The Partner’s Daughter Put Me on My Knees in the Locker Room

The Aurora Tennis Club rested in an almost total calm at that hour of the afternoon. The low sun poured a soft, golden light through the windows facing the empty courts. It was one of those places where the annual fee cost a fortune, reserved for members with money or the right contacts, and that kept the air of quiet luxury that surrounded everything.

Lorena had been in charge of the women’s locker rooms for almost three years. She cleaned the showers, folded immaculate towels, restocked cold water bottles and the expensive products on the shelf, and made sure every corner shone before and after each use. She was thirty-four, though her youthful face made her look younger. Dark-skinned, with dark hair always worn in a low bun, she barely reached five foot three. She wore the club uniform: white polo with the discreet logo, gray pleated skirt, and black sneakers meant not to draw attention.

The club was not just her job; it was a daily reminder of everything she didn’t have. Expensive cars in the parking lot, conversations about skiing in Andorra or private beaches, clothes worth more than her monthly salary. Lorena cleaned, tidied, restocked, always invisible, always in the background. But she watched.

That afternoon she had just finished checking the showers when she heard voices in the carpeted hallway. It was Bianca and Daniela, finishing their usual match. Muffled laughter, some playful comment about a long, hard-fought point. Bianca came in first, with that ease that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her.

Blonde, tall, twenty-two years old but with a composure that made her seem older. The wiry body of someone who trains every day without seeming to strain. Daughter of one of the main members, she moved through the club as if it were her own home: confident, careless, with a touch of superiority that didn’t need to be said out loud. Her hair was mussed from the match, her bronzed skin shining with sweat, the tight black outfit outlining every line of her body, her small, firm breasts visible beneath the polo, nipples hard from the friction of the sweaty fabric.

Lorena looked up for a second, just to confirm who was coming in. But her eyes almost went on their own to Bianca’s feet, to the worn white leather sneakers, creased at the toe from the court. It wasn’t a casual glance. It was something deeper, a silent impulse to lower her head and stay still, as if looking at that footwear already amounted to a small, involuntary surrender.

She didn’t know why she noticed. At first it was pure envy: those feet stepped on luxury courts, walked through a perfect life, left behind traces of a confidence she could never imitate. But over time the envy had turned into something else, more visceral. Every time Bianca came in, Lorena lowered her eyes to her sneakers. Those feet were the symbol of her strength: they stepped on the world with authority, controlled the space.

Why does this happen to me? She had never been attracted to women. But Bianca was not just a woman; she was a force. Her self-assurance pulled at Lorena like a magnet, made her feel small, and in that smallness there was something like relief. Envy had become devotion.

Bianca noticed at once, because she always noticed those things. She set her racket on the bench without care, opened her locker —the largest one, reserved for her— and pulled off her soaking wristband, letting it drop onto the polished wood. She looked at Lorena through the large mirror covering the wall, without turning fully around, one eyebrow just slightly raised.

—What are you staring at so much? —she asked. It was the tone she used with staff: firm, direct, with a hint of superiority that didn’t quite become an order.

Lorena startled, her hands going still on the half-folded towel. Heat climbed up her neck to her cheeks.

—Nothing, Miss Bianca… I was just putting the towels in order —she answered too quickly, lowering her gaze, but not before her eyes brushed the shoes again.

Bianca turned slowly, leaned one hip against the edge of the locker, and crossed her arms over her chest.

—You were looking at my sneakers? —she said bluntly, her voice casual, as if she were commenting on the weather—. Don’t deny it. Do you like them? They’re pretty sweaty.

Lorena didn’t know what to say. Her blush deepened and she pressed the towel against her chest like an improvised shield. Daniela, who had come in behind her, was talking quietly on the phone and rummaging through her locker, completely oblivious to the conversation.

Bianca stepped closer, her voice steady but not raised.

—Take them off for me, Lorena. I need to shower and I’m too tired to bend over after the beating I’ve taken.

