Sam, face the wall

Your heart leaps and then seems to freeze solid. For a moment, all you hear is the rush of your own blood in your ears. Then your legs obey, heavy as lead, turning you around mechanically. Your forehead presses against the cool tiles. You can feel the roughness of the grout under your skin. You no longer see the room behind you, only the milky white in front of your nose.

Footsteps approach. Soft, bare feet on wet floor. More than one pair. A tangle of soft pattering, muffled laughter, and breaths. You flinch as someone positions themselves directly behind you. You smell their sweat.

"Good," murmurs a voice right at your ear. Not Christina's. Higher, sharper. A gentle, cold hand covers your eyes. Something soft and elastic is pulled over them, tightened. The world sinks into impenetrable velvet black.

"Nakey," whispers another voice from the left, and a fingertip playfully strokes the vertebra of your neck. "So tense here."

The laughter is all around now, a giggling that echoes off the bare walls and eats into you. You are blind. Trapped in a bubble of sounds, smells, and unsuspected touch.

"The trophy is ready," Christina says from somewhere in the distance, her voice sounding amused and detached, as if observing an experiment. "Begin."

A hand—large, with something rough on the fingers, maybe a ring—runs through your hair, grabs it roughly, and pulls your head back. You let out a choked sound.

"Shhh," comes a hiss. "Just hold still."

And then they are everywhere.

Fingers stroking your temples, tracing the rims of your ears. Nails drawing a light, ticklish path down your neck, to your collarbones. Hands exploring your chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, pinching and tweaking them until you gasp. Every touch is an electric shock, a mixture of absolute humiliation and the sweetest, most vile fire.

You tremble all over. You want to duck away, to run, but you are trapped. Their hands aren't holding you down, but their mere presence, this overwhelming majority, is a cage.

"Oh, his back is so smooth," remarks a sensual voice behind you. Two hands slide down your spine simultaneously, following the groove to the small of your back. Then, without warning, two handfuls grab your buttocks, squeezing and kneading the flesh. A sharp slap makes you jerk and elicits a derisive giggle.

"Swift hands, people," Christina comments dryly. You can picture her leaning against the door with crossed arms.

But all of that is only a prelude. Your entire being is increasingly focused on the throbbing, painfully rigid ache between your legs. The touches draw closer, playing around your hips, stroking your inner thighs, driving your arousal to dizzying heights.

Then, finally, a warm, moist hand encloses your cock. A collective, appreciative murmur goes through the room.

"Small, but fiery," says the owner of the hand—the high, sharp voice from before. She establishes a slow, firm rhythm, her thumb playing with your most sensitive spot. Another set of fingers curls carefully around your testicles, squeezing them gently, rolling them.

You moan, an uncontrolled, shameful sound. Your hands claw against the tiles, your knees buckle.

"Do you like it, Trophy?" another one breathes directly into your ear, while a second hand joins the first to encompass your shaft, intensifying the motion. "Do you like it when we touch you?"

You can only stammer, pant. The heat in your lower belly becomes an infernal pressure, a volcano about to erupt. You are so damn close. Every fiber of your being is aimed at this release, at this disgraceful explosion under their hands.

"Now," you gasp, your voice breaking. "Please, I…"

At the very moment the world threatens to tear apart in white light, the hands tear away from you.

A sharp command: "Cold!"

Two strong hands grab you by the shoulders and yank you away from the wall. You stumble backwards blindly. Ice-cold water hits you with the **** of a hammer. It gushes over your head, your back, your overheated, twitching body. A choked scream escapes you, every muscle seizing up in shock. The brutal cold extinguishes the rising wave of lust as abruptly as if a switch had been flipped. Your cock shrinks painfully under the icy spray.

Laughter, loud, carefree laughter, surrounds you. You stand trembling and panting under the stream, the blindfold dripping, the cold making your teeth chatter.

"Too early, Trophy," Christina calls over the others' laughter. Her voice sounds cool and satisfied. "We're not done with you yet."

The water is turned off. Steam rises from your shocked body. You stand there, lost, blind, every feeling except the piercing cold and the gnawing shame erased.

But then the hands return. Gentler now. And with the warmth, like a weed that can't be eradicated, the arousal slowly creeps back. Fingers stroke your chest again, trace your hips.

The game begins anew. Slower, more targeted. They know your weak spots now. They drive you to the edge again with skilled, mean touches, only to drag you back under the icy deluge at the very last moment, with brutal indifference.

You lose all sense of time. You are just a bundle of overstimulated nerves, a plaything in a cycle of searing lust and annihilating cold. Your senses, isolated by the blindfold, focus on every tiny detail: the sound of a particular laugh, the scent of perfume on an unknown skin, the texture of a hand—soft here, calloused there.

"Sam," one whispers, her hand closed around you again, her breath warm on your shoulder. "Do you want to come?"

You can only whimper, a helpless, affirmative sound.

"Ask the Captain," another orders.

And then Christina's presence is directly in front of you. You can smell her, feel her. Her hands cup your cheeks, cold from the water. Her lips almost touch yours.

"Please," you stammer, a tear of overwhelm and shame tracing its way under the wet blindfold. "Chris, please let me…"

She is silent for a moment that feels like an eternity. You can hear her smile.

"No," she says softly, finally. "Not yet."

She steps back. "Cold."

And again, the icy torrent rips you into senseless emptiness.

When the water is turned off this time, a new silence has fallen. No more giggling. Only heavy breathing—yours and theirs. You had no idea that you could feel more naked than naked. But that's exactly what you are now. Chris whispers into the tense silence: