John some how remains quiet as they leave

John’s whole body locked up—muscles tight, breath stuck in his throat—as cum shot across the stall door in sticky white ropes. His hips jerked forward, smearing the mess against the graffiti-scratched metal. Fuck. Fuck. He bit down harder on his fist, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

Coach Wilson groaned like a dying animal, his loafers squeaking as he shoved Lacey’s face deeper into his crotch. “Swallow it all, you dumb slut—”

Lacey’s gagging turned wet, her throat working around him. John could hear the thick, gulping sounds as she swallowed, the way her acrylic nails tapped against Coach’s thighs like she was bored.

John’s dick twitched in his hand, still dribbling. His balls ached, empty and oversensitive. He didn’t dare move—not with Coach’s belt buckle jingling as he tucked himself back in, not with Lacey’s smacking lips as she wiped her mouth.

“Mmm, thanks, Daddy,” she giggled, voice dripping with that fake porn-star sweetness.

John’s stomach twisted. His phone buzzed against his thigh—another Snapchat notification, probably Lacey’s next whore move—but he didn’t dare check it. Not now. Not with Coach’s heavy footsteps thudding toward the sinks.

John stayed frozen in the stall, dick still dripping onto his thigh, as Coach Wilson’s loafers squeaked toward the sinks. The faucet groaned when he turned it on, water splashing into the porcelain bowl. Lacey’s stupid vanilla perfume clung to the air, mixing with the stink of piss and bleach.

“You better not tell anyone, slut,” Coach grunted. His voice was all gravel, like he’d been chain-smoking since dawn.

Lacey giggled—that high, fake sound that made John’s teeth hurt. “Relax, Daddy. Who’d believe a dumb whore like me anyway?” Her acrylic nails clicked against the counter.

John’s phone buzzed again against his thigh. He didn’t dare move. His cum was cooling on the stall door, sticky and gross.

Coach’s belt buckle jingled as he adjusted himself. “Get to class. And don’t be late for practice.”

“Mmm, whatever.” Lacey’s sneakers scuffed against the tile, her stupid little cheer skirt probably swishing as she walked. The door swung open, then slammed shut behind her.

Silence.

Just the drip of the faucet and Coach’s heavy breathing. John’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his dick, which was finally starting to soften.