It wasn’t a strict command, she didn’t raise her voice or use harsh words. It was a request spoken with the naturalness of someone used to having things done for her, with an edge that made it hard to refuse.

Lorena’s obedience was instant. She carefully put the towel down on the bench and knelt in front of her, the cold floor pressing through the fabric of her uniform pants into her knees. Her heart was beating fast, but she didn’t hesitate.

Bianca started taking off her polo with lazy indifference, as if nothing unusual were happening, and dropped it beside the racket without looking at it. Her attention was divided: part of it on her own routine, part on watching Lorena out of the corner of her eye.

Lorena raised her hands with extreme care. Her fingers hesitated for a moment; it wasn’t just nerves, it was reverence. She caught the laces of the right sneaker between her index finger and thumb and held them for a second, feeling the rough texture of the worn cotton and the residual dampness clinging to her skin. I’m afraid I’ll leave a mark with my cleaner’s hands. She lowered her gaze, ashamed of her own hesitation, and only then undid the knot.

She did it with painful slowness. The bow came loose with a faint snap of cotton against itself. She loosened the laces, held the sides of the shoe, and pulled outward to widen the opening. The leather was warm, not just from Bianca’s foot, but because it had absorbed her sweat during an hour and a half of play. She gripped the heel and pulled gently. The sneaker came off with a small wet, sticky sound, and a strong smell rose all at once: hot leather, fresh salty sweat, concentrated effort. It was overwhelming and yet it did not disgust her. It was real, alive, and it drenched her panties in an instant, a wet lash between her legs that left her breathless.

Bianca said nothing. She lifted the other foot, flexing her bare toes against the cold tiles while Lorena repeated the motion with the same trembling reverence. She undid the knot, loosened the damp laces, and tugged at the heel. The second sneaker came off the same way, revealing the cushioned lining pressed down by the shape of the foot, the imprint etched into the fabric.

Lorena remained on her knees a second longer, the heavy sneakers still warm in her hands. The smell came in waves and, unable or unwilling to resist, she brought one a little closer to her face. She closed her eyes. She inhaled, a short but deliberate gesture, letting the aroma flood her. She felt her cunt clench under her skirt, the cotton of her panties growing even wetter, and a surge of heat shot up to her nipples. A short, almost inaudible sigh escaped her, and suddenly she felt ashamed of having moaned in front of the rich girl.

Bianca saw everything in the mirror: the subtle lean, the nose brushing the leather edge, the held-back sigh, that mix of shame and need. And she understood something. This isn’t just an obedient employee. She was a submissive in the making, someone who instinctively responded to power, someone to play with. She smiled to herself, a small, calculating smile that never reached her eyes.

—Leave them there on the floor, lined up neatly —she said calmly, finishing undressing until she was left in sports underwear—. And stay still for a moment.

Lorena obeyed at once. She placed the sneakers parallel beside the bench and rose on unsteady legs, her hands instinctively behind her back. Bianca walked barefoot toward the showers at the back, and the soft sound of her naked feet faded until only the water starting to fall remained.

***

Daniela hung up the phone and turned around. She saw Lorena standing there, motionless, gaze lowered; saw the sneakers on the floor, placed with almost reverential care; saw, above all, the posture: shoulders drawn in, hands behind her back, head bowed.

She was also twenty-one, almost as tall as Bianca, slim and athletic, with the loose grace of someone who played several times a week and hit the university gym. Red-haired, her high ponytail half undone by the match, the very short white skirt and the fitted polo damp across the back. She left the phone in the open locker and approached slowly, arms crossed, stopping right in front of Lorena.

—What happened here? —she asked, half curious and half amused.

Lorena lifted her eyes for a second and quickly lowered them again.

—Nothing, Miss Daniela… Miss Bianca asked me to take off her sneakers.

—And you just knelt down like that, no problem? —Daniela raised a red eyebrow.

Lorena didn’t answer. The blush climbed back up her neck.

