A modern retelling of a classic story from a time long past. Following in the footsteps of Tiffany Daniels, Kylie Morgan stars in her own story. In the end, it's a classic blackmail story within a modern setting. AI-assisted story telling. All characters are over the age of 18.
Chapter 5
For three days, the storm didn’t break. Harrington’s lectures remained clinical, his gaze skimming past her like she was just another student. Jameson nodded politely in the hallways, his smiles bland and practiced. Ben she never saw. Kylie’s bruises faded; her throat healed. She woke without flinching, showered without scrubbing her skin raw. The folded lace underwear in her closet gathered dust, untouched. Maya chattered about her latest crush—some football player with dimples—while they stretched before practice, blissfully oblivious. Coach Miller barked corrections as Kylie practiced her uneven bars routine, the sting of calloused palms against polished wood grounding her in reality. The competition loomed; the team buzzed with adrenaline. For fleeting moments, she could pretend the recent events were just a bad dream.
Inside the humid locker room, Maya bounced on the bench beside her, towel wrapped around her waist. "Ezra kissed me yesterday, " she announced, eyes gleaming. "Behind the bleachers? Total cliché, right?" Her damp ponytail swung as she giggled. "He’s so..." She trailed off, searching for the word, fingers twisting the towel edge, “Aggressive.” Like, he pinned me against the chain-link, y’know?" Kylie froze mid-motion, her leotard half-pulled over her shoulders. The cold metal locker door pressed against her wrist. Maya leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "So? Have you done it yet? With anyone?" The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Kylie’s reflection stared back from the locker mirror—pale, hollow-eyed. Her own hand trembled against the nylon fabric.
Kylie yanked the leotard up sharply, fabric snapping against her spine. She forced a bright peal of laughter, clear as a bell. “Me?” she scoffed, turning to face Maya with a wide, dazzling smile plastered across her face—the same smile she reserved for competition podiums and scholarship photos. "God, no!" She arched a playful eyebrow. “Virgin, remember?" Maya blinked, momentarily stunned by the radiant assurance. But beneath the practiced grin, Kylie’s mind fragmented: Harrington’s fingers digging into her scalp, Jameson’s cold observation of her throat milking him, the choking flood of semen erupting from her nose, the merciless schlock as Harrington pulled free. Her stomach clenched violently. She shoved the images down, deep beneath the gymnast’s polished facade.
Maya sighed, tying her sneakers. "Saving it for someone special, huh?" Kylie busied herself stuffing her gym bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper. Special. The word echoed mockingly. Harrington’s soft explanation—Because we can—rang louder. The phantom taste of scotch-laced mint ghosted over her tongue. Maya rambled on about Ezra’s hands, oblivious to the tremor running through Kylie’s frame as she slammed her locker shut.
"Seriously, though, " Maya teased, rising and nudging Kylie's shoulder playfully, "how are you still a virgin? With those?" Her gaze dropped pointedly to Kylie’s chest beneath the thin leotard strap. “Look at those! Big, perfect boobies? And that?" She gestured admiringly at Kylie’s lean, but curvy backside. "Every guy stares—like, constantly—when you vault. Coach shouldn’t even let you wear spandex shorts!" Kylie let out an airy giggle, high and bright, pressing her palms to flushed cheeks. "Oh my god, stop!" she protested, turning away to hide the genuine heat crawling up her neck. Kylie’s giggling intensified, almost frantic now, shoulders shaking as she leaned against the cold locker bank. "Stop it, Maya! You’re ridiculous!" she gasped between peals of laughter, still shielding her burning face. Maya grinned, delighted by the reaction. "Blushing virgin!" she sing-songed triumphantly, grabbing her own bag. "I bet you secretly want Liam Walsh to notice." Kylie froze mid-giggle, hands lowering slowly. Liam Walsh. Star quarterback. Kind eyes that crinkled when he laughed. Ophelia’s crush. Did he ever notice her?
Maya watched Kylie’s blush deepen, mistaking her sudden stillness for shy delight. “Definitely Liam!" Maya crowed, bouncing gleefully. "Dude practically trips over his feet whenever you walk past him in the hall!" Kylie forced herself to breathe evenly, fingers tightening on her gym bag strap until her knuckles whitened. “Really?” Her voice sounded unnaturally bright. Maya nodded enthusiastically. "Yep! And it’s totally because of these!" She abruptly cupped her own small breasts through her towel, squeezing them pointedly. “Ugh, my boobies are tiny." she groaned dramatically, letting go to gesture dismissively at her modest chest. “But, " she added, perking up instantly as she spun around, deliberately jiggling her own firm buttocks clad only in her towel, “this is pretty damn nice, right? Ezra says he loves it.” She giggled, shaking her hips side-to-side playfully in Kylie’s face. “Solid A-plus butt!”
