It is Elli

Elli, whose socks always stick to her feet. Elli, whose face is a map of blemishes, with a forehead that glistens under a straggly fringe. Her chest is so flat that the fabric of her sports bra barely curves. And there, where your body merges with hers, you see the coarse, dark stubble above her pubic cleft, which greedily envelops your cock. The Elli who tried to get close to several guys and never succeeded – not even with you.

Your instinct screams, wants to tear itself back, out of disgust, out of shame, out of the disappointment that it isn't Christina you're filling. But then you meet her gaze. Her eyes, brown and a little crossed, are wide open, glassy with lust. Her mouth is slightly open; each of your thrusts draws a guttural, grateful whimper from her. In that look lies a naked, **** devotion, a gratitude that it is you who fills her like this, who desires her. This look captivates you, makes your shame even more ****, even sweeter.

"See what you deserve, Trophy?" Christina hisses next to you. You turn your head and only see her hand as it rises lightning-fast – and then she brings her palm down with full **** onto your bare ass with a loud slap.

A burning flash of pure pain shoots through you. You groan, your grip on the bench tightening. Before the first pain can even subside, the next blow follows. Smack! Again, on the same already stinging spot. Smack! A third, so hard that tears spring to your eyes and you involuntarily thrust deeper into Elli, who lets out a muffled yelp beneath you.

The pain mixes with the overwhelming shame and the unbridled, animalistic lust. Your cock, buried in her moist, tight furrow, throbs wildly. And all around you, in your peripheral vision, they are all there. The whole team. They stand there, leaning against the lockers, watching you with half-open mouths and gleaming eyes. They have put on panties and bras by now. Their gazes are fixed on you, on your twitching, now fiery-red and aching bottom, on your cock that shamelessly burrows into the ugly, devoted Elli.

Christina leans in to your ear. Her breath is hot. "Now show her," she whispers, and her voice vibrates with its own dark excitement. "Plow her. Finish her off. Come in the hole you deserve."

Her words are the final humiliation, the final spur. You forget Elli's face, forget everything except the glowing tightness that surrounds you, the burning pain in your flesh, and the stares that whip you on like lashes. Your thrusts become rougher, faster, a reckless, slapping rhythm that rubs Elli against the bench. Her moaning turns into a continuous, sobbing wail.

You feel it brewing, this unstoppable, shameful end. It boils in your balls, shoots up the veins of your cock like molten metal. Your whole body tenses, an arc of disgrace. With a final, animalistic thrust, which Christina accompanies with a final, deafening slap on your sore ass, everything discharges.

Your semen shoots into the condom, into her, and you roar, a hoarse, devastated sound, as you twitch and tremble, spilling yourself into her pathetic embrace. The world turns white, then black, and all that remains is the dull, throbbing pain on your backside, the damp, foreign smell beneath you, and the knowing, triumphant silence of the girls who have seen everything. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the door open.