Daniela looked at the sneakers on the floor, then at Lorena, then toward the hallway where Bianca had disappeared. A slow smile began to form on her face, not unlike the other girl’s a few minutes before.

—Interesting —she murmured. She stepped closer and lowered her voice, though the locker room was still empty—. What if I want you to take mine off too?

She didn’t wait for an answer. She sat on the edge of the bench as if it were the most natural thing in the world and extended her right leg with a fluid motion, planting the heel on the floor, the sneaker suspended a few inches from Lorena’s face, the toe pointed directly at her.

—Go on —she said softly, playfully, with a sharpness that left no doubt—. Take them off. Just like you took Bianca’s off.

It wasn’t as cold a command as Bianca’s; it was an invitation loaded with curiosity, as if she were testing a new toy to see how far it went. But the tone carried that edge of someone who already knew she would be obeyed.

And Lorena obeyed again. She knelt slowly, the cold floor once more against her knees, and carefully took hold of the heel of the right sneaker. The leather was stiffer than Bianca’s, but just as warm inside. She pulled gently and it came off with a drier sound, revealing the cushioned, damp interior. The smell was different: cleaner, but just as real, fresh sweat and a sweet hint of cream. She repeated it with the left, her fingers trembling and clumsy, until both bare feet were resting on the tiles.

Daniela flexed her toes, watching her from above with a mix of curiosity and satisfaction. Without warning she lifted her right foot and pressed the sole directly over Lorena’s mouth, pushing her sweaty toes against her closed lips.

—Stick out your tongue —she said, with the same playful smile—. Let’s see how obedient you are.

Lorena parted her lips without thinking. The warm, salty sole filled her mouth, Daniela’s toes pressing between her teeth. She stuck out her tongue and licked, a long lick from the heel to the hollow between the toes, then sucked them one by one as if they were candy, tasting the salt of sweat, the fine dust of the court, the raw flavor of a foot that had spent two hours sealed in leather. A muffled moan escaped her and she felt her panties soak and cling to the lips of her cunt.

—Fuck, look how she sucks —Daniela murmured, no longer laughing, her voice a little rougher—. She’s enjoying it. The filthy little bitch is enjoying it.

She pulled her foot out of Lorena’s mouth with a string of saliva hanging from it and presented the other. Lorena repeated it without hesitation, closing her eyes, swallowing saliva mixed with sweat, and for a second the only thing in the world was those red-haired toes pressing against her tongue.

—You’re good at obeying, huh? —Daniela commented, finally pulling her foot back with a wet smack, then quickly taking off her polo and skirt without any theatrics, until she was left in white underwear that outlined her shaved cunt beneath the thin fabric—. Put them in my locker, nice and neat. And don’t leave yet.

Lorena stored them with the same care she had used for Bianca’s and stayed by the bench, not quite knowing what to do, her mouth still tasting of Daniela and her cunt throbbing like a drum, while the redhead also disappeared toward the showers.

***

A few minutes later, the water shut off almost at the same time in both stalls. Bianca came out first, wrapped in a large white club towel, her wet blonde hair stuck to her shoulders. Daniela followed, with another identical towel, her red hair darker from the water.

Bianca walked over to her locker, stopped halfway, turned toward Lorena and looked her straight in the face. With a sharp motion she yanked off the towel and let it fall to the floor, standing completely naked in front of her, her small, firm breasts with pink nipples hardened by the cool air, her flat stomach defined, her blond pubic hair trimmed into a narrow strip pointing directly toward her pink, glossy cunt.

—Lorena, bring us fresh towels, these are soaked. And dry us off.

Lorena blinked, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed where they shouldn’t be.

—Dry… dry you, Miss Bianca?

—Yes. Dry us. Start with me. And stop staring at my cunt with that idiot face, or at least do it while you work.