The forced laughter caught in Kylie’s throat as Maya turned away. Seeing the exaggerated wiggle, Kylie reacted instinctively—a gymnast’s quick, playful reflex. “Oh yeah?” she teased, the false lightness cracking slightly. She reached out and swatted Maya’s swaying backside sharply with her open palm. “Solid A-plus this!” The sharp smack echoed dully in the humid locker room. Maya shrieked—not in pain, but surprise—jumping nearly a foot in the air. The sudden jolt loosened the knot of her towel tucked securely at her waist. Before Maya could react, the damp terrycloth slithered down her legs, puddling at her ankles on the damp concrete floor. Maya froze mid-jump, eyes widening comically. “KYLIE!” she screeched, utterly mortified. Kylie stared, momentarily paralyzed, at Maya’s completely bare backside—smooth skin, taut muscles flexing in surprise.
Instinct took over. Maya gasped, frantically bending at the waist to snatch the towel back up. She yanked it against herself, twisting to whirl on Kylie, her cheeks flaming crimson. “You—you total BRAT!” she sputtered, half-laughing, half-furious, clutching the towel tightly around her waist again. “Gah! Embarrassing!” Kylie dissolved into genuine—if slightly hysterical—giggles this time, fueled by Maya’s flustered reaction. “See?” Kylie choked out between laughs, pointing vaguely at the spot Maya was now fiercely protecting. “Still an A-plus butt! Absolutely correct!” Maya scowled, trying to look fierce, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards uncontrollably. “Fine, fine, ” Maya muttered, playfully shoving Kylie’s shoulder. “But I’m telling Ezra you slapped my butt!” Her mock outrage dissolved into shared, bubbling laughter as she quickly retied her towel.
They dressed quickly in the empty locker room, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies over their leotards, tossing damp towels into the laundry bin. Maya nudged Kylie again as they pushed through the heavy gym doors into the cool twilight air of the parking lot. “So, ” Maya teased, bumping Kylie’s hip playfully as they walked toward the bike racks. “Did you like it? My butt? Giving it a good smack?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief under the buzzing halogen lights. Kylie rolled her eyes dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Oh my god, Maya! Enough! It’s just a butt!” Maya grinned, leaning closer conspiratorially as Kylie unlocked her bike. “Just checking, ” she whispered loudly, batting her eyelashes theatrically. “You know, it’s totally okay if you are a lesbian. Wouldn’t change a thing!” Kylie choked out another laugh, shaking her head vigorously. “I’m not a lesbian!” she protested. “But, ” Maya continued, her tone shifting to one of genuine admiration as she swung her leg over her own bike seat, “for the record? Your butt is incredible. Seriously. That gymnast curve? Perfect.” She gave Kylie an exaggerated wink before pedaling away down the path. “See ya tomorrow! Don’t dream about my butt!”
Kylie headed home slowly, Maya’s cheerful voice echoing absurdly alongside Harrington’s cold command—Green leotard. No panties. The absurdity of the situation made her stomach churn. She parked her car in the driveway, slipped silently past her sleeping family, and crawled into bed after brushing her teeth. The sheets felt scratchy against her skin, the darkness too thick. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to claim her before the memories could surface. Instead, the image bloomed behind her eyelids: Maya’s bare backside in the locker room—smooth, firm muscle flexing beneath flawless skin, captured in that split-second before the towel fell. It wasn’t sexual. It was athletic, pure, strong. The kind of strength Maya possessed effortlessly—strength Kylie felt leaching from her own limbs day by day. She longed for that simplicity, that unburdened ownership of her own body.
Sleep came fitfully. Kylie drifted into fragmented scenes: Maya laughing, her towel slipping again and again, revealing that perfect gymnast’s curve. But the locker room melted away. Suddenly Maya stood frozen on the balance beam at Regionals, clad only in her leotard, her smooth, sculpted backside facing the roaring crowd. Coach Miller’s whistle shrieked. Harrington’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers: “Solid A-plus butt, Kylie! Well-spanked!” Maya turned her head slowly over her shoulder, her eyes wide pools of accusation. “You did this, ” Maya hissed, the words echoing in the silent gymnasium. Kylie jolted awake, gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sweat dampened her sheets. Outside her window, the moon cast long, accusing shadows across the carpet. She buried her face deeper into her pillow, inhaling the stale scent of fabric softener and terror. Maya’s buttock muscles, firm and defined even in the dream, lingered.
— --
The green leotard lay folded on her desk. Morning light seeped under her curtains as Kylie found sleep impossible again. Kylie curled into a tighter ball, pulling the comforter over her head. The dream’s sickening blend of locker-room slapstick and Harrington’s predatory announcement clung to her. Maya’s perfect, uncomplicated strength felt impossibly distant now. She stared at the fabric lump on the desk. Green leotard. No panties. Harrington’s velvet command slithered into her thoughts. Kylie shivered as she rolled out of bed, despite the warmth of her room. Her had reached toward the leotard, feeling it’s smooth fabric. With a deep breath, she peeled off her pajamas, and slid into the garment, quickly covering it up with her school uniform. Just then, her phone buzzed, the message See me after class reflecting in her eyes.
