Chapter 4

The next morning, Kylie stared blankly at her locker door. Amid the usual clutter, a single folded slip of paper—identical to yesterday’s—waited. Her fingers brushed it, cold dread pooling in her gut. With trembling hands, she unfolded it. “Have fun at practice today,” it read, Harrington’s sterile font twisting the innocuous words into a venomous promise. She crumpled it instantly, shoving the paper deep into her pocket like a grenade pin.

In English class, Jameson’s smooth voice slithered through Shakespearean analysis. Kylie hunched over her notebook, sketching frantic spirals. Then Jameson paused, his gaze slicing toward her like a scalpel. “ ... Much like Lady Macbeth’s futile cleaning of imaginary stains,” he mused, eyes locked onto hers. His smirk widened faintly. “Some compulsion remains ... undeniable. Even amidst, he paused, letting the word hang, “convulsing guilt. Or perhaps,” he added softly, leaning on his desk, “a stolen climax buried deep.” Kylie flinched as if struck, her pen gouging the paper. The bell’s shriek was a mercy. She bolted from her seat, shoving past startled classmates, fleeing into the crowded hall.

Harrington materialized beside the gym doors like summoned smoke. Kylie froze mid-stride, her breath catching. “Going somewhere?” His voice cut through the locker chatter, low and intimate. She stammered, “I—I have to get to practice, Mr. Harrington.” He tutted softly, his hand closing around her bicep. “In here now,” he murmured, steering her toward a narrow janitorial closet. She stumbled as he shoved her inside, the door clicking shut behind them. Dank shadows swallowed them both, the sharp tang of bleach thick in the air. Harrington pinned her against cold metal shelves. “Are you wearing panties?” His breath warmed her ear. Defeated, she whispered, “Yes.” He chuckled, dark and soft. “Consequences require reminders.” His fingers dug into her waistband. “Drop your pants.”

Kylie obeyed mechanically, trembling fingers fumbling with her sweatpants’ drawstring. They pooled around her ankles. Harrington’s pocketknife flashed silver, its snick echoing sharply. He sliced through the delicate lace of her peach-colored panties, another favorite ruined, and tucked the damp fabric into his jacket. “Now, to help you recall...” He produced a small tube, unscrewing it to reveal icy-blue gel. Dipping two fingers deep, he coated them thickly. “Raise a leg.” She lifted her shaking leg, hooking her foot on a low shelf. His slick fingers dragged slowly over her mound, spreading chilling menthol. She gasped, muscles clenching—then cried out as he thrust one finger shallowly inside and pinched her clit hard, smearing it in gel. “Enjoy practice,” he purred, stepping back. The door opened, flooding the closet with hallway light before he vanished as Kylie scrambled to cover herself back up.

Inside the gym, Kylie limbered up desperately, stretching her hamstrings deeper than usual to distract from the icy burn searing her nethers. The menthol gel felt like frostbite layered over Harrington’s invasive touch, a cruel taunt masquerading as a “reminder.” Maya bounced over, adjusting her cobalt leotard straps. “Ugh, Coach Miller had us running sprints after beam drills!” she groaned, oblivious. “And guess what? Ezra finally asked me out! He wants to take me to that new pizza place Friday!” Maya beamed. Kylie forced a smile, relief flooding her at the mundane chatter—anything to drown out the phantom whispers and the frigid ache between her legs. “That’s ... great, Maya,” she managed, focusing on Maya’s excited blush instead of the lingering sting.

As Kylie took her starting pose for her floor routine—arms lifted, chin high—her gaze instinctively swept the near-empty bleachers. Harrington and Jameson sat side-by-side in the front row, Harrington’s arms crossed, Jameson leaning forward with predatory focus. Her breath hitched. The haunting Irish melody began, and Kylie launched into her sequence—a leap, a pirouette—but her landing faltered, legs wobbling. Coach Miller’s sharp bark sliced through the music: “Landing’s loose, Morgan! Tighter core!” Kylie stumbled into her next tumbling pass, the icy burn flaring violently with each impact. Her mind flashed to Jameson’s velvet voice praising her throat’s “cadence,” and she froze mid-cartwheel, crashing gracelessly onto the spring floor. Harrington’s smirk was a blade twisting deep.

When she looked up again, Harrington and Jameson were gone. Maybe I’m just imagining things, she thinks to herself. Coach Miller stormed over, her whistle bouncing against her chest. “Get up! Focus!” She jabbed a finger toward Kylie’s rear as she struggled to rise. “And tuck that butt tight—you’re flaring like a damn peacock!” Humiliation scorched Kylie’s cheeks hotter than the menthol’s bite. Jaw clenched, she shoved herself upright. She inhaled sharply, locking her trembling muscles. For the finale, she hurled herself into a double back tuck—landing hard, ankles jarring, but flawlessly vertical. The coach gave a curt nod. “Better.”

