The old gym was all dolled up for the occasion, even though the usual teenage funk still clung to the back of your throat. Gold and blue balloons bobbed against the ceiling—a shiny #1 and a paw print, the school mascot. Ally couldn’t remember if it was a bulldog or a terrier. Didn’t care. Doug’s hand was damp and limp in hers.

“Championship,” she said, her voice flat.

“Championship,” Doug repeated, like a fucking parrot. He always did that.

Her heels made sticky, sucking sounds on the polished floor. Ridiculously short pink skirt. Tight top that showed her midriff. Hair that took forty minutes because the curling iron kept snagging and she’d gotten distracted by a skateboarding cat video. She’d sent it to Doug. He’d responded with seven heart emojis...

“Look who fucking rolled in.”

The voice cut through the bass-heavy music. Mr football guy, Marcus Bane, the quarterback. His neck was thicker than Ally’s thigh.

“Yo! Toilet’s here, boys!” Jude something, one of the linebackers, said. The music died mid-beat.

Into the sudden silence, a slow clap started. Then another. Then a scatter of hoots and laughter that built into something orchestrated, something these dickheads had practiced.

“And she brought her little cuck!”

The gym erupted.

Doug’s face did something complicated. His mouth arranged itself into a weak smile, but his eyes were darting, doing the math of how many people were staring. The answer was all of them. He nodded, a quick little bob of his head, like a dog that’s been trained not to bark.

“Hey, guys,” Doug said. His voice cracked.

Nobody heard him. They were staring at Ally.

Doug’s hand tightened around hers—just a spasm—then went slack.

Ally grinned. Big and empty and genuine. The kind of grin that had no walls behind it because there was nothing to wall in. “Hiiii,” she sang, waggling her fingers.

“Toilet!”

“Toilet!”

“Hey, toilet!”

The word bounced off the trophy cases, the bleachers, the CONGRATULATIONS DOGS REGIONAL CHAMPS banner hanging limp over the stage.

“Hi!” Ally said again, to no one in particular. To everyone. Her gaze skittered across faces, chests, crotches. So many crotches. Beneath track pants and jeans and a few khakis (the debate team guys, the ones who always made her bark like a dog before they’d let her suck).

“What’s up, Cucky?” Chase Henderson called out. He was in Doug’s history class, tall and lanky. He was one of those kids who could have been part of a boy band in the 90’s, blonde, pretty-boy face, and a haircut to match. “Heard your girl drained the entire chess club last Thursday. The fuckin’ chess club. You’re so useless in bed that your bitch has to go beg nerds for it?”

Laughter rose like steam from a manhole.

Ally didn’t get the joke. But she loved the sound. Laughter meant boys were happy. Happy boys meant hard cocks. Hard cocks meant—

Her mouth watered.

“Make sure she sticks around till the end, if the night’s a bust I’ll need to dump a load in her, got it, simp?”

Doug nodded. His chin bobbed. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good fucking bitch!” Chase ruffled his hair like he was a dog.

She giggled stupidly, and the handsome boy shook his head, snorting and muttering, “pathetic.”

She could already taste it. The salt. The bleach-sharp tang. The way it would hit the back of her throat and she’d gag, but she’d keep swallowing, keep being good, such a good toilet, such a worthless hole—

“Come on,” Doug whispered. So quiet it was almost breathless.

“Dance?”

“Dance,” Ally echoed.

They moved toward the middle of the floor. Other couples swayed. Mostly football players and their girlfriends. The girlfriends looked at Ally like she was a bug on a windshield. Tilted heads. Squinting disgust.

Ally didn’t notice. She was thinking about sperm.

A whole day since her last fix. Doug had taken her to his family’s lake house and there were no boys there except Doug, and Doug’s dick didn’t count because it was small and sad and his cum was thin and watery, tasted like tap water left out too long, and he only lasted twenty seconds before he whimpered and apologized and she had to pat his head and say it was okay, baby, even though it was pathetic—

“Good, you’re here, toilet!”

A hand closed around her wrist.

Bony. Skateboard-calloused fingers. Rings on two knuckles.

Ally turned.

Cody Morrison.

Fuck.

Cody was a Junior, one whole year younger than them, and he was just so dreamy. Blonde and skinny with a face like a gorgeous Renaissance angel who’d discovered cigarettes and shoplifting. His hair hung in his eyes. His hoodie was too big. His jeans had rips in the knees from actual skating, not the pre-ripped kind. His Vans were held together with duct tape.

Ally’s stomach dropped in the best way. The way it dropped when she knew she was about to be used.