— --
The green leotard’s mesh back felt like ice against her skin as Kylie settled hesitantly onto Harrington’s lap after the final bell, her small frame dwarfed by his bulk. Her sneakers dangled awkwardly inches above the carpet, the soles brushing nothing but air. The familiar scent of his cologne—woody and expensive—clung thickly to the cramped office, mingling with the sharper tang of old coffee. His hands slid slowly up her bare thighs beneath the high-cut leg openings of the leotard, fingertips skating over goosebumps raised by the room’s chill. She flinched as his thumb pressed into the sensitive hollow where her thigh met her hipbone, his touch simultaneously clinical and possessive. His breath warmed the shell of her ear, “Let's see if remember your lesson and are ready to be a good girl.” She nodded once, sharply, her chin trembling as she tried to avoid her own reflection in the monitor.
Slowly, deliberately, Kylie shifted her weight, sliding sideways off his lap until her knees found solid ground. Keeping her gaze fixed on the silver buckle of Harrington’s belt—gleaming like a coiled serpent—she fumbled with the stiff leather. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy, slick with nervous sweat. She focused on Maya’s cheerful voice echoing absurdly in her memory: “Ezra says he loves it!” Maya probably kneeled behind bleachers for dimple-faced Ezra. Kylie swallowed bile as the belt pulled free with a soft rasp. She tugged at the button fly of his trousers, the fabric coarse beneath her trembling fingertips. It’s just a blowjob, she chanted silently, the thought brittle and hollow. Just suction. Just rhythm. Like pulling water through a straw. The zipper teeth parted slowly, each click deafening in the stillness.
Harrington shifted, thrusting his hips upward. The sudden pressure forced his erection through the slit in his boxers. Kylie gasped aloud—a sharp, involuntary intake of breath—flinching back instinctively as the flushed head sprang free, glistening precum already pooling at its tip. It bobbed obscenely mere inches from her face, heavy and thick-veined. Her pulse hammered in her temples. For a fraction of a second, she considered bolting. Maya wouldn’t freeze like this. Maya’s hands wouldn’t tremble. Drawing a shuddering breath that smelled faintly of mint and scotch, Kylie forced her small hand forward. Her fingers brushed the hot, taut skin—startlingly soft—then closed tentatively around the rigid shaft. The warmth radiating from it felt alien, intrusive, yet her grip tightened, knuckles whitening.
She hesitated, her mind racing. Harrington’s expectant silence pressed down on her. Lube. She needed lubrication. Kylie worked her tongue frantically around her dry mouth, gathering a meager pool of saliva. Leaning forward slightly, she parted her lips and released a thin stream onto the swollen crown. It landed with a plip, catching the light before pooling and trailing slowly down the curve. Instinctively, she wiped the residual moisture from her lower lip with the back of her wrist, her eyes fixed on the glistening head. Her palm slid down to smear the spit, coating the velvety skin before moving back up, the motion hesitant. Up. Down. Up. Down. Just like she had painfully learned the other day. Gradually, her strokes lengthened, her fist enclosing him fully each time. The slick, rhythmic sound of her hand sliding over the shaft filled the cramped office.
Minutes crawled by. Kylie’s forearm began to ache from the sustained effort, the muscles screaming. Sweat beaded along her hairline beneath the tight bun. She focused on the minute details: the throb beneath her fingers timed with Harrington’s heartbeat, the tang of precum mingling hanging in the air, the faint rasp of friction against his foreskin each time her hand reached it. Her gaze remained locked on the straining purple veins mapping the shaft, avoiding his watchful eyes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the slick slide of her palm and Harrington’s quiet hum of approval—a low, resonant vibration she felt more than heard.
"Your mouth, Kylie, " Harrington ordered suddenly, his voice a velvet scrape cutting through the rhythmic sound. It wasn't a shout, but the command held absolute, chilling authority. Kylie flinched. Her hand froze mid-stroke. For a suspended heartbeat, she felt the phantom taste of semen flooding her sinuses again, the choking, desperate gagging. Panic clawed its way up her throat. Run! screamed her instincts. But her father’s kind face, full of disappointment, face flashed behind her eyes. Because we can. Harrington’s calm explanation echoed louder than the panic. Kylie squeezed her eyes shut, inhaled a trembling breath thick with his scent, and leaned forward. Her lips brushed the slick head, the heat radiating against her skin. Just suction. Just rhythm, she repeated numbly, forcing paralysis into motion. She opened her mouth, wider than necessary, and took him in, her tongue flattening instinctively beneath the weight.
