Shattered Sisterhood - Cheerloser

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Layla Morrison drummed her manicured nails against the steering wheel of her Mercedes, the steady tap-tap-tap the only thing that revealed her annoyance that she even had to be here, and was missing out on what could have been the crown jewel of her entire High School experience in her senior year… and it was all because of that idiot boyfriend of hers. The final football game of the season should have been Lakeside High School's crowning achievement, pushing them deep into the playoffs. They could have won the trophy. Instead, that blessedly-big-cocked idiot Steve had thrown an interception right into the hands of the enemy team, giving River West of all fucking people, the school they had dominated for her entire run through High School, the chance to steal their victory with a last-minute touchdown.

Layla couldn’t care less about that… which school won the trophy didn’t matter to her. As far as the cheerleader captain was concerned it made no difference. What did, however, was that they had lost to their biggest goddamn rival, and robbed her of the chance to take a victory lap. The two schools from opposite sides of town had been rivals since before her great granddaddy had been born, and they had been raising the stakes with one another in varsity sports for years now.

She turned the key, killing the engine with a twist of her wrist. "Fucking dykes," she muttered, checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. Her bright blue eyes stared back, cold and calculating beneath perfectly shaped eyebrows. She adjusted her white and red cheerleader uniform, making sure the "Lakeside" lettering stretched enticingly across her generous breasts. The familiar outfit felt like armor—a reminder of her position at the top of the social hierarchy… she wouldn’t have anyone who saw her thinking for a second that she went to this shithole school. Then she stepped out of her car, the spring air nipping at her exposed midriff. Students crossing the parking lot turned to watch her, their eyes drawn to her like moths to a flame. She fed on their attention, straightening her spine and adding an extra sway to her hips. Even in some irrelevant defeat she was Layla fucking Morrison, and nobody at River West would dare forget it.

Since the seventies, there had been a tradition… the losing team’s cheerleader captain had to spend a day as a servant to the winner… and she had very, very much enjoyed the long string of dominant victories they had had over River West. Once Jordan had become the Cheerleader Captain in River West last year, though, she had… escalated considerably. If that bitch had thought Layla would take it easy on her, that illusion had vanished when Layla had her wear a diaper and a bib and serve Lakeside lunch the next day in the cafeteria, dressing like a baby. Layla barely even remembered what the meal had been, but she never forgot the look of utter humiliation on Jordan’s face.

Since then, she had just gotten more imaginative. Towards the start of the year she’d made Jordan had to wear an obscenely tight French maid outfit as she cleaned every room in Jordan’s house after the victory party she had thrown for the football team, and use disgusting fake-fancy names like "Mademoiselle" each time she addressed Layla... but perhaps the best part was how humiliated she'd taken Jordan home. Layla had fucked her boyfriend Steve right on Jordan’s bed before making her clean up the mess.

Her last victory had been the sweetest of all for Layla. She made Jordan wear a skimpy bikini—the top barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing—and wash all of the Lakeside High School football team's cars. They parked in a circle around her, reclining with their seats pushed back as they watched the show. The boys leered at the dyke’s every sudsy movement as she’d been forced to press her tits against the glass time and time again as she cleaned. By the time she finished, half of them were laughing so hard that they couldn't even drive away until they'd calmed down.

Today was supposed to be her Magnum Opus with Jordan-fucking-Chen at her beck and call. It would have been the pinnacle of that bitch’s humiliation, and the perfect way to remind Jordan who was on top forever. She'd already arranged everything: The River West auditorium rented out for a "special event," fliers made up advertising the show, even a camera crew hired to record it all for her social media. She’d had one of the dorks in her class to make a fake porn-style magazine cover with Jordan’s face on it and filled it with photos she’d taken over the last 2 years, including the French maid and the car wash. She’d… borrowed… some money to print out several hundred copies of "Pussy Eaters Monthly" for distribution at both schools. She was going to put Jordan in a sash reading "Miss Carpet Muncher 2025" and have her hand out every copy of the magazine personally.

And then her idiot boyfriend lost the damned game, and she was never going to get her chance to parade her dominance over her old rival. The tables had turned. Lakeside had lost, and according to tradition, she owed Jordan Chen a day of servitude.

But Layla had no intention of paying up.

To her, this was about more than a stupid tradition. In Layla’s whole life, there had only been one real threat to her position of prominence as the most beautiful, most popular, most special girl in town, and that had been her old friend Jordan. It had been… right up until middle school, when Layla had exposed the dyke bitch for who she, telling her disgusting secret to everyone. Shunned by daddy’s church and the local congregation and humiliated at school, she’d had to transfer out of the school district. That should have been the end of it… dumb bitch should have known to stay down when Layla put her down. Instead, she'd risen to become captain of River West's cheer squad. That lesbian abomination had even let other freaks like her onto the squad, surrounding herself with a posse of rug-munching teammates that Lakeside kids mockingly called "The Dyke Squad."

Layla's lip curled as she thought about Jordan—her short black hair, that smug smile, the way she carried herself like she was somehow better than Layla. As if being gay wasn't bad enough. It made Layla's skin crawl.

She tries to remind herself that it didn’t matter. She might not get her ideal capstone to her victory over Jordan but she had won. In a few months, Layla would be at Duke, following in her father's footsteps. The perfect GPA she'd bought and her recent perfect SAT score had secured her future. Jordan and her dyke friends would be nothing but an unpleasant memory. And she would still arrange to have that magazine slipped into every locker on the last day of school.

Today was just about having the final word.