Daniela let out a low laugh, dropped her towel too, and leaned sideways against her locker, crossing her arms under her chest, exposing two small, perky breasts freckled across the skin and a nearly bare-shaved red pubic mound. She said nothing, but her eyes shone with amusement. Lorena swallowed, went to the supply closet with short, awkward steps —it was hard to walk with her panties so wet—, took out two large cotton towels, and came back. She handed one to Bianca, but Bianca didn’t take it: she just raised her arms slightly, opening her body, as if giving permission to begin.

Lorena spread the towel with trembling hands and started at the shoulders, absorbing the drops running down Bianca’s collarbone and arms. She went down the sides, over the narrow waist. The contact was soft, almost reverent. When she reached the chest, she hesitated visibly: the towel hung in the air for a second.

—With your hand —Bianca said sharply, cutting her off—. Forget the towel. Dry my tits with your hand.

Lorena let the towel fall to the bench and raised trembling palms. She placed them on the two wet breasts, feeling their small, firm weight filling her hands exactly, the hard nipples pressing into the center of her palms. She rubbed them slowly, in circles, drawing water off against her own skin, and without meaning to her thumbs drifted to the nipples and pinched them clumsily.

—Ooh, look how bold —Bianca whispered, not taking her hands away—. Keep going. Suck them too, so we can make sure they’re properly dry.

Lorena bent down and captured one nipple between her lips. She sucked it, rolled it with her tongue, felt it harden even more in her mouth, and noticed Bianca let out a short breath through her nose. She moved to the other one, with the same awkward devotion, while her hands slid on their own down the sides to the blonde’s hips.

—Oh, the little slut is loosening up —Daniela commented from the bench, with a filthy laugh—. She’s not shaking as much anymore.

Bianca parted from her with a soft but firm gesture.

—Down. Get on your knees and dry our legs. Start with the feet.

Lorena dropped to her knees as if her tendons had been cut. She took the towel and started at Bianca’s thin ankles, moving up the wiry calves, the hard tennis player’s thighs. When she reached the inner thighs, Bianca spread her legs without a trace of shame, planting her feet a handspan farther apart, offering her open sex still shining with water.

—There too. Dry it well. I’m not leaving with a wet cunt under my pants.

Lorena brought the trembling towel close and passed it over the blond pubis, then over the outer lips, careful not to press. But Bianca clicked her tongue.

—With your mouth, dummy. The towel’s not going to reach where it needs to go.

Her heart lurched. She looked up. The blonde was staring down at her with that cold half-smile, one hand already tangled in Lorena’s loose bun, pushing her—not roughly, but without room to refuse—toward the open cunt. Lorena parted her lips and stuck out her tongue. The first contact electrified her: taste of soap, warm water, and underneath, starting to come through, the salty, heavy taste of Bianca’s wet cunt. She licked slowly, bottom to top, the full length of the vulva, collecting the moisture with her flat tongue.

—Like that —Bianca panted, closing her eyes slightly—. Dry it properly. With your tongue. There, the clit. Suck it.

Lorena found the pink clit peeking out between the folds and wrapped it with her lips. She sucked it hungrily, her tongue buzzing over it, and felt Bianca’s hand close tighter in her hair, felt the blonde’s hips begin to rock against her face. The smell of clean, aroused cunt filled her nostrils, the wetness soaked her chin, and she licked, sucked, pushed her tongue inside and came back to the clit, hypnotized.

—Look at the filthy little thing —Daniela said, closer than expected—. She’s good at it. Way better than she should be for her first time.

—It is your first time, isn’t it, Lorena? —Bianca asked, tugging her hair back to pull her mouth off the cunt. A thread of saliva and slick hung between Lorena’s lips and the blonde’s reddened vulva—. Had you never eaten pussy before?

—N-no, Miss Bianca —Lorena panted, face soaked, lips shining.

—Then you were born for this. Keep going.

She pushed her against her sex again and Lorena obeyed, this time hungrier, sliding her tongue deep inside, going back up to the clit and sucking it noisily. She could feel her own panties literally dripping; her thighs slid against each other when she moved. Bianca braced one hand on Daniela’s shoulder to keep her balance and began to fuck Lorena’s face openly, pushing her hips against Lorena’s open mouth.