Harrington groaned softly—a sound of deep satisfaction—as her lips closed around him. Kylie focused intently on the mechanics: breathing steadily through her nose, hollowing her cheeks to create suction, using her tongue to press rhythmically along the underside as her head bobbed slowly forward and back. The salty-bitter taste flooded her senses, but she suppressed the gag reflex through sheer willpower, clamping down hard mentally. She moved with cautious dedication, attempting to replicate the practiced rhythm she’d been forced to learn—slow and teasing at first, then deeper, swallowing him further down her throat with each advance. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them back, focusing solely on the task: Pull water through a straw. Her throat muscles contracted and relaxed with practiced, terrifying efficiency.
Harrington’s fingers tangled abruptly in her hair bun, tightening painfully against her scalp. He guided her pace now, forcing her head down faster, deeper. "Harder, " he rasped, his hips pushing upward against her face. Kylie forced herself to comply, sucking harder, swirling her tongue fiercely around the swollen crown with head thrust of his hips. Her jaw screamed, her throat burned. Yet, beneath the terror and revulsion, a horrifying flicker of detached accomplishment sparked. She was doing it. She was performing the act—not frozen, not gagging. She became acutely aware of the texture against her palate, the pulse thrumming against her tongue, the low growls rumbling from Harrington’s chest. She gave herself over completely to the motion, losing herself momentarily in the terrible, efficient rhythm. She was giving the first willing blow job of her life.
"Take it, Kylie, " Harrington snarled, his voice thick and choked. His arms tensed, locking her head in place. His grip on her hair became crushing as his hips jerked upward. A sudden, hot flood erupted against the back of her throat—thick, viscous, and overwhelming. The coppery tang exploded across her taste buds, triggering an immediate gag reflex. Kylie instinctively tried to pull back, but his fingers held her fast, grinding her face against him. "Swallow it!" he commanded, sharp and final. Warm tears spilled down her cheeks as she fought the convulsive urge to retch. Eyes squeezed shut, she forced her throat muscles to work, gulping convulsively. The warmth seared its way down coating her esophagus. She swallowed again, desperate to clear the clinging residue, the taste lingering like spoiled cream.
Harrington finally released her hair. Kylie slumped backward, gasping for air, strings of saliva and semen connecting her lips to his softening shaft. Her chin felt sticky and wet. She wiped her mouth frantically with the back of her hand, shuddering as she tasted it again. "Good girl, I see you’ve taken your lesson to heart, " Harrington murmured, his voice now a low purr, heavy with satisfaction. He stroked her damp cheek with surprising gentleness. The unexpected tenderness, juxtaposed violently with the act, was jarring. To her utter horror, Kylie felt a brief sense of accomplishment. She started, her eyes briefly meeting his, glowing with a bizarre, twisted pride.
Harrington slid smoothly from his chair, standing before Kylie. His broad hands grasped her under her armpits, yanking her upward and pushing her back onto his desk. He leaned forward until her thighs bracketed his shoulders. Before she could process the movement, he tugged aside the crotch of the leotard and plunged his tongue into her pussy. Kylie gasped, arching instinctively upward as his tongue parted her lips with shocking intimacy. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming: wet heat, a rhythmic pressure against her clit that bypassed terror and ignited raw nerve endings. Her hands flew to his hair, not to push away but to anchor herself as a low, involuntary whimper escaped her throat.
His mouth claimed her more aggressively now, sucking hard while his tongue flickered against her clit. Simultaneously, his palms clamped roughly over her breasts through the thin green fabric, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the mesh. The dual assault—mouth on her pussy, hands squeezing her breasts—ripped through Kylie’s control. Her hips jerked upward uncontrollably, grinding against his face as she sought more pressure, more friction. The world dissolved into sensation: the wet heat of his tongue, the sharp sting of his grip, the dizzying scent of her own arousal mixed with his cologne. A strangled cry tore from her throat as her thighs trembled violently against his shoulders, cumming hard.
Harrington pulled back abruptly, leaving her slick pussy exposed to the office air. He gazed up at her flushed face, breathing hard. “A very good girl, ” he rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. Kylie’s cheeks burned crimson, her mouth slack as she struggled to catch her breath. Bliss radiated from her core, a warm, languid heaviness that made her limbs feel boneless. Her eyelids fluttered; her hands remained tangled in his hair. This wasn’t terror—it was surrender. Disgust coiled deep inside her, at herself, but it was drowned out by the lingering tremors of pleasure still vibrating through her body.
Harrington grunted as he shoved himself upright, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. He adjusted his belt buckle. "You’ll report to Room 104 tomorrow afternoon, Kylie, " he stated crisply, his gaze sharpening. Harrington snapped his fingers. "Dismissed."