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 6
Room 104 wasn't tucked away; it sunk into the hallway near the rear of the school. Its sole window faced a brick wall inches away. Kylie traced her fingers as she entered along cold plywood panels—recently installed, judging by the raw sawdust scent. A few desktop workstations lined the far wall and the incessant buzz of electronics permeated the room. Piles of computer components lined the floor near the walls, as was always the case with IT. Kylie’s eyes moved around the room, noticing Ben spinning in a luxurious office chair in front of one of the workstations. “Ah, there she is, ” he says as Kylie closes the door behind her.
A futon sat in the middle of the room, Kylie wondered why it wasn’t against the wall absently, as Ben stood up and moved toward her. He grinned, tapping his thigh. “Heard you're my study partner today. Lose the uniform.” Room 104's air tasted of damp concrete and ozone from humming servers. Kylie's fingers trembled as she peeled her clothes downward, skirt catching briefly on her hips before pooling at her ankles. “We’re gonna try something new today... Well, at least new for you, I’m sure, ” Ben smirks as Kylie hugged herself. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, as she wondered what he planned to do. Before she could step free, Ben grabbed and pulled her onto the futon. She landed half-straddling him with a yelp, her heartrate thumping in her chest. Ben seized her hips, flipped her bodily upward until her knees bracketed his shoulders, her head hung low near his pelvis. “Perfect, ” he breathed, guiding her thighs apart until her exposed pussy hovered inches above his mouth. “Show me how well you learned male anatomy.” He thrust his erection upward, nudging her lip, rubbing his cock on her cheek. “Suck.”
Kylie obeyed mechanically, opening her mouth just as Ben's tongue plunged deep into her pussy. The dual sensations slammed into her: the hot, wet intrusion below warring with the thick intrusion filling her mouth above. Salty bitterness coated her tongue while his tongue flicked hard against her clit, relentless as a metronome. She moaned around his shaft. Below, Ben groaned against her flesh, the vibration humming through her pelvis. “Fuck yes, keep sucking, ” he mumbled, breath hot against her inner thighs. Kylie hollowed her cheeks, bobbing her head clumsily, mimicking Harrington’s rhythm. Her jaw hurt from the new angle as Ben’s cock thrust up and down into her moist mouth. Every ragged inhale through her nose carried Ben’s musk mingling with a different scent, one which she realized was her own arousal—a reminder of her body’s involuntary betrayal.
Ben’s grip tightened on her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulled her pussy harder against his mouth. He devoured her cunt, sucking fiercely on her clit while driving his tongue deep inside. Above, Kylie whimpered around his cock, tears stinging her eyes. Pleasure coiled low in her belly—tight, terrifying, unstoppable. Her thighs began to shake uncontrollably against his shoulders. Each rough thrust of Ben’s hips drove his cock deeper, scraping her throat. “Guh—uh!” she choked, saliva dripping down her chin. Ben only growled, “Don’t stop, slut!” The command fused with the electric jolts radiating from her clit. Resistance dissolved. Her hips bucked, grinding against his face, seeking friction Ben eagerly gave. The orgasm tore through her, violent and shuddering. Her back arched violently; her scream muffled by his shaft as she convulsed, flopping like a ragdoll against his relentless mouth. Every spasm drove his cock impossibly deeper, triggering gagging sobs she couldn’t contain, but they were sobs of pleasure this time. The squirming girl above him drove Ben over the edge and he latched his fingers into her hair, driving upward south one final thrust. “Fuck yes, swallow it all, ” he snarled. Hot spurts flooded her mouth and throat—salty, thick. She gulped frantically, choking down every drop while aftershocks trembled through her limbs. "Amazing, " Ben says as Kylie swallows.
Ben pushed her off him and rose from the futon, sighing contentedly. “Room 217, tomorrow” he murmured, as Kylie wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Jameson's classroom, she thought. Ben was oblivious, sitting down and turning toward his monitor, as Kylie stood and pulled her clothes back on with shaky hands. Without a word, she stepped quietly toward the door. Once through, she sped down the hallway.