She pushed through the heavy doors of the gymnasium, the familiar scent of rubber mats and cleaning solution filling her nostrils. It was after hours, but the lights blazed overhead, illuminating the polished floor where she knew the River West cheerleaders did their training and workouts. The whole team wasn’t there, the way she had been hoping… but the important ones were. Jordan was doing pull-ups on a bar, her athletic body rising and falling with controlled precision. Her cropped black hair fell across her brow, damp with the honest effort of her workout. She wore the blue and silver River West cheerleading uniforms with shorts more appropriate to working out rather than the usual skirts, and and the other women were dressed in the same.

Sydney Park, that quiet, calculating nerd, was on the weight bench. Her black hair fell in a loose tangle across her back, and her usual calm look was replaced with focus as she as she raised and lowered the bar with steady precision and the effort showed in her graceful neck.

Riley Martinez, the feisty Latina lesbian who was Jordan's right hand, stood behind Sydney’s bench, prepared to spot her. That one had a big mouth, almost as big as her cow tits. She had her thick brown hair tied back in a ponytail, her toned legs shining with sweat as evidence she had been doing more than just spotting. as she stood behind Sydney on the bench and prepared to spot her.

Lastly Aria Bishop, punk-rock transfer goth slut from hell, was the newest member of Jordan's little clique. The auburn streak in her dirty blonde hair matched the smugness in her eyes. She was like a fucking cartoon character, always grinning and joking and jumping around. She was on a mat nearby, stretching out with hair pulled back in a severe ponytail,

Layla hated all four of them. These were the four that it was most important to humiliate… the Dyke Squad, in all their dubious glory. She cleared her throat, and four pairs of eyes turned to her simultaneously.

"Look what crawled in," Riley said, her voice carrying across the gym as she sneered. "If it isn't Little Miss Perfect, finally gracing us with her presence. Here to start your servitude?"

Layla forced a saccharine smile. "I’m afraid there’s been a… miscommunication,” she said, her voice a pleasant, cheerful tone. “I’m not going to be serving anyone.” She placed a hand on her hip, the picture of casual dismissal. "I just wanted to see your faces when I told you I have better things to do than play pretend with a bunch of dykes."

Jordan dropped from the pull-up bar, landing softly on her feet. Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes hardened like chips of amber. She didn’t look surprised… she just looked angry. She had known Layla for years, after all… she must not have been stupid enough to think her better was just going to roll over and show her belly. "That's not how this works, Layla. You lost. You pay up."

"Or what?" Layla laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. "You'll tell on me? To who? Who will even listen? This is the last game we'll ever play against each other. I'll be at Duke next year, and you'll be—" she waved her hand dismissively, "—wherever some community college takes pity on you."

Sydney stepped forward, her delicate features arranged in a pensive look. "Interesting choice, showing up just to refuse. It’s like you have a pathological need to assert dominance whenever you lose."

"Shut up, Park," Layla snapped. "Nobody asked for your fortune cookie wisdom."

Aria's laugh was musical and mocking. "She's scared, that's all."

"As if," Layla scoffed, taking a step closer to Jordan. They were nearly the same height, though Jordan's athletic build made her seem larger somehow. "I just wanted to say goodbye properly. Tell you that you might have won this game, but I won the war. In a few months, I'll be gone, and you'll still be the same pathetic dyke everyone we knew has been laughing at since middle school."

The gym fell silent. Jordan's teammates exchanged glances.

The next several seconds were quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and seemed to drag on forever. "You haven't changed one bit, have you?" Jordan's voice was quiet, controlled. "You’re still the same cruel, entitled bitch you always have been."

"Why change what works?" Layla's smile was razor-sharp. "Look at me, and look at you. Who's really winning here?"

"You ruined my life once," Jordan continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You outed me, and I wasn’t ready. You made me a pariah. But look what happened—I found real friends, ones that respect me for who I am, not who I pretend to be.”

"Congratulations," Layla sneered. "What, you want a medal for being the most well-adjusted fairy?"

Riley stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing. "Watch your mouth, Morrison."

"Or what?" Layla turned to face her. "You'll scissor me to death?" Layla turned back to Jordan, feeling the heat of victory. She'd gotten under their skin. Mission accomplished. "I'm leaving," she announced, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "I just wanted you all to know that I don't give a shit about your stupid tradition. I'm not going to be a servant to a bunch of dykes just because my idiot boyfriend couldn't hold his own."

She started turned on her heel, ready to make her dramatic exit. The satisfaction of having the last word was sweet on her tongue.

She never saw the punch coming.

Jordan's fist connected with her cheekbone in an explosion of pain that sent her staggering backward. She lost her balance, her cheerleader skirt flaring as she fell hard on her ass, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.

For a moment, Layla was too shocked to speak, her hand flying to her face where pain bloomed hot and insistent. No one had ever hit her before. No one had dared.

Jordan stood over her, rubbing her knuckles. "You’ve had that coming for a long, long time, Layla." She knelt down, bringing her face level with Layla's. "And just so we're clear, we don't give a shit whether you want to honor the bet or not. You're not being given a choice."

The other three girls moved to form a circle around her, their expressions suddenly hungry in a way that made Layla's stomach clench with the first real tendril of fear. "What are you doing?" she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.

Jordan smiled, and it was nothing like the forced politeness of before. This was the smile of a predator who'd cornered its prey. "Teaching you that actions have consequences," she said simply. "Something you should have learned a long time ago."

Layla's eyes darted between them, sudden panic rising in her throat. For the first time since walking into the gym, she realized she'd made a terrible miscalculation.

Before Layla could scramble to her feet, eight hands descended upon her. Riley and Sydney seized her arms, wrenching them behind her back while Aria dropped to pin her legs, while Jordan loomed above, her hands pressing down on Layla’s shoulders and keeping them flat to the ground. "Get the fuck off me!" Layla thrashed against their grip, her cheerleader skirt riding up her thighs. "You can't do this! Do you know who my father is?"

"Sort of hard to forget the man who keeps threatening you with hellfire," Jordan laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. "Wonder what he'd think if he could see his precious daughter now."

Layla bucked wildly, managing to free one leg. She kicked out, her foot connecting with Aria's stomach. The auburn-haired girl grunted but recovered quickly, seizing Layla's ankle with renewed determination.

"She's got some fight," Riley observed, her grip on Layla's right arm unbreakable.

Sydney nodded, pressing more firmly down on the struggling cheer captain. "Hold the wildcat steady.”

With casual indifference, Jordan grabbed the hem of Layla's cheerleading top and yanked upward. The fabric stretched but didn't tear, revealing inch after inch of Layla's tanned stomach, then the lacy white bra that barely contained her breasts.

"No!" Panic laced Layla's voice as she renewed her struggles. "Stop it!"

Despite her objection the top rose the rest of the way up, gathering around her neck. The air in the gym hadn’t felt cold a moment again, but now it raised goosebumps across her exposed skin. Jordan reached beneath the struggling blond easily and unhooked her bra with a clearly-practiced movement of her fingers. The white, supportive fabric fell away, leaving Layla's large breasts bare.

Shame burned through her, hot and nauseating. She wasn’t opposed to using her looks to show off or wrap someone around her finger, but having her body put on display for a bunch of lesbian bitches was another thing entirely. This time, she was exposed under harsh fluorescent lights, surrounded by her enemies.

"Nice tits," Riley commented, her eyes roving over Layla's chest. "Too bad they're wasted on such a bitch."

"Let's see what else she's hiding," Jordan said. She flipped up the edge of Layla's cheerleading skirt, revealing the white panties beneath. Jordan hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled them down Layla's thrashing legs, exposing her completely.

Layla's face burned with humiliation. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away fiercely. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. "Get the hell off off me!" she snarled. “You'll all go to prison for this! I swear, I’ll get you stuffed in a cell forever!”

“She just doesn’t shut up, does she?” Riley said, rolling her eyes.

Jordan gathered the panties from around Layla's ankles and dangled them in front of her face. "Open wide, princess," her rival commanded.

Layla clamped her lips shut, but Jordan wasn’t bothered. Instead, just simply pinched the other woman’s nose closed. Layla held out as long as she could, but eventually, her need for air forced her mouth open in a desperate gasp, and the moment she did Jordan shoved the panties inside, packing her mouth full. The taste of cotton and her own sweat and musk made Layla gag, but with her mouth stuffed, all she could manage were muffled sounds of protest.

"That's better," Jordan said, stepping back to survey her work. "Now let's get her properly restrained. Riley, get those resistance bands from the corner."

Riley released Layla's arm to Sydney, who compensated by twisting it at a painful angle that made Layla whimper through her gag. Riley jogged to a storage rack and returned with several colorful elastic resistance bands of varying thicknesses. “These work?”

"Perfect," Jordan said, taking the bands. "Hold her tight."

Working methodically, Jordan bound Layla's wrists behind her back, wrapping the elastic bands around and between them until they were secured. The material bit into Layla's skin. "There… helpless as a kitten," Jordan announced, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Get her up."

The girls hauled Layla to her feet. She stood nearly naked except for her socks and shoes, her hands bound behind her back, her mouth gagged with her own underwear. Her shirt, gathered around her shoulders and neck, did nothing at all top preserve her modesty, and the vulnerability of her position hit her like a physical blow. For the first time, a hint of actual fear replaced her anger.

"You know what I think?" Jordan said, circling her like a shark scenting blood. "I think this gym needs a new punching bag. Hang her up.

Sydney tilted her head, considering. "The Smith machine would work. We could hook her to the bar."

"That will work," Jordan agreed.

They dragged Layla across the floor to a large weight machine with a movable bar. Working together, they manipulated her body until the bar was beneath her bound arm and wedged into her armpits, her own weight locking her in place. For good measure, Jordan took another resistance band, threading it around Layla's bound arms and attaching it to the bar above. Then she commanded the other girls to raise it up.

Sydney and Riley both moved to the sides of the machine, releasing the safety catches. Slowly, she pushed the bar upward. As it rose, the band pulled taut, forcing Layla's weight more fully onto the bar. They worked together to lift her until her feet were barely touching the ground, her body weight supported primarily by her shoulders in an agonizing position, and only then did the two cheerleaders lock the bar in place.

Layla dangled there, her toes scrabbling for purchase on the floor, her shoulders screaming in protest. The position thrust her breasts forward, making her feel even more exposed and vulnerable. Muffled pleas escaped around her gag, but the girls paid them no attention.

"There she is," Jordan said, standing back to admire their handiwork. "Queen Bee of Lakeside, hanging like a piece of meat."

"What now?" Aria asked, her expression hungry with anticipation.

Jordan's smile was cruel. "Now we teach her what happens when you refuse to honor your commitments." She stepped directly in front of Layla, their faces inches apart. "And I don’t know about you…”

Without warning, Jordan's knee came up hard between Layla's legs. The impact against her exposed genitals sent a shock of pain through Layla's entire body. She screamed into her gag, her eyes bulging. The agony was unlike anything she'd experienced—sharp and deep, radiating outward in sickening waves.

