mascara like war paint. She turned her head towards him, her expression unreadable.
“She can’t know,” Becky said, her voice flat. “She can never know.”
Without another word, she pushed herself up, gathered her soaked gear, and stumbled out of the stall, leaving him alone in the weak spray and the lingering, complicated scent of her.
Without another word, she pushed herself up, gathered her soaked gear, and stumbled out of the stall, leaving him alone in the weak spray and the lingering, complicated scent of her. The door swung shut with a hollow clang. Cameron sat in the puddled water, the cold tile leaching the last warmth from his skin. He listened to her retreating footsteps, a solitary, wet slap fading down the linoleum.
A cold clarity washed over him, colder than the shower.
He stood, water sluicing off him, and shoved the stall door open. Becky was ten feet away, wrestling her damp singlet over her hips, her back to him. Her shoulders were hunched, a portrait of retreat. He crossed the space in three long strides.
His hand closed around her bare upper arm, his fingers digging into the firm muscle. She flinched, a full-body jerk of surprise, and tried to wrench free.
“Let go of me,” she spat, not looking back.
He didn’t let go. He spun her around to face him. Her eyes were wide, the vulnerability he’d seen moments ago already buried under a fresh layer of defensive fury. Mascara streaked her cheeks like strange, dark tears.
“I don’t care if she knows or not,” Cameron said, his voice low and steady, a contrast to the riot in his veins. “But you’re not going to make me submit to you.”
Becky laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “You already did. On your fucking knees.”
“That was for her,” he said, pulling her closer. Her body collided with his, damp skin on damp skin. “This is for you. It’s time you learn how a real man fucks.”
Before she could form a retort, his mouth crushed down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a takeover. She fought it, her teeth clacking against his, her hands coming up to push at his chest. He bit her lower lip, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make her gasp. He used that gasp, his tongue invading her mouth, tasting the faint copper of blood and her own unique, sharp flavor.
He walked her backward, never breaking the brutal kiss, until her back hit the cold metal of a locker bank. The impact shuddered through them both. He ripped the singlet back down her body, the wet material tearing at the seams. It pooled at her feet. She was naked now, exposed under the flickering fluorescent light, every muscle in her fighter’s body coiled tight.
“Fuck you,” she breathed against his mouth, her chest heaving.
“You first,” he growled.
He dropped to his knees again, but this time with none of the forced servitude. This was conquest. He took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking the pale, stiff peak deep, his teeth grazing the areola. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, but the push became a pull, holding him to her. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, sucking and biting until the pale flesh was flushed and marked, her lovely Irish tits glistening with his saliva.
“Stop,” she gasped, but her hips were rocking, seeking friction. “Just fucking stop.”
He ignored her. He stood, his own hard cock pressing against her stomach. He reached down between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and open. He drove two inside her, curling them. She moaned, her head thudding back against the locker.
“You’re soaked,” he said, his voice rough. “All that hate and you’re dripping for it.”
He removed his fingers, slick with her, and brought them to her ass. He pressed against the tight ring of muscle there. She stiffened, her eyes flying open.
“No,” she said, a real fear flashing in them.
“Yes,” he countered, his tone leaving no room. He spat on his fingers, adding to the wetness, working it against her. “You came in here for a lesson. You’re getting the full curriculum.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging past her resistance. He pushed, slowly, inexorably, feeling her body fight then yield. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the lockers, her nails digging into his biceps.
“Relax,” he commanded, not stopping. “Take it.”
He buried himself to the hilt in her ass, a deep, burning invasion. She was impossibly tight, a searing-hot vice around him. Tears leaked from her clenched eyes, cutting new paths through the mascara. He held there, letting her adjust, feeling the frantic flutter of her internal muscles.
Then he began to move.
He fucked her ass with a relentless, pounding rhythm, each thrust driving her into the unyielding metal. There was no gentleness, no careful consideration. This was a claiming. Her screams morphed into choked sobs, then into something else entirely. A guttural, broken sound of pure, shocked pleasure.
“Cameron!” His name was torn from her, not in anger, but in ecstasy. “Oh, God… Cameron!”
Her body was betraying her, responding to the brutal rhythm. Her earlier command disintegrated. She was meeting his thrusts now, pushing back against him, her own need surpassing pride or vengeance.
