Get undressed

"Lie down on the lounge. In front of the other piece of common property." Christina shoves Elli off the lounge.

Without another word, Jane begins to take off her tracksuit. First the top, underneath a black, exquisite sports bra that embraces her full, perfectly shaped breasts. Then the pants. Underneath, as expected, a matching black lace panty. Every centimeter of skin that reveals itself is flawless, tanned, toned. A breathtaking contrast to Elli next to you. The other girls let out a breath, admiring and envious at the same time. You stand naked beside her, and as she undresses, your own exposure becomes all the more painfully clear to you. Your genitals, just moments ago buried in Elli's leaky depths, are now exposed to the cold air and to everyone's gaze. You feel a blush creeping over your entire body, from your face to your chest, as you stand here, in front of all these girls, displayed as the naked object of their games.

She lies down on the free massage lounge, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her body is a line of tense shame.

"So," Christina says and rubs her hands together. "Now it gets fun. A little duel. Our trophy here…" she pats you on the bottom, "…against the proud captain of the Wildcats. Who can come faster? Using only your hands."

You stare at her. Your mind refuses to process this. The idea that these girls, who just watched you penetrate the ugly Elli, will now watch you touch yourself is an almost unbearable humiliation.

"The loser," Christina continues, and her voice turns into a dangerous sing-song, "gets ten lashes from the winner. With my belt. Where it hurts the most. Understood?"

Jane nods almost imperceptibly. A tremor runs across her flat stomach.

Christina turns to you. "And you, Trophy? Do you want to get spanked like a naughty boy? Or do you want to win?"

The choice is ****. It's a nightmare either way. But the primitive, aroused part of you, the part that just came looking at Jane's humiliated face, screams for more.

"On my signal," Christina says and pulls her woven team belt from the pocket of her shorts. The buckle clinks metallically. "Three… two… one… go!"

Your hand shoots down, wraps around your own sensitive cock. The familiar, shameless grip. But this time it's different. This time you're on a stage, a naked actor in their perverse theater. You feel all eyes fix on your hand and your genitals, and the shame of it is so overwhelming it's almost physically painful. Your gaze sticks to Jane.

Her eyes are closed, her lips pressed tightly together. Her hips begin to rise and fall, barely noticeably. She's fast. Relentlessly efficient in her own humiliation.

You have to be faster. You stare at her face, at the tear tracks on her cheeks, at her soft, open mouth from which her breathing now escapes in gasps. You fantasize that it's your cock forcing those sounds out of her. That you're coming on her face, on those high cheekbones, into those beautiful, brown eyes. This thought is the only escape from the crushing shame of your own nakedness and the exhibitionist act.

The idea is like gasoline. The heat pools in your balls, shoots up the shaft. Your hand moves as if by itself, a frantic, slippery pounding, while you are aware that they are all seeing your fingers tugging at you. Next to you, Jane lets out a soft moan, her fingers moving feverishly. She's close. You can feel it.

You can't lose. Not in front of Christina. Not to her. Not like this. Not naked and humiliated in front of the assembled team.

With a hoarse, animalistic gasp, you come. It's not a long, relieving stream, but a series of violent, white spurts that are hurled out of you. They land on Jane's face. For a brief moment, you forget your surroundings, the stares resting on your twitching, exposed body, as the last drop empties.

A fraction of a second later, Jane opens her eyes as her own stifled cry fills the room. Her body tenses, then goes limp.

You don't realize who lost. It was actually the same time. But you're afraid you might be declared the loser - after all, it's not quite so obvious with women. To your horror, Chris now simply asks Jane: “Who lost this dirty duel?”

Your own breath burns in your lungs, your cock hangs limp and sticky in front of you, but a new, quivering heat courses through your veins. Jane's gaze is fixed on the buckle, her eyes so wide you can see the whites around her brown irises.