There is

The cold still drips from you, each shiver its own humiliation.

"Let him jerk himself off," she asks, and her words hang like vapor in the air, "or does someone want to try out what he feels like?"

A stifled whispering breaks out, a murmur of skin on skin that washes over your bare nerves. You still stand blind, your breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. Someone traces a finger over your taut lower abdomen, and your cock twitches pathetically, half-soft from exhaustion, but instantly reawakening under that one, mean touch.

You can't interpret what's happening. The hands on you change, become guiding, pushing. They lead you out of the shower stall, back across the wet tile floor into the locker room. The air here is warmer, stuffier, filled with the musky scent of sweat, sports, and the sweet hint of girl's deodorant. Your bare feet step on soft scraps of fabric, stumble over a shoe.

"Here," a voice murmurs, and gentle but firm pressure forces you to bend forward. Your hands land on a bench. You lean over it, your back a bowed line of expectation. Your legs are pushed apart.

Again those hands. Everywhere. Stroking your hips, clutching your waist, one hand slides between your buttocks, a shameless, exploring finger that touches you there briefly, terribly intimately, before it disappears again. You groan into the room. Your cock is hard again. "He must be really pent up," one of them laughs. A condom wrapper rustles.

Then you feel it: a clumsy, shaky touch on the tip of your stiff cock, which throbs with arousal. Something cool is rolled over it. It's a foreign, clinical act amidst all this wild shame, and it makes it infinitely worse. You are an object, being safely packaged before it's used.

A gentle but unyielding palm presses against your neck and pushes you to the side. You step into nothing, stumble forward, bump into something. And then you feel it—the soft, wet, impossible resistance at the taut tip of your cock.

A sharp, collective intake of breath from the others fills the room.

You thrust in. A jolt, a tiny, stubborn barrier that gives way, and then you sink in. You sink into an encasing, glowing tightness that encloses you immediately, so completely, that you catch your breath. It's a shock of smooth, wet heat that seems to flood every single one of your vertebrae.

A drawn-out, trembling moan—not yours—echoes in front of you. It's a girl, lying face down on a massage table, and you feel it, how her body tenses around yours, how this unimaginable tightness adjusts to your penetration and then holds you tight.

And you know. You know with every pore of your burning skin that they're all watching. That Christina is watching. That their gazes stick to your naked, twitching back, to your tight ass, to the way you're about to fuck. Shame boils like tar in your veins, mixing with such a brutal, primal triumph that everything goes black before your eyes.

You pull back, a slippery feeling, and thrust in again. Deep. A different sound now, a guttural groan from the woman beneath you. Your hands claw into the cold bench, your hips find their own, shameless rhythm. You fuck her, fuck her in front of all of them, and the tightness around you becomes tighter, hotter, wetter with each thrust, a sucking, perfect pull that drags you toward the abyss.

Her moans grow louder, more uncontrolled, mixing with the rustling sound of skin on skin, with your own gasping breath. You feel something boiling inside you, unstoppable, a volcano of shame and lust, ready to erupt into this strange, tight darkness. The world shrinks to this one, fiery point, to the gaze you can't see but feel on your skin, and to the greedy, yielding body that encloses you.

Then Christina rips the mask from your face. The glaring light of the locker room stabs your eyes, and for a second-long, numbing moment, everything is just blinding brightness. Then the outlines form, the colors, the face directly beneath you.