“Please,” she begged, the word mangled. “Don’t… don’t stop…”
He fucked her harder, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want…” she panted, her head lolling. “Show me… show me how to be the man.”
The request, twisted and raw, unleashed something feral in him. He pistoned into her, the slap of skin and the metallic rattle of the lockers creating a violent music. He felt her orgasm approach not as a soft crest but as a seizure, a tectonic shift inside her. It ripped through her, bending her backwards over his arm, a silent scream stretched across her face.
Her clenching muscles pulled his own climax from the depths of his spine. With a final, deep thrust, he spilled into her, his vision tunneling to the sight of her wrecked, beautiful face.
He stayed lodged inside her for a long moment, both of them shuddering, the only sound their ragged, torn breathing. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. She slumped forward, her forehead resting against his chest, her body trembling uncontrollably.
He held her up, his own legs weak. The silence that followed was louder than their cries had been. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Becky finally lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy, distant. She looked at him, through him, at something else entirely. She swallowed hard.
“She can’t know,” Becky whispered again, but the words were empty, a ghost of her former demand. They both knew it was already a lie. This was a new fracture, deep and permanent.
She pushed away from him, her movements stiff. She gathered her torn gear, not bothering to put it on, just holding the damp fabric against her chest like a shield. She didn’t look back as she walked away, her bare feet leaving faint wet prints on the floor that slowly evaporated behind her.
She didn’t look back as she walked away, her bare feet leaving faint wet prints on the floor that slowly evaporated behind her. She made it three steps before a figure emerged from the shadows near the entrance, leaning casually against the doorframe. Rhea. Her arms were crossed, her damp purple hair slicked back, a fresh towel draped around her neck. She looked utterly relaxed, a predatory calm in her eyes.
Becky froze, the torn singlet clutched to her chest doing little to cover her. Her face, still streaked with smeared mascara and the flush of recent violation, paled. “Rhea,” she breathed, the name a choked whisper. “I… it’s not what—”
Rhea pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance in two silent strides. She didn’t speak. She simply cupped Becky’s jaw, her thumb wiping at a tear track, and kissed her.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was deep, consuming, and full of intent. Rhea’s tongue swept into Becky’s mouth, claiming it, tasting the residual salt of sweat and tears and Cameron. Becky stiffened, a tiny gasp caught between their lips, before she melted into it. Her hands, which had been clenched white-knuckled around the fabric, loosened. The wet singlet dropped to the floor with a soft slap.
Rhea broke the kiss, her lips hovering a breath from Becky’s. “I know you fucked him,” she said, her voice a low, thrilling vibration. “I watched the security feed on my phone. I saw you push him to his knees. I saw him ruin you against the lockers.” Her thumb stroked Becky’s cheekbone. “And I don’t care.”
Becky blinked, confusion and a dawning, terrifying hope warring in her wet eyes. “You… don’t?”
“No,” Rhea said, a slow smile spreading across her face. She leaned in again, her words a hot whisper against Becky’s ear. “Because we’re going to fuck now. And he’s going to watch.” She pulled back to see Becky’s reaction. “And you’re going to scream my name with so much ecstasy you’ll forget your own. You’re going to love it.”
Becky’s breath hitched. All her defensive fury, her jealous rage, her performative toughness, drained away leaving only a raw, willing vulnerability. She nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. “Yes,” she breathed.
Rhea’s smile sharpened. She turned her head, her gaze locking on Cameron, who stood rooted by the shower stall, water still dripping from his chin. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a weight bench a few feet away. “Watch.”
Cameron moved, the cold air raising goosebumps on his skin. He sat on the cool vinyl pad, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was hard again, painfully so, just from the promise in Rhea’s eyes.
Rhea turned back to Becky. She slid the towel from her own neck and draped it over Becky’s shoulders, a oddly tender gesture that only heightened the tension. Then her hands went to Becky’s hips, turning her slowly to face Cameron on the bench. “Show him,” Rhea murmured, her lips grazing the shell of Becky’s ear. “Show him how pretty you are for me.”
Becky, her back now to Rhea, let her arms fall to her sides. She was on display, her body still flushed from Cameron’s rough handling, her breasts rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. She kept her eyes on Cameron, a direct, unfaltering gaze that was both a challenge and a surrender.