“…but I’m pretty sick of a stupid cunt who can’t keep the word ‘dyke’ out of her hateful fucking mouth.” Jordan finished with satisfaction.

"My turn," Riley said, stepping up as Jordan moved aside. She didn't hesitate, driving her foot upward with precision. The toe of her athletic shoe connected perfectly with Layla's labia, crushing the sensitive flesh against her pubic bone. Layla's vision blurred with tears. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think through the pain.

Sydney approached next, her face impassive as she considered her target. She tried to twist away, but the resistance band held her firmly in place, presenting her most vulnerable area as an unprotected target. All she could do was keep her legs together and up, shielding herself… so she did.

Unlike the others, however, Sydney didn’t attempt to kick her immediately. Instead she stood there and waited, observing Layla's hanging form with detached interest… and as she did, the pain in Layla’s shoulders grew, and grew, and grew now that her toes did nothing to take her weight. Eventually, she had to lower them back down and take the weight again, and-

Sydney’s kick came lightning fast, the point of her shoe finding the exact center of Layla's sex. The pain exploded like white fire, causing Layla to convulse against her restraints. “You aren’t as clever as you think you are,” she said as she stepped away.

Aria was last, bouncing on her toes like a boxer warming up. "Not hard. She might be a bitch, but I’m not sure I’ve ever met a dog this stupid. What makes you think you can get away with treating people like this?” she asked, right before delivering a brutal kick that felt like it threatened to split Layla in two.

They established a rhythm, taking turns, each kick finding a new angle of agony. Layla lost count after the twentieth impact. Her world narrowed to the relentless cycle of anticipation and explosion. She couldn't even scream anymore, her throat raw, her body shuddering with each new assault.

Somewhere around the thirtieth kick, something inside her broke. A warm wetness trickled down her inner thighs, and she realized with distant horror that she was urinating. She couldn't control it, couldn't stop the release as her traumatized body betrayed her.

"Look at that," Riley laughed, pointing at the puddle forming beneath Layla's feet. "The princess just pissed herself."

"Disgusting," Aria commented, though her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Jordan stepped back, surveying their work. "I think that's enough. For now."

Layla hung limply in her restraints, consciousness flickering. Between her legs, her once-pale flesh had transformed into a mottled landscape of angry red and darkening purple. Every heartbeat sent new pulses of agony through the swollen tissue. She had never known such pain was possible, never imagined such humiliation. Things like this didn’t happen to her, they happened to other people.

Jordan nodded, reaching out to prod the abused flesh between her legs with her finger. It felt like she held a lighter in her hands. Layla flinched violently, a fresh sob escaping around her gag.

"Let’s take her down," Jordan said, wiping the piss off her finger onto Layla's thigh. "Time to make sure the lesson takes.”

The group of cheerleaders lowered her like a conquered flag, Sydney carefully releasing the bar while the others supported Layla's limp body. Her shoulders screamed in relief as the pressure eased, but the pain between her legs remained a throbbing, insistent agony that throbbed in time with the beat of her heart. "Bring her over here," Jordan directed, gesturing toward a padded workout bench in the center of the weight area. "Let's get her comfortable."

The word "comfortable" sent a chill through Layla's battered body. Nothing about this situation suggested comfort was their goal.

They dragged her across the floor, her legs too weak to support her weight. The cool vinyl of the bench pressed against her back as they arranged her body, leaving her legs dangling off one end, her head at the other. Her arms remained bound behind her, forcing her back to arch uncomfortably.

Jordan loomed over her, reaching for the spit-soaked stuffed in Layla's mouth. She pulled them free with a rough yank, allowing Layla to gasp for air.

"Stop this!" Layla croaked, her voice hoarse from screaming behind the gag. "I’ll do it, OK? I’ll do the stupid tradition! I’ll be your little servant for a day!” Yeah, right. The moment she left here, she was going right to her father, then to the police. By the time the cops were done with these dykes, then they woul-

"Oh, you think that’s good enough?" Jordan's laugh was devoid of humor. "You know, princess… if you’d come here and acted like that at the start, maybe I would have let you get away that easy. Once you know a dog is going to bite, though, you don’t let it off the leash again.”

"No!" Layla protested, staring up at the faces glaring down at her. "I swear, my father will—"

"Your father will what?" Riley interrupted, her tone mocking. "Pray for you? I don't think God's listening tonight, sweetie."

Despite herself, a single tear leaked from the corner of Layla's eyes, tracking just a bit of mascara down her temples and into her perfect blonde hair. "You can’t do this to me!"

"We can… because you deserve it," Jordan said simply. "Because for years, you've treated people like objects, like they're beneath you. Now you get to know what that feels like."

Silently, the four women look at each other, some kind of unspoken question in the gaze… a little bit of uncertainty as they stood over the struggling blonde cheerleader. Then Aria nodded and started untying the drawstring of her cheerleading work-out shorts. "I’ll do it," she announced, sliding the shorts down her athletic legs. "I've been waiting for this since that bitch had blowup dolls delivered to the school wearing our cheerleader outfits.”

She wasn't wearing underwear beneath the shorts, a realization that made Layla's stomach lurch with fresh horror. Aria kicked the shorts aside and moved to the head of the bench, her bare thighs and exposed sex now directly above Layla's face.

"No!" Layla protested vehemently, shutting her eyes tight. "No, I'm not one of you dyke freaks. I won't do it!"

"Won't you?" Aria said, lowering herself until her knees were on either side of Layla's head. "Let's see about that."

The proximity of another woman's genitals made Layla gag. She could smell Aria's arousal, a musky scent that turned her stomach. This was wrong, disgusting. Everything she'd been raised to believe told her this was an abomination.

"Open your eyes, whore," Aria commanded, gripping Layla's hair painfully. "Look at what you're going to be licking."

Layla stubbornly kept her eyes shut, turning her head as far as Aria's grip would allow.

"Looks like she needs some motivation," Sydney observed from the foot of the bench. "Allow me."

Layla felt cool fingers trail up her inner thigh, dangerously close to her bruised and aching sex. She flinched, trying to close her legs, but Riley and Jordan quickly moved in, forcing them apart. "Keep them open," Riley ordered, her strong hands clamping around Layla's ankles. "Wide open."

Sydney's touch was light at first, almost clinical as she explored the swollen folds of Layla's labia. "This is going to be one hell of a bruise,” she noted idly, as if making a scientific observation. Then without warning, she slid a finger inside Layla.

Layla gasped, her eyes flying open in shock. The intrusion burned against her dry tissues, a fresh violation that sent panic coursing through her.

"That's better," Aria said, looking down at Layla's horrified expression. "Now you can see what you're working with."

Sydney added a second finger, stretching Layla's entrance. The pain was immediate and sharp, drawing a cry from her throat.

"Here's how this works," Jordan explained, standing where Layla could just barely see her around Aria’s thighs. "Sydney here is going to keep adding fingers until her entire hand is inside you. Then she’s going to use your insides for a punching bag for a while. The only way to make her stop is to make my friend cum. Your choice."

"I can't," Layla sobbed, as Sydney worked a third finger into her. "I don't know how."

“Pass me the lotion, Jordan?” Sydney said idly.

"Better figure something out, Layla," Jordan said coldly as she passed some hand lotion over. "Or Syd will be punching your cervix in about thirty seconds."

The fourth finger was agony, stretching Layla beyond what she thought possible. She could feel Sydney's knuckles pressing against her entrance, seeking entry to the tightest part of her body.

"Please," she begged, looking up at Aria's expectant face. "Please, I'll try."

"That's more like it," Aria purred, lowering herself until her sex was pressed directly against Layla's mouth. "Use your tongue, bitch. And make it good."

Swallowing her revulsion, Layla tentatively extended her tongue. The taste was foreign, tangy and strong. She had no idea what to do, how to please another woman. Her boyfriend had gone down on her a few times, and she tried to remember what he'd done, what had felt good.

She licked hesitantly along what she thought was Aria's slit, her tongue trembling with reluctance.

"Pathetic," Aria scoffed, grinding herself harder against Layla's face. "My grandmother could do better, and she's dead."

Sydney pushed harder, and Layla felt something give inside her as the widest part of Sydney's hand breached her entrance. The pain was blinding, tearing a scream from her throat that was muffled against Aria's flesh.

"That was the thumb going in," Sydney announced with terrifying calm. "Almost there."

The prospect of being fully fisted spurred Layla to desperate action. She forced herself to lick more enthusiastically, trying to find the spot that would bring Aria pleasure. She flattened her tongue, dragging it upward until she felt a small, hard nub.

Aria's sharp intake of breath told her she'd found the right place. She focused her attention there, circling the clitoris with clumsy strokes.

"Better," Aria admitted grudgingly, rolling her hips. "But still amateur hour."

Sydney's hand was fully inside now, a violating presence that stretched Layla to her limit. She could feel the other girl's fingers forming a fist within her, the knuckles pressing against her inner walls. When Sydney pushed deeper, her fist collided with Layla's cervix, sending a bolt of agony through her core.

Layla screamed against Aria's pussy, tears streaming freely now. The pain was unbearable, a deep internal bruising that made her feel like she was being torn apart from the inside.

"Make me cum," Aria demanded, her voice husky with arousal. "Or she'll keep doing that until you pass out." As if to emphasize the point, Sydney drew her fist back slightly and then punched forward, the impact against Layla's cervix making her vision swim with black spots.

Desperation gave Layla a clarity she hadn't possessed before. She began to work Aria's clit in earnest, alternating between direct pressure and faster, lighter strokes. She sealed her lips around the sensitive nub and sucked in a way she hoped the other woman would like… and she was rewarded. Above her, Aria's breathing changed, becoming more ragged. "Fuck," she gasped, her thighs tensing on either side of Layla's head. "That's it, right there."

Encouraged, Layla doubled her efforts. She didn't think about what she was doing anymore, about whose body parts were in her mouth. She thought only of making this end, of stopping the brutal assault inside her before these dyke freaks permanently ruined her body. Sydney was still punching her pussy with everything she had, each impact sending fresh waves of agony through Layla's body. The agony was motivating, driving her to work Aria's clit with increasing desperation.

"Yes," Aria hissed, her hips moving in short, sharp jerks. "Keep going, you fucking whore. Lick my cunt. Don't you dare stop."

Layla felt Aria's thighs begin to tremble, heard her breathing turn to gasps. The other girl's hand tangled in Layla's blonde hair, holding her face firmly in place as she ground herself against her mouth.

"I'm close," Aria announced to the room, her voice thick with pleasure. "Our little straight girl is actually getting me off."

The humiliation of the words burned through Layla, but she didn't slow down. She licked and sucked and prayed for it to be over, for the fist inside her to withdraw, for this nightmare to end.