— --
Jameson's knuckles were white against the dark leather belt buckled around Kylie's waist. The coarse leather dug into her hip bones, anchoring her trembling form on hands and knees on the floor of Jameson's office. Of course, she was naked, except for the belt. Jameson knelt before her, one hand gripping her ponytailed hair vice-like and the other on the belt, holding it like reins. He shoved his cock deep into her mouth without preamble—a thick, brutal thrust that scraped her palate and triggered an immediate gag reflex. Tears blurred Kylie’s vision instantly. Above the frantic wheezing through her nose, Jameson’s voice rasped like gravel, “Yeah... fuck my cock with your mouth.” The eloquent well-spoken man Kylie once knew was gone, replaced by a rough brute. He pumped shallowly at first, grinding against her lips, a smirk audible in his tone. Kylie’s jaw screamed under the relentless stretch, her saliva pooling thick and slick around the intrusion. Each retreat and slam forward dragged her hair painfully against her scalp. She tried to focus on the posters on the wall—Hamlet, Ray Bradbury, Herman Melville—anything to escape the bitter tang flooding her senses. Jameson releases the hand in her hair slaps her ass. She flinched—braced harder on her palms. “Tighter, ” Jameson ordered sharply, grabbing her hair again as he pulled her bodily toward his groin. “Suck harder.”
He leaned forward, shifting his weight onto her skull. The angle forced her chin lower, her throat opening wider to accommodate him. Jameson’s thrusts grew frantic—short, jerking movements that scraped her throat raw. “Here it comes... take it, bitch!” he choked out. Kylie recognized the tremor in his thighs pressing against her shoulders, the tightening grip on her belt. She hollowed her cheeks instinctively, creating suction, swirling her tongue over the swollen vein pulsing beneath the slick skin. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears streaming freely now. The rhythm was brutal, unforgiving—the wet slap of skin against skin, Jameson’s ragged grunts, the muffled choking sounds escaping her own throat. She could smell his sweat mixed with stale coffee clinging to his shirt. His hips pistoned faster, driving deeper with each slam. Kylie swallowed convulsively around him, her throat muscles spasming in protest, trying to clear space for air. The first stream hits the back of her throat—hot, thick, and sudden. The coppery tang explodes across her taste buds, sharp and unmistakable. Jameson lets out a guttural roar, locking her head in place as his hips buck violently against her face. The thick flood pours into her throat, coating her tongue, filling her mouth with its viscous warmth. She gagged, her body convulsing, but his hand on the belt and her hair held her firm, grinding her face against him. “Swallow it ALL!” he snarled, punctuating the command with another brutal thrust. She gulped obediently, frantically, her throat working against the sheer volume and texture, tears and snot mixing with the salty mess dripping from her chin.
— --
The hot water scalded Kylie’s skin as she slumped against the cold tiles later, the shower spray drumming rhythmically against her hunched shoulders. She hadn’t planned it; her trembling fingers just slid down her slick belly and pressed hard against her clit. Her touch was frantic, rough, devoid of finesse, driven by a desperate need to come, which Jameson had denied her. The water plastered her hair to her face, mixing with tears as she bucked her hips against her own hand, seeking friction on the slick porcelain floor. Each gasp echoed in the small space, drowned out by the roar of the shower. She mumbles "perfect" under her breath. She couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop—until she felt that release she was denied. Her thighs trembled violently; her breath hitched in ragged sobs. The orgasm built like a tightening coil low in her belly, urgent. She pressed harder, circling faster. She wanted to scream Harrington’s name. She choked out "yes" instead. Her climax ripped through her—a searing, shuddering wave that arched her back off the tiles. It was sharp, brutal, and utterly devastating. She arched her back, hips thrusting wildly as she rode the waves of pleasure. Her thighs trembled violently, knees buckling inward as her hips rolled against her own palm. Gasping sobs escaped her lips, muffled by the spray. It left her gasping, shaking, curled fetal on the wet floor, water pooling around her.
— --
That Friday, the fluorescent lights of Pinecrest High’s gymnasium buzzed like angry hornets overhead, casting harsh rectangles onto the polished floor where Maya bounced on the balls of her feet, her sequined leotard catching the glare. "Can you believe it? Regionals!" she hissed, adjusting the strap digging into Kylie’s shoulder, the green mesh fabric Harrington demanded feeling like barbed wire against her skin. Kylie forced a smile, her fingers trembling as she re-tied her hair bun—too tight, like a vise holding her fractured thoughts together. The scent of chalk dust and sweat thickened the air, punctuated by the rhythmic thuds of vaults and the tinny blare of warm-up music. Maya’s chatter blurred into static; Kylie’s gaze snagged on Jameson leaning against the far bleachers, arms crossed, his stare a cold anchor dragging her under while Maya chirped about Ezra cheering them on.