“I got blue balls like you wouldn’t fucking believe,” Cody said, not even glancing at Doug. Not acknowledging Doug existed. “That girl I was talking to—Megan? The redhead? Won’t put out. Says she’s ‘not that kind of girl.’” He made air quotes. “Fucking waste of forty minutes.”

Ally was already salivating. Her jaw loosened. Prepared.

“Bathroom,” Cody said. “Now.”

Doug made a sound. A choked little noise that died in his throat. “Hey, um, we just got here, I was thinking maybe Ally, and I could dance for a wh—”

Cody turned his head. Slowly. Like a cat looking at something it’s about to bat off a table. “Was I fuckin’ talking to you, cuck?”

The word hit Doug like a physical slap. His mouth opened. Closed.

“I just—”

“‘Cause I’m pretty sure I was talking to the plumbing.”

“I’m ... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” Doug mumbled.

Cody’s eyes—cold, pale blue—locked back on Ally. “You got a problem with that, toilet? Your little bitch boyfriend thinks you should dance first. You wanna dance?”

Ally’s giggle was breathy. Her pupils were blown. Standing this close to Cody, she could smell him—that sharp, sour cocktail of teenage-boy sweat and something muskier underneath, something that made her mouth pool with saliva. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t wanna dance.”

“What do you wanna do?”

“Whatever you want me to do.”

The words were soft. Automatic. A prayer she’d said ten thousand times.

Cody grinned. Sharp. Mean. “Fuckin’ right you do. Come on.” He yanked her wrist, and she stumbled after him, her pink skirt swishing, her heels making those sticky sounds again, and the gym parted for them like the Red Sea.

“Get it, Codes!”

“Drain his balls, toilet!”

“Fuckin’ wreck her, bro!”

Ally waved at the voices. Didn’t matter who they were. All boys were the same. All boys had cocks. All boys deserved her throat.

Doug watched them go. His hands hung at his sides. His shoulders curved inward. The posture of a question mark.

Someone slapped his back. Hard. “Your girl’s gettin’ her tonsils cleaned, cucky! Better find a seat—gonna be a while.”

Doug nodded.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

The hallway fluorescents were harsh after the gym’s murky gloom. Lockers lined the walls, dented, scrawled with permanent marker dicks and slurs. A water fountain dripped. The linoleum squeaked under Cody’s taped-up Vans.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered. “Been holdin’ my nut for two days. You ever go two days without some dude emptying his sack in your mouth, toilet?”

“Um.” She actually seemed to think. “Last week I had a dentist appointment, so I couldn’t—”

“Rhetorical question, dumbass. Don’t care.”

He rounded the corner. The bathroom sign glowed green ahead.

A figure emerged from the boys’ room—Jake Harmon, third-string defensive tackle, a tall, black kid, zipping his fly.

“Whoa, Cody!” Jake grinned. “You bringin’ the toilet in for a cleanin’?”

“Bathroom’s filthy,” Cody said. “Gotta flush.”

Jake bark-laughed and held the door open. “Better use the handicapped stall. Gives her more room to kneel.”

“Good lookin’ out.”

The bathroom air hit Ally’s face—urinal cakes, bleach, the fungal undertone of forty years of teenage piss. Three sinks, one mirror cracked. Two urinals. Three stalls.

Cody pushed open the last stall. The one with the broken lock and the Sharpie graffiti. Someone had drawn a crude dick on the partition. Someone else had written FOR A GOOD TIME CALL: and then Ally’s actual phone number. She’d given it out at a party because a boy told her to.

Cody leaned against the partition. The dick drawing was right next to his head. His own dick was still soft in his pants, and Ally couldn’t stop staring at the bulge. The outline. The promise.

“Well?” He gestured. “What the fuck are you waitin’ for? A written invitation? Dear Toilet, please suck my cock. Signed, every fuckin’ guy in this school.”

She dropped to her knees.

The tile was cold. Wet. Something soaked through her skirt. She didn’t care. Wouldn’t have cared if it was acid.

“Hurry up. I’ve been hard for like an hour, and I’m startin’ to go soft.”

His fingers worked his belt. Buckle clinked. Zipper rasped.

Ally’s hands stayed in her lap. She knew better than to touch without permission. She’d learned that sophomore year when Marcus Bane slapped her across the face and said, ‘I didn’t fuckin’ tell you to use your hands, did I?’ and she’d cried, but she’d also come right there in her jeans, just from the sting of it, the rightness.

Cody pushed his jeans down. Boxers next. No ceremony.

