The Himbo Model’s Release
Copyright© 2025 by Zappedfan
Chapter 8: The Path to Senior Prank Night
Lokeelani Sales wasn’t as smart as she thought she was and Blake Sales was even more popular than Lokee thought he was. Lokee was still moderating the website. But she wasn’t really the Admin anymore. The users just let her call herself that. Bake Sales with L had grown to 85 members. Lokee had no control over the membership, anymore. Before she just pretended that she didn’t know who they were. But with these last 35 she really didn’t know who they were. The users had invited people from outside the school. Grown-ups. Cousins. Overseas exchange students. And the one red line she had drawn was that she wouldn’t livestream Blake masturbating because “It isn’t a stroke site.” Well it was a stroke site NOW!
It was different now. These new people didn’t know Blake in person, only on the website. It wasn’t only the fangirls and fangays from school watching him shower every morning. It was total strangers. That seemed creepier.
The special orders got creepier too. Lokee had to treat Blake’s toilet paper with a compound that gave him a mild rash between his butt cheeks so that he would open them up and wipe hydrocortisone cream between them on camera. This gave the fangays (Lokee assumed it was the fangays) a closeup view of his “Glory Hole” as they called it. They said it was perfect. Lokee took their word on that. Why not, though? Every other part on Blake was perfect.
Spending as much time watching Blake as she had, it occurred to Lokee that he was a genuinely nice person and she loved, respected and admired him. Strangely, that made pranking him all the more fun to her. Maybe she really was evil.
All the members were paying. There was no problem, there. But, Lokee didn’t need the money anymore. She had already paid the $5,000.00 tuition to the Elite Coding Camp for the summer and recovered what she spent on the GoPro cameras. Now the monthly memberships, bake sales, and special orders were just generating guilt money. She had three hopes in life: 1) She wouldn’t be found out before Graduation Day, 2) The users would keep their word and delete everything then, and 3)She wouldn’t be made to do anything really, really bad to Blake.
Which brings us to the final swim meet of the season. The users were making Lokee set Blake up to be totally naked in front of a large audience. Live, in the flesh (so to speak), up close and very, very personal. Was that something really, really bad. It would be if it happened to Lokee. But, boys are different she kept telling herself. He’ll be very embarrassed. But he won’t have to worry about his reputation. And there’s never been a recorded case of someone actually dying of embarrassment.
Lokee had spent the previous week in a fever of research and regret. Water-soluble thread—easy to find online, shipped discreetly in a plain envelope that looked like it contained nothing more sinister than replacement shoelaces. She’d bought a cheap black Speedo in Blake’s size, the same skimpy cut as the original tryout one. Late at night, while the house slept, she carefully unpicked the seams at the hips, the waistband, the critical joins, and resewed them with the special thread. It looked identical. Felt identical. Until it hit water.
She swapped it into Blake’s gym bag the morning of the meet, heart hammering.
The natatorium was electric. Parents, siblings, rival teams, the whole school community packed the stands for the final showdown against crosstown rivals. Hundreds of eyes. Phones ready. And below, in the dim basement hallway that ran along the deep end—a narrow service corridor most kids never noticed—Barbara had spread the word.
The admirers had split like a well-organized conspiracy: half upstairs in the bleachers for the full public spectacle, the embarrassed scramble, the wide-shot chaos. The other half downstairs, pressed against the thick acrylic underwater viewing window that the old coach had installed decades ago for stroke analysis (back when cameras were expensive and divers still needed to see form from below). The window gave a crystal-clear, up-close view of the lane closest to the wall—perfect for critiquing kicks, or, in this case, for a very personal front-row seat to whatever was about to happen.
Lokee sat midway up the stands, hoodie pulled low, stomach in knots. She told herself it was just a prank. Epic. Legendary. And it wasn’t entirely her fault. She had no choice. It was this or being reported to mom, dad, the law and her own showercam pictures and videos being spread on the dark web. Blake woulddn’t want that. He’d understand. But every time she glanced at Blake warming up on deck—stretching, joking with teammates, that easy golden-retriever grin—she felt the guilt twist sharper.