Maya scanned the crowded bleachers, her brow furrowed slightly as she rose onto her toes. "Where is he?" she muttered, chewing her bottom lip. "He promised he'd be front row for my vault." Kylie tore her gaze away from Jameson's predatory smirk across the gymnasium, forcing her attention back to Maya's anxious fidgeting. She plastered on her brightest smile—the one that crinkled her eyes and hid the tremor in her voice. "Probably stuck buying overpriced nachos, " Kylie offered, her tone light as she adjusted Maya's sparkly hair clip. "You know how concession lines get. He'll be here." Maya nodded, visibly relaxing, and turned so Kylie could smooth the shimmering powder across her friend's shoulders. Their reflections shimmered side-by-side in the practice mirror: Maya radiant in purple sequins, Kylie rigid in forest-green mesh, both bodies honed for flight but anchored by vastly different weights.
Kylie began pacing instinctively—short, sharp strides that mirrored the frantic drumming of her heart. Her bare feet slapped against the cool vinyl floor, each step echoing the countdown in her head. An hour before it starts. Maya kept pace beside her, chattering about her beau's favorite illusion flip, but Kylie's focus frayed. Without conscious thought, her steps carried her further from Maya, edging toward the dimly lit corridor leading to the locker rooms, a sliver of shadow in the glittering chaos. Curiosity got the best of her, as she drifted toward the light, the harsh gym sounds fading into muffles. The corridor's cold draft raised goosebumps on her exposed shoulders, a stark contrast to the overheated arena. Then, a low whistle sliced through the noise—a familiar, predatory sound. She froze. Harrington leaned against the lockers. “Come with me. Now.” His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet.
Further into the locker room, he handed her a blind fold and instructed her to put it on. She followed his orders and Harrington makes sure it’s snug and tight, double knotting it. He takes her by the hand and leads her through the school, down stairs, through corridors she didn't know existed. The air grew colder and smelled of damp concrete and mildew. "Turn, " he commanded, guiding her into a space that echoed with dripping water.
They stood in a forgotten boiler room, illuminated by a single bulb. Steam pipes hissed like angry serpents coiled in the shadows. Harrington reached down and wrapped knee pads around her and lowered her to her knees with a hand on her shoulder, leaving Kylie kneeling in confusion. He mounted the stairs to a catwalk above, his footsteps echoing hollowly. "Stay put." His command slices through the humid air. Kylie obeyed, trembling on the cold concrete, blind. She heard a door open and close nearby.
"I'm sure you remember our star?" Harrington says, his voice close again. Kylie sweeps her head back and forth, is he talking to me? Who else is there?! She thinks, panic rising urgently in her chest. “You expected Jameson? Ben?” Harrington chuckled somewhere above her as the footsteps stopped nearby. Kylie flinched as cold, familiar fingers brush her shoulder. Kylie’s breath hitched. She didn’t recognize the touch and tried to pull away. "Gentlemen, meet starts soon, so don't take too long, " she heard Harrington murmur, "Remember, no hands, and keep it clean and quiet, our star still has to perform. Have fun" Gentlemen!?, screams Kylie in her mind, Oh no, this is it, they're going to rape me.
Kylie had no idea who is in the room with her as three unknown men circled around her, the blind fold tightly obscuring her vision. They never said a word. Her hands reached out in front of her, trying to fend off any advances, as she yelped at imaginary movement. The damp air chilled her skin beneath the thin leotard, and the echo of dripping water amplified her shallow breaths straining the fabric. She flinched violently when a boot scuffs concrete beside her thigh, jerking her head away as if struck. Her fingers clawed uselessly at nothing, trembling so hard the knee pads rasp against the floor. Footsteps encircled her again, deliberate and slow, pressing closer until she felt body heat radiating against her shoulders. The silence stretched, thick with menace. Her imagination conjured Harrington's smirk hanging in the darkness above.