His cock flopped out, mostly soft, and Ally’s mouth went dry.

Then wet.

Then absolutely soaked.

Six inches, cut, resting heavy against low-hanging balls. The head was a muted pink. A thin trail of blonde hair started below his navel.

The smell hit her next.

Sweat. The sour, salt-sharp stench of a teenage boy who’d been wearing the same jeans for days, who’d been skating and obviously not showering. Thick. Heady. Layered over something muskier—like old cum, like he’d nutted into a sock and let it dry in these boxers. And underneath it all, the chemical sharpness of testosterone, a smell that bypassed her brain and went straight to the reptile part of her that only knew hunger.

She drooled.

A thin string of saliva spilled past her lip, down her chin.

Cody looked down and snorted.

“Look at you. Fuckin’ pathetic.” He grabbed the base of his dick and slapped it against her cheek. Once. Twice. The third time smeared her lip gloss. “You want this cock so bad, don’t you, toilet?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want your cock so bad.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a toilet.”

“And what do toilets do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Good girl. Now suck.”

Ally leaned forward.

Her lips parted.

Slid over the head.

Soft flesh. Velvet skin. The taste was salt and skin and unwashed boy, and she thought she might pass out from how good it was, how right.

She sucked.

His cock swelled on her tongue. Growing heavier.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s it. Get it wet.”

Her tongue swirled. Traced the ridge. Dipped into the slit. She tasted pre-cum—a thin salt bead.

His hand found her hair. Not gentle. Not rough. Just ownership. His fingers curled through her curls and held on.

“Fuck, your mouth is so warm. So fuckin’ wet. You really are just a hole, aren’t you?”

She nodded with her mouth full. The motion made him groan.

“Mmmm ... Keep doin’ that. Nod again.”

She nodded.

“There you go. Jesus. All the girls I try to talk to, they want dinner, they want movies, they want me to meet their parents. And you?” He pushed deeper. “You just want cum, don’t you?”

“Mrrmhhm.”

“Can’t understand you. Your mouth’s full of dick, stupid.”

She pulled off just enough to speak. A string of saliva bridged her lip to his cockhead. “I just want cum. Please. Please let me taste your cum. I need it. I need it so bad.”

He chuckled and shoved back in.

No warning.

His hips thrust forward, his cock spearing into her throat, and Ally gagged, a wet choking sound that echoed off the tiles. Cody held her head in place, rings cold against her scalp.

“That’s it. Take it. Take the whole fuckin’ thing.”

Her throat convulsed. Spasmed. Tightened.

His pubes were in her nose. That dizzying stench, right there, breathing him in with every desperate snort.

He pulled back. Slammed in again. Pulled back. Slammed in.

A rhythm now. Fast. Sloppy. Angry.

“Every guy in this school has fucked your face. You know that? Every. Single. One. The football team passed you around at that party in November. Remember? They made a spreadsheet. Kept score. Marcus timed you. You got faster by the end. Like you were gettin’ better at bein’ a cocksleeve.”

Ally moaned.

The vibration traveled up his shaft.

“Shit. Do that again.”

She obeyed. He chuckled.

“Good thing you’ve got a decent mouth,” Cody said, “cause this is literally all you’re good for. You’re dumber than shit.”

Her face lit up. A genuine, radiant smile spread across her tear-streaked face as he fucked her throat. She looked up at him gratefully: thank you for seein’ me. Thank you for knowin’ what I am.

“And just so you know,” he added, casual, “none of us give a shit about you. Not a single one. We just use you to dump loads. Load after load after load. That’s it.”

He grunted, hips beginning to thrust harder.

Her vocal cords buzzed with something between pleasure and prayer. A deep, throaty sound of pure happiness vibrating around his cock. Her thighs pressed together. Her cunt pulsed. This was it. This was what she needed. To be told. To be reminded. To be put in her place.

Cody laughed. Sharp. Mean. “Look how pathetic you are. Moanin’ cause I told you you’re worthless.”

She responded in the same pitiful way. Louder. Yes. Thank you for noticin’.

“You’re so fuckin’ broken,” he said, shaking his head. “I love it.”

A vibration hummed in her throat. Louder this time.

His hips slammed forward, driving his cock deeper into her throat, past where she could breathe. Her airway blocked. Vision spotted. Her hands clawed at his thighs, not to push away—never to push away—but to hold on.

“And that sorry little simp boyfriend of yours,” Cody hissed, voice ragged, rhythm relentless. “He’s out there. Right now. Standin’ by the punch table. He knows you’re in here. He knows you’re chokin’ on my dick. And what does he do?”