Rhea’s hands moved from Becky’s hips, skating up her sides to cup her breasts from behind. She squeezed, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, pinching the nipples until Becky whimpered. “He fucked your ass, didn’t he?” Rhea whispered, the words meant for all of them. “Stretched that tight little hole open.”
“Yes,” Becky gasped, her head falling back against Rhea’s shoulder.
“Good,” Rhea purred. One hand slid down Becky’s stomach, through the coarse thatch of hair, and plunged two fingers into her without ceremony. Becky cried out, her spine arching. “Still so wet for him,” Rhea said, her fingers moving in a cruel, curling rhythm. “But this is for me now. This cum. This scream.”
She withdrew her slick fingers and brought them to Becky’s mouth. “Suck,” she ordered. Becky obeyed, her tongue swirling around Rhea’s digits, cleaning them with a desperate, hungry reverence. Cameron watched, transfixed, his hand moving unconsciously to stroke his own aching cock.
Rhea then guided Becky down, not to her knees, but onto all fours on the cold floor. She positioned her directly in front of Cameron, a perfect, obscene tableau. Becky’s face was level with his groin, her ass presented to Rhea. “Stay,” Rhea told Cameron, a feral gleam in her eye.
Rhea knelt behind Becky. She spat once into her palm, slicking herself, and then pressed the broad head of her strap-on against Becky’s other entrance, the one still tender and stretched from Cameron’s use. Becky flinched, a sharp inhalation hissing through her teeth.
“Tell him what you want,” Rhea growled, applying pressure.
Becky’s eyes, wide and dark, found Cameron’s. “I want her to fuck me,” she moaned, the words thick with shame and need. “I want her to own me.”
Rhea pushed forward in one relentless, smooth motion. Becky screamed, a raw, tearing sound that echoed in the sterile room. Her body bowed, her hands slapping flat against the floor for purchase. Rhea seated herself fully, her own low groan mingling with Becky’s cry.
Then she began to move. It was a brutal, powerful rhythm, each thrust rocking Becky forward. Cameron could see every detail: the way Becky’s body yielded, the clench of her muscles, the glisten of sweat and silicone. Rhea gripped Becky’s hips, her knuckles white, holding her in place as she pistoned into her.
“Whose are you?” Rhea demanded, her voice strained with effort.
“Yours!” Becky sobbed, the words punched out of her with each thrust. “Rhea’s! I’m yours!”
“Louder.”
“I’M YOURS!” Becky screamed, the sound ringing off the lockers. Her arms trembled, threatening to give way. “RHEA! PLEASE!”
Cameron watched, his hand moving faster on his own cock. The sight was more intoxicating than anything he could have imagined: the fiery, defiant Becky Lynch, broken and remade, begging for Rhea’s possession. Rhea’s face was a mask of concentrated power, her teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure as she drove into her friend, her rival, her lover.
Becky’s pleas dissolved into a continuous, keening wail as her orgasm seized her. It visibly racked her, a series of violent convulsions that made her whole body shudder. Rhea fucked her through it, prolonging the waves until Becky was sobbing openly, her forehead resting on the filthy floor.
Only then did Rhea’s pace falter. Her own release was quieter, a deep, guttural groan as she buried herself to the hilt one final time and held there, her body trembling with the force of it.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant, ever-present hum of the arena. Rhea slowly pulled out. Becky collapsed onto her side, curled into a fetal position, tremors still running through her.
Rhea stood up, disconnecting the harness with practiced ease. She looked down at Becky, then over at Cameron. Her expression was one of profound, satiated ownership. She walked to him, her stride sure, and knelt before the bench. She didn’t touch him. She just looked at his hand, still working his cock.
“Did you enjoy the show?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Yes,” Cameron said, the word a bare exhale.
She leaned forward then, taking him into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips sinking down his length in one smooth, deep motion. It was over in less than a minute. The tension, the voyeuristic thrill, the raw display of power—it coalesced into a blinding peak. He came hard down her throat, his hips bucking off the bench, a broken sound escaping his lips.
She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked from his spent form to Becky’s trembling one on the floor. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. She reached out and tousled Cameron’s damp hair, a gesture both affectionate and proprietary.
“Get dressed,” she said softly, her eyes already fixed on the future, on the next move. “We have a flight to catch.”