With a strangled cry, Aria came, her body convulsing against Layla's face. Hot wetness flooded Layla's mouth and chin, the evidence of the other girl's pleasure soaking her. Aria rode out her orgasm without mercy, smearing herself across Layla's features, marking her.

When the spasms finally subsided, Aria lifted herself slightly, looking down at Layla's tear-streaked, glistening face.

"Not bad for your first time eating pussy," she panted, satisfaction evident in her flushed cheeks. "I was planning to explain to you that it doesn’t matter if you’re gay or not… because we are, and we decided you get to be a vibrator for us. Not sure that matters anymore, though. Seems you're a natural-born dyke after all."

The words cut deeper than any physical pain. Layla turned her face away, shame burning through her like acid. She had made another girl orgasm with her mouth. The evidence was drying on her face, inescapable proof of what she'd done. She was not one of these freaks. She was not like them. This wasn't who she was… even if she had needed to do something so disgusting.

Sydney finally withdrew her fist from Layla's abused channel, the exit almost as painful as the entry had been. Layla's body convulsed with relief, though the internal damage continued to throb with sickening intensity.

"Good girl," Jordan said, in the tone one might use to praise a performing dog. "You're learning already."

Aria stood, wiping her thighs with Layla's half-worn top, a gesture of casual disrespect that somehow cut through Layla's haze of pain. The taste of another woman's pleasure lingered on her tongue like a foreign language she'd been forced to speak. She lay there, breathing in shallow gasps, her insides feeling hollow and torn, her mind scrabbling for purchase on reality. This couldn't be happening. Not to her. Not to Layla Morrison.

Aria looked down at her handiwork with smug satisfaction for a moment. "So, I went first. Who's going next?" she asked, reaching for her discarded shorts.

Layla lay there, her mind struggling to process what had happened, what was still happening. This couldn't be real. But the taste in her mouth, the pain between her legs, the sticky evidence of Aria's pleasure on her face—it was all too real.

And based on the hungry looks on the other girls' faces, it was far from over.

"I go," Riley announced, already stripping off her blue and silver shorts. Unlike Aria, she wore underwear—a simple black thong that she hooked with her thumbs and slid down her muscular legs. "Let's see if she's a quick learner."

Layla turned her head away, her eyes squeezed shut. "No more," she pleaded, her voice a ragged whisper. "Please, I can't."

"Can't?" Riley laughed, moving to the head of the bench. "Or won't? Because I assure you, those are two very different things."

"I'm not doing it again," Layla said, summoning the last remnants of her defiance. "It's disgusting. You're all fucking disgusting."

Riley looked down at Layla with cold amusement. "Still got some fight, huh? Jordan, I think our princess needs a little more persuasion."

"I was thinking the same thing," Jordan replied, her voice laced with anticipation.

Sydney, still positioned between Layla's spread legs, nodded in agreement. "At this rate, my hand is going to fall off before she learns anything."

"Then its time we stopped being so nice to her," Jordan said, her eyes scanning the gym. "Aria, check the equipment closet. I think the softball team has a bad in there."

Aria moved across the gym to a large storage closet, disappearing inside. Layla lay trembling on the bench, her mind racing with terrified speculation about what was coming next. What could be worse than what they'd already done to her?

Riley stood waiting, naked from the waist down, her powerful thighs and neatly trimmed pubic hair level with Layla's face. There was something different about Riley's demeanor—a raw aggression that Aria had lacked, a hunger that seemed more personal.

"You know," Riley said conversationally, looking down at Layla, "I've wanted to do this since the day you called me a 'diversity quota' in front of the entire cheer competition. Remember that?"

Layla didn't answer, still focused on the taste of Aria lingering on her tongue. The truth was that she didn't. Why would she? It was just one of countless casual cruelties she'd dispensed over the years.

"I remember," Riley continued, her hand trailing down to touch herself absently. "You said the only reason I made my team was because they needed a 'token Mexican.' I’m Puerto Rican, you dumb slut. Not that an ignorant bitch like you could find either of them on a map.”

"I… I remember. I’m sorry, OK?” she lied, not meaning any of it but desperate for any way out.

"No, you're not," Riley said, her tone matter-of-fact. "But I promise you will be."

Aria returned then, carrying two aluminum baseball bats, one in each hand. "I think these ought to work," she announced, holding them up for everyone to see.

Layla's eyes widened in horror. "No," she gasped, renewing her struggles against the resistance bands still binding her wrists. "No, you can't—"

"Can't what?" Jordan asked innocently, taking one of the bats from Aria. She ran her hand along the smooth metal surface, her eyes never leaving Layla's terrified face. "We're just improvising with what's available."

"This is insane," Layla cried, tears streaming fresh down her temples. "You'll kill me!"

"Drama queen," Jordan scoffed. "You’ll be fiiiine. This will just help you stay motivated to make my friend happy. The sooner you make her cum, the sooner we stop."

Riley positioned herself over Layla's face, her knees on either side of her head, her sex hovering inches above Layla's mouth. "Ready when you are," she called to the others.

Jordan moved to the foot of the bench, each wielding a baseball bat. Sydney shifted to the side, making room for them while maintaining her grip on Layla's ankles, keeping her legs spread wide.

"This is disgusting," Layla said, turning her face away from Riley's exposed genitals. "I'm not a fucking dyke."

"You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you protest too much," Jordan observed, positioning the end of the bat between Layla's abused labia. "But if you insist… here. You can have some dick."