"You're not leaving until they are done, Princess, " Harrington said from the darkness. Another sound makes her flinch to the side. She imagined Jameson's smirk. "Stay still. You're safe." Kylie's hands shot out defensively, fingers splayed against nothingness as a warm exhale brushed her cheek—close, too close. The damp air carried hints of pine aftershave and stale coffee, scents utterly unfamiliar yet invasive. She recoiled violently, gasping "Stop! No!" at the encroaching heat radiating against her shoulder blades. Boots scraped concrete inches from her knee pads, circling like sharks. She whirled blindly toward the sound, palms smacking uselessly against empty space. “Who—?” she choked out, panic sharpening her voice. Harrington’s chuckle drifted through the darkness.
Suddenly hands touched the top of her head as she heard Harrington command, "Open." Kylie hesitated, her lips trembling, eyelashes fluttering against the blindfold's fabric. "Open." Harrington repeats and she complied. Immediately she feels a cock being forced into her slack mouth. She bucked backwards reflexively, gagging against the intrusion. Something wet coats her tongue—bitter and metallic. One hand grips her hair while another pinches her nose shut. She can't breathe. Panic floods her system as her lungs scream for air. Involuntarily, she swallowed around the thick shaft, throat constricting desperately. The act triggered a choked gasp through her nostrils just before her nose is released. Above her, a satisfied grunt echoed as the cock pulses against her tongue. She tastes salt, iron, and something sourly medicinal that coats her teeth. Tears soak the blindfold's edges. The cock moves forward further into her mouth. “Suck, ” Harrington orders from above. She has no choice. Her jaw ached instantly as she hollowed her cheeks, bobbing her head mechanically. Each withdrawal forces her to chase the tip; each thrust rasping. The rhythm is relentless—five punishing strokes—before the cock withdrew completely. Spit and pre-come glisten on her chin in the dim light. Kylie coughed, chest heaving before the cock jammed back in. This time it stayed deeper—thicker at the base, stretching her lips wider. A different pair of hands gripped her head—larger, rougher palms calloused against her temples. She tried to pull away, but it was impossible. The grip tightened, fingers digging into her scalp as the cock pistons faster, harder. She gags, mucus bubbling in her nostrils. Above her ragged gasps, Harrington murmurs, "Better." The praise twists in her gut like a knife, "Watch the mess gentlemen."
Suddenly the cock in her mouth erupted—hot semen flooding her throat in thick, convulsive spurts. Kylie gulped instinctively, swallowing convulsively, the viscous liquid burning as it coated her esophagus. Before she can draw a ragged breath, she’s yanked backward by the hair, the blindfold shifting as another man steps from the shadows. The second stranger’s fingers—smelling faintly of motor grease—clamped her jaw wide. His penis slams against her teeth, forcing entry into her abused throat. She choked violently, tears soaking the fabric of the blindfold covering her eyes. Above, Harrington’s amused sigh drifts down. “Messy, ” he tuts. “I told you—keep it clean.” The newcomer’s thrusts are erratic and shallow, grinding against her palate. Kylie’s fingers clawed desperately at the concrete floor beneath her. Her throat spasmed uselessly around the intrusion as he groaned above her.
The bitter taste of transmission fluid mingled with semen on her tongue. She heard footsteps circling again, her head whipping toward the sound. Blind terror sharpend her hearing—the drip-drip of condensation, the rasp of a zipper lowering nearby. The cock pushed past her teeth in spite of her labored breathing. "Let her breath!" Harringtons says and the cock slowly exits, leaving her gasping. She coughed violently, spitting saliva onto the floor. The second reapproached in silence, then trailed rough hands down her arms. He waits for Harrington to give the word. Kylie flinched as fingers traced the mesh leotard's plunging back, snagging on the fabric before gripping her shoulders. Harrington snaps his fingers, "Go." The man thrusts into her mouth deep without warning, her scream muffled by his pelvis slamming against her nose. Her throat opened reflexively as he fucks her face with jagged, uneven strokes. She gagged on each thrust, fingers scrabbling against his thighs, finding denim, belt loops, the cold buckle of a belt.
The thrusting force in her throat increased as Kylie felt the cock swell in her mouth. She choked, saliva leaking, as fingers twist tighter in her hair—wrong texture, wrong grip—this isn't Jameson or Ben. The man grunts, hips stuttering, and she braced for another eruption down her throat. Her preparation paid off as semen floods her throat. The metallic tang of it mixes with sweat-slicked skin. She heard the wet slap of his retreating footsteps, replaced instantly by another presence—cologne too expensive for faculty, leather shoes whispering against concrete. The new cock slid in smoothly, tip already glistening, betraying how long he’d been waiting. Kylie’s thoughts fractured as she tried to figure out who these men were, but she was left unknowing. The thoughts evaporate as the cock sinks deeper, dragging her attention with it.