—I’m going to come in your whore mouth —she hissed, her voice for the first time disordered—. Swallow it all, don’t you dare let a drop go.

Lorena sucked harder, her tongue curling around the swollen clit. Bianca let out a guttural moan, squeezed her hair hard enough to hurt, and came against her face, her hips convulsing, a warm, thick stream flooding her mouth. Lorena swallowed, swallowed as much as she could, tasting the strong salty flavor sliding down her throat while the blonde panted over her, thighs trembling.

When she finally let her go, Lorena leaned back, sitting on her heels, her face shining with slick, eyes glassy. Her own cunt was throbbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Bianca sank onto the bench, opening her legs again without the slightest shame, and nodded toward Daniela.

—Now her. And this time behave, because Daniela is pickier.

Daniela was already standing in front of her, one hand on her hip, the other on her shaved red pubis, using two fingers to spread her cunt lips open to show it, glossy and pink.

—Come on, slut, don’t make me wait. Look how wet I am just from seeing you.

Lorena lunged without hesitation. She buried her face between her legs, sucking as if she’d been doing it for years. Daniela tasted different: sharper, younger, with an almost sweet touch from the soap. She licked the inner lips one by one, then went up to the clit and wrapped it with her tongue, sucking it noisily.

—Ah, fuck —Daniela panted, throwing her head back—. Yes, like that, lick my teeth too, don’t be shy.

Lorena nibbled gently, sucked hard, slid two trembling fingers into Daniela’s cunt while her tongue kept circling the clit. The redhead started riding her face, fucking her mouth with her hips, bracing her hands on Lorena’s head to set the rhythm.

—Put it in deeper, deeper, fuck, don’t be afraid, fuck me with your fingers —she panted, her voice no longer playful, rough and breathless.

Lorena obeyed. She pushed three fingers in, curving them upward, while her tongue vibrated on the clit. Daniela moaned loudly, a sound almost of surprise, and in less than a minute she was arching, her thighs tensing, and came against Lorena’s face with a hot spurt that wet her chin and the collar of her polo.

—Fuck… fuck… fuck… —Daniela panted, trembling, leaning on the blonde’s shoulder so she wouldn’t fall.

Bianca let out a low, satisfied laugh from the bench.

—Told you. She’s a machine. And she didn’t even know it until today.

Lorena stayed on her knees, panting, face soaked, her own cunt pounding so hard beneath her skirt that she feared she might come by herself without anyone touching her. Without realizing it, her right hand had slipped between her legs over the uniform, pressing against her mound through the fabric.

Bianca saw it. Her eyes gleamed.

—Oh, look. The employee is touching herself. Are you really hot, Lorena?

Lorena lowered her gaze, red as a tomato, her hand frozen.

—Y-yes, Miss Bianca…

—Get up. Pull your panties down and hike your skirt up. Show us that maid cunt.

Lorena stood up on jelly legs. She hoisted the gray pleated skirt to her waist and pulled down the white cotton panties, soaked through to the point they stuck to her thighs and were hard to peel away. She stood there, exposed, her thick dark pubic mound visible, her thighs shining with slick running down to her knees.

—Look at that —Daniela commented, still catching her breath—. Dripping. She’s literally dripping.

—Get up on the bench —Bianca ordered—. On your knees, facing the mirror. And spread your cunt open with your hands. I want you to see for yourself the whore face you’re making.

Lorena obeyed. She climbed onto the wooden bench, got on all fours, and turned toward the large mirror on the wall. In the reflection she saw herself: the club uniform rumpled, the skirt wrinkled at the waist, her brown, perky ass in the air, her dark, thick cunt shining between her open thighs. Behind her, Bianca naked and standing with that owner’s half-smile, and Daniela already rummaging in her gym bag.

She brought her hands back, opened her ass cheeks first, then lowered her fingers and spread her cunt lips, showing herself completely. The swollen clit, the pink entrance dripping thick slick.