The cold metal pressed against Layla's entrance, making her whole body tense in anticipation of pain. The bat wasn’t wider than Sydney's hand had been but it was more unyielding, its solid surface promising a different kind of violation.

"Last chance," Jordan warned, applying slight pressure. "Start licking, or we start pushing."

"Fuck you," Layla spat, clinging to her last shred of dignity.

Jordan's response was immediate. She thrust the bat forward, forcing the first few inches into Layla's unprepared body. The metal dragged against her dry tissues, ripping a scream from her throat that echoed off the gymnasium walls.

"Jesus," Aria breathed, watching the bat disappear into Layla. "That's hot."

Jordan worked the bat deeper, twisting it slightly as she pushed. Each inch was a fresh torment, stretching Layla beyond what she thought her body could endure. When the metal made contact with her cervix, a white-hot explosion of pain shot through her core.

"There… all the way in,” Jordan announced, holding the bat steady. "Now let's see if Riley can get some satisfaction from her nasty little mouth."

Riley lowered herself, pressing her sex directly against Layla's gasping lips. "Lick or die, princess," she growled, grinding down.

The pain was too much. Layla's resistance crumbled like wet paper. Her tongue extended, finding Riley's folds and lapping at them with desperate urgency. She would do anything, anything at all, for even a slight chance the agony would stop.

"That's better," Riley sighed, rolling her hips against Layla's working mouth. "See how easy life can be when you do something nice for someone?"

Jordan began moving the bat, pulling it back a few inches before driving it forward again. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pain through Layla's body, making her convulse beneath Riley's weight. "Harder," Aria urged, watching the obscene spectacle with bright eyes. "She can take it."

Jordan complied, increasing both speed and force. The aluminum bat made a sick, wet sound as it pistoned in and out of Layla's body, reaching depths at that girth no penis ever could. With each thrust, it collided with her cervix, battering the sensitive organ with relentless cruelty. Layla screamed against Riley's flesh, the vibrations of her cries adding unexpected stimulation that made the other girl moan in pleasure. "Keep screaming," Riley encouraged, grinding harder. "It feels fucking amazing."

Through tears and pain, Layla forced herself to focus on Riley's clit, finding it with her tongue and working it frantically. The sooner this was over, the sooner the bat would stop. It was her only thought, her only goal in a world narrowed to agony and degradation.

For a moment, Riley seemed to enjoy having her clit licked like Aria had. Her breathing quickened, and her hips moved in sync with Layla's mouth. Then Riley pulled back, snarling in frustration. "Stop that!" she snapped, slapping Layla across the cheek. The crack of skin on skin rang through the gym. “What is the matter with you?”

Layla squeal of surprise was muffled against Riley's wet pussy as she reeled, was dazed and confused. She didn’t understand what she’d done wrong… She'd thought she was close to making Riley cum.

"It's too sensitive, you dumb bitch," Riley spat, repositioning herself more firmly on Layla's face. "Stop fucking around you lazy slut and figure it out!"

Layla's heart sank. She… she wanted it done completely differently from Aria? The restrained cheerleader that through she had a grip on how to do this, but clearly it wasn't going to be that easy for her.

Jordan continued thrusting the bat into her bruised cunt, the force cruel and unrelenting. Each brutal stroke made Layla buck helplessly beneath Riley's weight. She had to find something—anything—that worked before the pain drove her insane. She tried licking around Riley's opening instead of directly on her clit, hoping for some kind of reaction. Nothing much. She sucked at the outer lips, feeling them swell between her teeth as she worked them with desperate intensity. Still nothing. She tried everything she could think of, frantically searching for anything that might make Riley moan again.

Nothing seemed to work until she pushed her tongue deep inside Riley’s opening and rubbed it against the rougher spot along the top wall. Then finally—finally—Riley gasped in pleasure above her.

"Fuck yes," Riley gasped, her thighs tensing around Layla's head. "Right there, you little bitch. Right there."

Layla redoubled her efforts, sucking and licking with a desperation born of pure self-preservation… repeating the lick again and again with renewed vigor despite how much each thrust of the bat destroyed her focus, Jordan's arm driving it against the suffering girl’s cervix again and again.

"I'm getting close," Riley ordered breathlessly, pushing down so hard that Layla thought she'd suffocate before finishing the task. Her voice was tight with her approaching climax. "Keep doing exactly that. Make me fucking cum you little slut."

Layla obliged, ignoring the cramp in her jaw, the ache in her tongue, the searing pain between her legs. She became a machine with one purpose: to make Riley orgasm as quickly as possible.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Riley chanted, her movements becoming less coordinated as pleasure built. "I'm going to cum all over this bitch's face."

Jordan chose that moment to slam the bat forward with extra force, driving it hard against Layla's cervix. The pain was nuclear, radiating outward from her core in waves that threatened to send her into unconsciousness, and her tongue shook as she screamed directly into her rapist’s cunt.

Riley came with a howl, her body convulsing, her sex pulsing against Layla's mouth in a burst of wetness and heat. Hot fluid gushed forth, far more than Aria had produced, further showing the difference between the two women. It was enough to practically drown Layla beneath the other cheerleader. She couldn't breathe, couldn't escape the flood of another woman's pleasure.

"Fuck yes!" Riley cried, grinding herself against Layla's gasping mouth through the aftershocks. "Take it, you stuck-up cunt! Drink it all!"

Layla had no choice. Riley's essence filled her mouth, ran down her chin, soaked into her hair. The taste was different from Aria's—stronger, more earthy—but the humiliation was the same. She had pleasured another woman with her mouth. Again.