The locker room echoed with distant chatter. Kylie headed straight for the showers, locking herself in the farthest stall. Scalding water pelted her skin, steam billowing as she frantically scrubbed at her thighs. She rubbed viciously at the raw sting where Harrington’s gel still burned her skin, the menthol’s chill finally dissolving beneath the heat. Her fingers slid lower instinctively, brushing her pussy. A jolt of phantom sensation made her snatch her hand back like she’d touched fire. “No,” she hissed under the spray, squeezing her eyes shut. She rinsed faster, the water sluicing away suds and shame.

Wrapped in a towel, Kylie avoided the fogged mirror. She dressed quickly: sweatpants, hoodie, no underwear of course. At her locker, she grabbed her backpack, its familiar weight settling across her shoulders. As she slammed the metal door shut, her phone buzzed.

See you in 5 minutes

No sender name. No punctuation. Just those five words in sterile black font. Ice flooded her veins.

She knew exactly what it meant. Room 202. Oblivious students swirled around her, laughing, shouting, slamming lockers. Kylie moved like a sleepwalker through the current, feet dragging towards the science wing. The hallway grew quieter, emptier. The fluorescent hum intensified. Outside Room 202, she hesitated, hand hovering over the cold knob. Taking a shallow breath that tasted like chalk dust she pushed inside.

Harrington and Jameson leaned against opposite filing cabinets, bathed in the harsh overhead light. Harrington’s arms were crossed, Jameson cradled a mug of steaming coffee. Their conversation died instantly as she entered. Four eyes raked over her – Harrington’s sharp, assessing, Jameson’s hooded, lingering on the swell of her chest beneath the hoodie. “Ah, punctual,” Harrington stated, pushing off the cabinet. Jameson took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving her. “Remarkable recovery on that dismount,” Jameson murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. “Such resilience...” Harrington nodded curtly. “Competitive spirit, despite earlier ... distractions.” His gaze hardened. “take off your jacket.”

Kylie’s fingers trembled as they found the zipper of her hoodie. The metallic zzzzzip echoed sharply in the silent room. She shrugged the thick fabric off her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms and pool onto the floor beside the desk. Clad only in her leotard and sweatpants, the air prickled her exposed skin. She avoided their stares, focusing on the linoleum floor. Swallowing hard, she made her way to the desk. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Harrington’s shadow fell over her.

He caught her arm before she could lift herself onto the wood. “Not there today,” Harrington intoned. His voice was low, deliberate. He steered her away from the desk toward the center of the room. “Strength and stamina today,” he announced. “On your knees.” Confusion flickered across Kylie’s face as he pressed down firmly on her shoulder. Her gymnast’s muscles obeyed instinctively, folding her into a kneeling position. The cold floor bit into her knees through the thin leotard fabric. She knelt between them, head bowed, cheeks burning crimson. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Shame scorched her neck and chest. She lifted her gaze slowly, cautiously. Harrington was unbuckling his belt with precise, unhurried movements. Beside him, Jameson mirrored the action, his fingers sliding smoothly over his expensive leather buckle. Kylie’s eyes widened slightly—a doe-like look of raw uncertainty. Harrington’s zipper rasped downward. Jameson’s button popped open. The sound seemed amplified, filling the room. Kylie flinched, dropping her gaze back to the floor. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. Harrington cleared his throat. “Eyes up,” he commanded softly. “Pay attention.” She obeyed, forcing her chin up. Jameson’s smirk was faint, predatory. Harrington’s expression remained stern, detached. “The lesson,” Harrington murmured, his voice dropping to a gritty whisper, “is endurance.”

Kylie blinked rapidly as Harrington pushed his trousers and boxers down together in one fluid motion below his hips. Jameson followed suit, stepping out of his own pooled trousers. Twin erections sprang free—Harrington’s thick and flushed, rigidly pointing toward her face; Jameson’s longer, paler, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Kylie’s breath caught sharply in her chest. Panic flared, hot and blinding. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stifle a whimper. Tears welled instantly, blurring the obscene vision before her. She squeezed her eyes shut instinctively, unsure what to do.

Jameson snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Get your hands up here, stupid girl,” he snapped down at her, the cultured eloquence entirely vanished, replaced by cold authority. “I know you can’t wait to get your slutty mouth around our cocks, but that’ll have to wait.” The sudden shift—the crude word slicing through his usual velvet tone—jarred Kylie. Her breath hitched, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. Tentatively, she opened her eyes as she raised her right hand, fingers visibly trembling. Her arm seemed impossibly heavy. She’d never willingly touched a penis before. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached toward Jameson’s erection—the closest one hovering inches from her face. Her fingertips brushed the hot, taut skin, flinching away instantly as if burned. “Slowly,” Harrington murmured, his own gaze fixed on her trembling hand. “Softly. Grip it.” Kylie obeyed, forcing herself forward again. Her slender fingers wrapped tentatively around Jameson’s shaft. The heat shocked her. The texture—soft skin over rigid hardness—felt alien, terrifying.