Kylie frantically puts her hands on the intruder’s thighs, knees scrambling, as the cock fucked in and out of her mouth. She feels the second man move behind her, his hands pressing into her shoulders, forcing her to remain still. The scent of stale cigarette smoke clings to him, mingling with Harrington’s cologne lingering in the damp air. She twisted her head away, but the cock in her mouth dragged her back, forcing compliance. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat timed to the wet, rhythmic slaps of skin against skin. Adding to the rhythm, the cock swells in a finale. The man groaned—his voice unfamiliar—as he spilled into her throat, the smell of whiskey and cigarettes lacing the bitter release. She swallowed convulsively, retching as he pulled out, leaving her lips slick and trembling. A camera flashed.
Silence stretches as Kylie trembled on her knees. She is finally alone, no cocks trying to force their way into her mouth. The blindfold remains tight, the fabric damp with sweat and tears. She heard nothing—only the distant drip of water and her own ragged breathing. Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, circling her like a predator stalking prey. Kylie whips her head left and right, hands clawing at the empty air. "Who—who's there?" she whisperd, her voice cracking. No answer. Only the scuff of a shoe against concrete inches from her knee pads.
"You did perfect, Princess." It was Harrington voice. "Three loads is just under fifteen minutes, " he says. Harrington's fingers trailed along her jawline, tracing the wet mess of saliva and semen coating her chin. She flinched at his touch—his hands colder than the boiler room air. "They were very impressed." Behind him, shadows shift—three figures retreatin through a rusted door she hears close. "Don't worry about them, you did your job, played the game, " Harrington said. Their backs are turned—broad shoulders in dark coats, one adjusting his belt—before the door clangs shut, leaving only the stench of cigars and adrenaline in their wake.
"Let's go, we're done here, " Harrington says to her, "You're up in front of the judges in thirty." The meet! she panicked on her knees, the urgent anxiety slamming back into her mind. Harrington pulled her up gently by her arms, but kept the blindfold on her head, confusing her. He pulled her hands to her sides and guided her forward by the shoulders. The darkness amplified her disorientation as he led her through echoing corridors with only his murmured directions: “Step up. Turn left.”
The muffled cheers of the crowd rose as they make their way back, Harrington guiding Kylie's timid steps. He went straight into the locker room, before taking off her blindfold. She blinked against the fluorescent lights, her vision swimming with afterimages and more unshed tears. Her reflection in the mirror is, surprisingly clean—she did a good job swallowing. Harrington cups her chin, tilting her face toward the light. "Fix yourself up, the crowd awaits" he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth and stepped away.
She turned to the mirror, fingers trembling as she reaches up to untangle her hair bun—somehow still intact despite the brutality. The strands fall in messy waves around her shoulders, but a few quick twists and pins restore its gymnast’s precision. The smudged mascara is worse; black streaks framed her green eyes like bruises. She scrubs at them roughly with a makeup wipe until only faint pink remains. A quick reapplication restored the neat lines. The lipstick is long gone, chewed away between panicked swallows, but a fresh coat of gloss hid the raw abrasions beneath. The leotard’s mesh clings undisturbed, the green fabric hiding every fingerprint, every violation. She smooths the straps with robotic precision.
Harrington’s smirk materialized behind her shoulder in the mirror. He didn’t touch her, just loomed, drinking in her self-repair like a sculptor admiring his work. “Look at you, ” he murmurs. The words slithered down her spine. “Ready to shine.” The locker room door creaked open—Maya’s laughter spills in, bright and oblivious. Kylie’s hands dropped to her sides. Her reflection smiled back, flawless, as Harrington retreated deeper into the locker room.
The contrast is grotesque. Maya’s ponytail swings as she chattered about Ezra's promised front-row seat, her purple sequins catching the light. Kylie’s fingers twitched toward her own throat—still burning with swallowed proof—but her practiced grin didn’t falter. “You’re gonna kill it, ” Maya declared, slapping Kylie’s butt. The sting reverberates through the lingering numbness. Kylie inhaled sharply—then laughed, the sound too loud, too bright. Maya beamed.
