Get out here

The others finish getting dressed, grab their bags, and dart past you. Elli staggers, still glassy-eyed, her hands trembling as she pulls on her clothes. Jane doesn't move; her breathing slowly grows shallower, but her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. Within seconds, you're alone with her.

Your gaze falls on your shoes. Two lonely, dirty islands. Nothing else. Christina took everything. Of course. Of course she did.

You stumble over to the shoes, forcing your feet into them. You push the door open a crack. The hallway is empty. But from the entrance area, muffled, excited voices drift in, along with stifled giggles.

No alternative, your temples pound. Run.

You break into a sprint, your soles slapping against the cold linoleum, then onto the rough asphalt of the parking lot. The evening air is mild, yet it feels like an ice-cold waterfall on your bare skin. Your dick slaps pathetically against your thighs with every step, your balls clench painfully. The first few meters are a pure nightmare of raw shame.

Then you see them. Lined up like an honor guard of mockery along the fence leading to the sports field. Girls. Phones raised. The senseless flash of a camera.

"Hey, Trophy! Nice and slow!" calls a voice you think you recognize from the shower. Laughter follows.

You lower your head and charge on. The path leads from the stadium into the quiet residential streets. 800 meters. It feels like a marathon through hell. Every passing car becomes an instrument of ****. You see heads turn, mouths open. A dog owner freezes in place, his terrier yapping at you.

Your body is a single walking disgrace. The wind brushes over your bare nipples, over the still-damp traces on your belly. The arousal has long since given way to a numbing, clammy emptiness, but your flesh remembers. With every step, every curious, amused, or disgusted look, something inside you twitches—a perverse echo of the triumph from earlier.

"Look, he's in a hurry!" shrieks a voice from a porch. Two girls are sitting there with soda cans. A phone is thrust toward you. "Smile!"

You flee through a front yard; an old woman stares from the kitchen window, her hand over her mouth. You run like a hunted animal, your breath burning in your lungs, your heart hammering against your ribs. Christina's address throbs inside your skull. Every meter closer is both agony and relief.

Finally, with your last strength, you stagger toward the right front yard. The house stands there, peaceful, with lit windows. A normal family on a normal evening. The absurdity of your situation hits you with the **** of a sledgehammer. Trembling, with a hand that barely obeys, you press the doorbell. The sound seems infinitely loud in the evening stillness.

Footsteps approach from inside. Heavy, dragging steps.

The door opens.

Light streams out, floods over you, makes every detail of your humiliation visible. In front of you stands Christina's father. In a striped shirt and khakis, a newspaper in his hand.