The announcer called the boys’ 200 freestyle relay. Blake was anchor.
He climbed the block in the tiny black Speedo, looking every bit the reluctant hero. The gun cracked.
He dove clean, sliced through the water like he’d actually improved a little over the season. The crowd cheered normally at first—polite claps for the home team.
Down in the dim basement hallway, the air was thick with anticipation. Barbara’s group—twenty-five of Blake’s most dedicated admirers, mostly girls with a few boys mixed in—huddled against the cool acrylic window, breaths fogging the glass. The underwater view was pristine, the pool’s lights casting a shimmering glow on the lanes. They’d drawn the short straw for the “intimate” seats, but nobody was complaining. This was the angle nobody else got: eye-level with the action, hidden from the chaos above.
Blake was in lane one, closest to the wall. Perfect.
The gun cracked, and he dove in, slicing through the water like a spear. As he powered past the window on his first length, the tiny Speedo did its minimal job—barely. The black fabric stretched taut over his impressive endowments, outlining every curve and bulge with crystal clarity. The group leaned in, whispers erupting.
“Oh my god, look at that,” one girl murmured, eyes wide. “He’s huge. Like, seriously endowed. That thing’s fighting for space in there.”
Another giggled, pressing closer. “And those firm buttocks—clenching with every kick. The view from down here is insane. You can see everything in motion, the way his thighs flex, that perfect V-line dipping into the suit.”
They watched, transfixed, as his legs scissored in powerful kicks, the underwater angle giving them glimpses between his thighs—intimate flashes of muscle and form that the stands could only dream of.
But the real show would come on the return trip.
Halfway down the first length, it started.
The seams gave way in slow motion underwater. First the side panels loosened, fabric peeling like wet paper. By the turn, the waistband slipped. Coming off the wall for the second fifty, the suit simply disintegrated—threads dissolving into nothing, black scraps drifting behind him like confetti in the current.
Blake swam on, oblivious at first, his body fully exposed now—every inch on display in the clear blue water.
In the basement, the group gasped collectively, then burst into hushed, thrilled commentary.
“Holy shit, it’s off! Completely nude—look at that endowment swinging free. It’s even bigger without the suit holding it back.”
“Yeah, and those buttocks—firm as hell, dimpling with each thrust. The kicks are making everything bounce just right.”
Their angle was mercilessly perfect: as he passed overhead, they caught it all in motion—the rhythmic kick exposing glimpses between his legs, the full, unfiltered view of his privates swaying with the propulsion, water rushing over smooth skin. It was raw, personal, almost too much—like peeking into a forbidden dream.
One girl fanned herself. “This view is gold. You can see everything—front, back, in between. Best seat in the house.”
Upstairs, the stands group waited for the emergence, but down in the basement, it was already legendary. Phones captured every frame, the basement echoing with stifled laughs and awed sighs.
Blake powered through the final stretch, oblivious, until he hit the wall and popped up for air.
The realization hit him mid-breath.
He froze for a heartbeat, then slapped both hands over his groin. The crowd erupted—laughter, gasps, whistles, a few sharp cat-calls that echoed off the rafters. Phones flashed like fireworks.
Blake hauled himself out, water streaming off him, face flaming red. He scuttled toward the locker room tunnel, bottom bouncing with every frantic step, hands glued in place, dignity trailing behind like the ruined suit scraps still clinging to one ankle.
Lokee watched it all from her seat, a rollercoaster in her chest: horror as the suit failed exactly on schedule, a sick thrill when the crowd lost it, then crushing guilt when she saw Blake’s face—pure, stunned betrayal of his own body. She wanted to run down there, throw a towel over him, yell that it was her fault. Instead she sat frozen, letting the prank play out.
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