Announcements blare overhead. “Senior division starting in five.” Maya grabbed Kylie’s wrist, tugging her toward the arena. The crowd’s roar swelled through the doors. Kylie stumbles, her thighs trembling. The green mesh leotard itched against her skin as she steps into the light. Spotlights bleach her vision, but she spots Liam in the crowd—grinning, clapping, he parents and siblings a few rows down, cheering. Kylie lifts her chin. Her warmup cartwheel is perfect. Harrington claps along with the crowd. She doesn't notice the pine scent, nor the aroma of whiskey and cigarettes, and not even the slightly oiled stained hands of the judges. Her body moves without thought. This, she realizes with glacial horror, is the easiest thing I’ve done all day.
The vault approaches—she counts strides. Her hands slap the leather, but her left foot skids on the landing mat. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Kylie staggers upright, pulse hammering. The stumble wasn't fatigue. It was her thighs remembering—muscles twitching with phantom thrusts, her knees recalling concrete instead of springboard. Maya's worried frown burns hotter than the judges’ whispers. Kylie forces a grin. "Warming up!" she lies, flipping into a rebound back handspring that lands flawlessly. The crowd erupts. Harrington's clap continues—a metronome beneath the cheers.
Balancing on the beam, Kylie's toes curl against the wood. Her arms tremble—not from exertion, but from the memory of fingers gripping her hips in the dark. She pirouettes. A leap. Then, mid-air, her body betrays her: legs snapping together too tight, too instinctively protective. The landing wobbles. Points docked. The judges scribble. Liam winces in sympathy. Only Harrington smiles, fingers steepled under his chin.
Music swells for floor routine. Kylie arches into her first pass—but the tumbling sequence blurs. Each twist syncs to the boiler room’s rhythm: thrust, gasp, swallow. Her final pose—arms high, chest heaving—freezes under the applause. The crowd sees victory. Harrington sees compliance. As flowers rain down, Kylie’s smile stays locked in place. Her tongue probes the raw spot on her palate. The taste of iron lingers. Somewhere, a rusted door creaks shut.
— --
In the dim-lit principal’s office repurposed for their gathering, Harrington traced a fingertip over meet score sheets spread across the desk. "Her dismount lacked commitment, " he remarked idly, swirling scotch in his glass. A judge leaned back in his chair, the desk lamp catching the grease still crusted beneath his nails. "Timing’s good though—especially during transitions, " he countered with a smirk, tapping the sheet where Kylie’s beam score had been circled. "Fluid. Consistent rhythm." Across from him, Jameson chuckled low, loosening his tie. "Still choked under pressure, " he said, the words heavy with double entendre. "That vault stumble? Predictable." One of the silent judges—a silver-haired man smelling faintly of cigars—nodded slowly. "Recovery was competent."
Harrington’s smile widened as he slid a tablet displaying boiler room footage toward the group. "Her form’s tightened considerably, " he observed, freezing the frame where Kylie’s throat visibly convulsed around an intrusion, blindfold soaked through. "See the control here? Depth maintained despite..." He gestured dismissively. "...external stressors." Jameson grunted agreement, leaning closer. "Wide stance early on, " he pointed at her spread knees frozen on concrete. "Cost her stability." The second judge—the one with oil-stained fingers—cleared his throat. "Impressive oral presentation. Minimal spillage."
The man moves his grease-stained finger over Kylie’s floor routine photo, overlaying it with footage of her swallowing convulsively. "Artistry’s developing, " he conceded. "But her expression? Too tense." He zoomed in on her face, eyes probably panicked behind the blindfold. "Needs to relax into the performance." The third judge, adjusting his belt buckle, finally spoke: "Endurance is exceptional. Fifteen minutes, three routines." He paused, swirling his drink. "Consistent execution." Harrington raised his glass in silent tribute.
— --
Outside the arena doors, Kylie pressed trembling palms to her temples, Maya’s chatter fading beneath the phantom echo of zippers and choked praise. Her throat still burned—a raw, intimate ache that pulsed with every breath. Around her, gymnasts stretched and laughed, oblivious. Kylie’s fingers drifted to her collarbone. She blinked, forcing Maya’s face back into focus—her friend’s excitement a jagged counterpoint to the suffocating dread coiling in Kylie’s gut.