Daniela took a small racket from the bag, shorter than a tennis racket —a padel racket— and came up behind her. She ran the rounded handle along the crease of her ass, up and down, soaking it in the juice dripping off her.

—Let’s see if you can take this —she murmured, and without warning shoved the handle into her cunt.

Lorena screamed, a muffled cry ripping out of her throat. The handle was thick, hard, cold. It filled her completely. Daniela started fucking her with it, pumping it in and out in rhythm, holding her hip with the other hand. The sound of the soaked cunt swallowing the handle, smack, smack, smack, smack, filled the locker room.

—Look at yourself in the mirror —Bianca ordered, grabbing her hair and yanking her head up—. Look at your face. Look how you’re drooling while they fuck you with a padel racket. This is your real face, Lorena. The face you had hidden behind the towels.

Lorena looked at herself. Blurred eyes, mouth open, lips shining with someone else’s slick, a thread of spit hanging from her chin. The face of a whore. Hers. And instead of hiding, she moaned louder.

—Y-yes, Miss Bianca… I’m a whore… I’m your whore…

—Our whore —Daniela corrected, pushing the handle deeper—. Say you’re our whore.

—I’m your whore… I’m the ladies’ whore…

—Good girl —Bianca whispered, bending down to put two fingers in her open mouth, all the way to the back of her throat—. Suck my fingers, slut. The same ones you had inside a moment ago.

Lorena sucked the fingers hungrily, gagging a little, spit running down her chin, while Daniela opened her cunt with the racket handle. Bianca sat astride in front of her on the bench, planted her feet on either side, and pushed Lorena’s head against her cunt again.

—Eat me while they fuck you. Don’t stop. If you stop, I’ll throw you out of the club.

Lorena buried herself in the blonde cunt with desperation. She licked, sucked, moaned against Bianca’s lips while Daniela drilled into her from behind with the racket. The locker room filled with raw sounds: the slapping of the handle going in and out, Lorena’s muffled moans between Bianca’s thighs, the blonde’s breathless gasps enjoying another round, Daniela’s heavy breathing.

—I’m going to come again —Bianca announced, closing her thighs around Lorena’s face—. Swallow me, whore. All of it.

And she came a second time, this one with more rage, crushing Lorena’s face against her cunt until she nearly suffocated her. Lorena swallowed, sucked, moaned. Behind her, Daniela yanked the racket out all at once, turned it over —the handle dripping thick slick—, and ran it across Lorena’s mouth.

—Clean it. With your tongue.

Lorena, still dazed, stuck out her tongue and licked the handle clean of her own slick, tasting herself, while Daniela plunged two fingers into her cunt and began rubbing her clit with the thumb of her other hand.

—And now come, slut. Come for us. Show us how you come.

Lorena didn’t last a minute. Daniela’s fingers inside her, the thumb rubbing her swollen clit, the taste of two cunts mixed in her mouth, the humiliation of seeing herself in the mirror with her skirt hiked up and her uniform soaked through. She came with a cry torn from deep in her chest, her cunt clamping around Daniela’s fingers, hips convulsing, a hot stream running down her thighs to the bench.

—Oh, look, the whore is coming all over the place —Daniela laughed, pulling her fingers out and showing them, dripping—. Suck them.

Lorena sucked Daniela’s fingers with the same hunger with which she had sucked Bianca’s, her tongue cleaning every inch, swallowing her own slick mixed with the saliva of the other two.

She stayed there, on top of the bench, on all fours, trembling from head to toe, face smeared, thighs sticky, unable to move.

Bianca got up calmly, took a clean towel, and dried her face with a slow, satisfied motion.

—Good work —she said casually, while Daniela was drying herself too—. Now clean the floor. And the bench. There’s slick everywhere.

They dressed without hurry —underwear, jeans, T-shirts, street sneakers— without looking at her again. When they finished, they slung their bags over their shoulders and walked toward the door. Bianca let Daniela go first and, just before leaving, turned her head slightly toward Lorena.

—Same time tomorrow. And put on clean panties, slut.

The door clicked shut softly.

***

Lorena was left alone in the silent locker room. Only the distant hum of the air conditioning and, now and then, the dripping of a shower not fully shut off. The floor had small scattered drops, and the bench held a shining puddle where her cunt had been. She took the rag from the cart and started drying the tiles, one by one, with slow, mechanical movements, her panties still on the floor, her skirt clinging to her thighs with her own slick.

When she was done, she locked the main door, checked the latch, and stood for a moment with her forehead against the cold wood. Then she went back inside slowly. The main lights were already off; only the emergency lights and the small LED lights by the benches and mirrors remained. The air still held traces: Bianca’s citrus gel, Daniela’s more floral, sweeter scent, the smell of cunt and sweat and sex, and beneath it all, persistent, the warm smell of the sneakers that had been on the floor less than half an hour earlier.

She sat on the bench, right where Bianca had been before the shower, feeling the sticky puddle wet her bare ass under the skirt. Her knees hurt a little from all the floor work, but it wasn’t a bad pain. It was a physical, tangible reminder of what had happened.

She closed her eyes and the thoughts came all at once, like overflowing water.

What did I just do? No. The real question was deeper, cruder. Why did I like it so much?

She remembered the exact moment Bianca came out of the shower, naked and shameless. She just walked, and the world seemed to adjust around her as if she were the center and everything else had to orbit her. And she had told Lorena to dry her. And she had done it, and ended up with her tongue in the blonde’s cunt, swallowing her orgasm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And then Daniela’s. And then the padel racket opening her cunt while she looked at herself in the mirror. Every time the scene came back, she felt a lash between her legs, and without realizing it she brought two fingers back to her cunt, finding it still swollen, still dripping.

And they had laughed. Bianca with that dry, almost contemptuous laugh. Daniela with broader, more playful laughter. Our whore. Every time she repeated the phrase in her head she felt a sting of humiliation and, at the same time, a shiver of pleasure. Because it was true. She had felt ridiculous, clumsy, exposed, fucked like a toy. And yet she had wanted more. She wanted to be told what to do. She wanted them to laugh at her. She wanted them to look at her like that: small, obedient, useful. Their whore.

Since when am I like this?

She started rubbing her clit slowly, sitting there in the bench puddle, head thrown back. She had never been attracted to women. She had had fantasies, yes, but never anything so visceral, so immediate, so humiliating and exciting at the same time. Daniela had been different —more playful, less cold—, but she had also enjoyed fucking her cunt with the racket handle, had also spread her legs a little wider than necessary. Even so, in the end it was Bianca who led the way, who decided when to start and when to stop, who had marked her face with her cunt.

She rubbed faster, two fingers inside her cunt, thumb on her clit, imitating what Daniela had done to her. She came for a second time that afternoon, biting her lip, alone in the empty locker room, imagining the two of them laughing down at her.

She got up, collected the used towels, the ones that had touched their bodies, and folded them with excessive care, as if they were something valuable. When she got to the one she’d used on Bianca, she brought it briefly to her face. It didn’t smell like her —just clean cotton and softener—, but she closed her eyes anyway and imagined that it did. Then she bent down, picked up the soaked panties from the floor, and instead of putting them in her pocket she brought them to her nose. They smelled like her, like a cunt that had been aroused for hours. She tucked them into the uniform pocket.

She turned off the emergency lights one by one. Before leaving she stopped in front of the big mirror and looked at herself: her face still flushed, eyes bright, lips parted and swollen from sucking so much cunt, a small trace of dried slick on her chin that she wiped away with the back of her hand. She looked different. More alive. More frightened. More wanting.

What’s happening to me?

She had no answer. She only knew that the next day, when she heard Bianca’s footsteps in the hallway, her body would react before her mind did. And that she would probably kneel again. Without anyone having to ask twice. With clean panties, as she had been ordered. And with her mouth ready.