Riley holding Layla's head tight against her spasming body until every last tremor passed through her system. Only then did she finally lift herself, her legs trembling slightly from the intensity of her orgasm. She looked down at Layla's soaked face with smug satisfaction.

"There you go, little straight girl,” she commented, reaching for her discarded clothing. "Knew you could do it.”

Jordan had let go of the baseball bat, leaving it still wedged in the cunt of the blonde bombshell on the bench… but at least it wasn’t moving anymore. Her pussy was throbbing, and if someone gave Layla the option at that moment she would rather not have a pussy at all ever again than feel like this.

Riley stepped away, her satisfied smirk burning itself into Layla's memory like acid on film. The bench beneath her was slick with various bodily fluids — Layla’s sweat, her own involuntary wetness from the violent penetration, and the evidence of two women's pleasure smeared across her face and hair. The gym lights seemed to pulse overhead, too bright then too dim, as her body tried and failed to process the overwhelming input of pain and violation.

"That makes it my turn," Sydney said, her voice carrying the same analytical tone she might use in chemistry lab. She removed her River West shorts. The other woman took the time to fold them neatly before placing them on a nearby weight rack. Her underwear — simple black boy-shorts — followed in the same orderly fashion.

Unlike Aria's theatrical approach or Riley's aggressive stance, Sydney only paused for a moment to study Layla's face, noting the tears, the smeared makeup, the mixture of bodily fluids coating her once-perfect features. Then she flipped herself around, and sat down on Layla’s face the other way so that she was looking down the length of the blonde’s body.

The reason became clear a moment later as Sydney reached down and grasped onto Layla's breasts with both hands. Her fingers squeezed the soft flesh, digging into it experimentally, and the unexpected contact made Layla gasp. Her breasts had always been sensitive, a source of pride for the woman… the weapon that drew everyone’s eyes and helped her to keep them. Now they were becoming just one more part of her that could suffer as Sydney's Sydney's grip tightened suddenly, her fingers digging deep into the soft flesh until Layla cried out. "These will bruise nicely," she observed.

She continued her assault on Layla's breasts, pinching and twisting the nipples until they stood painfully erect. All the while, her exposed sex hovered inches above Layla's face, a looming threat.

"Please," Layla whispered, her voice barely audible against her abuser’s pussy. "I can't take any more of this."

"You haven't even started yet," Sydney replied calmly. She wiggled her hips until her cunt was pressed solidly against the other cheerleader’s lips. "Begin."

By now, Layla knew what was going to happen if she refused, and she really didn’t want to see what Jordan had in mind if she tried to resist a third time. Instead the blonde Layla extended her tongue immediately, and tried to ignore the way it felt swollen and sore already from her previous exertions as she forced it to move, to seek out the familiar anatomy that was becoming horrifyingly familiar.

Sydney was less wet than the others had been, her arousal more controlled. Layla licked, looking for sensitive spots… her experience with Riley had taught her that trying to assume one of her rapists would like what the other had was a mistake. Unfortunately for her, she was too slow about it. "She’s showing… insufficient enthusiasm," Sydney noted after a minute of Layla's slow, exploratory efforts. "Jordan, I believe additional motivation is required."

Jordan nodded, picking up the second baseball bat that Aria had brought from the storage closet. "I was thinking the same thing." She moved to stand beside the first bat, which still jutted obscenely from Layla's abused sex. "But I think we need to explore new territory."

New territory. The words sent a fresh wave of panic through Layla. What did that mean? What else could they possibly do to her? Her question was answered when she felt the cool metal of the second bat pressing against her anus.

"No!" The word exploded from her in a rush of terror. "Not there! You can't!"

"Can't?" Jordan echoed, applying gentle but insistent pressure. "I think you'll find there's very little we can't do at this point."

Sydney squeezed Layla’s breasts hard and shoved her hips down violently, forcing her pussy more firmly down onto the other woman’s face. "Focus on your task," she commanded. "Show me you can be a team player for once in your life, and maybe I’ll ask Jordan to be gentle."

Desperation lent Layla a frantic energy. She attacked Sydney's clit with her tongue, licking and sucking with renewed vigor. Anything to delay or prevent what was happening below.

But Jordan was not to be deterred. The bat pressed harder against Layla's tight ring of muscle, a pressure that quickly transformed from uncomfortable to agonizing.

"Relax," Jordan advised, though her tone suggested she hoped for the opposite. "Fighting it just makes it worse."

Then agony. The metal forced its way in, tearing through muscle never meant to stretch so wide. Pain unlike anything Layla had experienced before exploded from her core, a white-hot agony that short-circuited all thought. She screamed against Sydney's flesh, her body convulsing on the bench. Above her, Sydney rode her pain, grinding down and maintaining contact despite her thrashing.

"That is… wonderful," Sydney noted, her voice slightly breathless as Layla's screams vibrated against her sensitive areas.

Jordan pushed deeper, working the bat in inch by excruciating inch. The metal felt like a burning poker, searing Layla from the inside. She could feel resistance tearing, and she felt wet warmth that thought must be blood trickling down between her cheeks as the two bats ground against one another through the small membrane separating her stuffed holes.

"Please stop," she begged between desperate licks at Sydney's pussy. "Please, I'll do anything, just stop!"

Jordan shoved the bat forward with sudden force, driving it deeper into Layla's asshole. The pain was mind-erasing, pushing her to the edge of consciousness. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision as her body struggled to process the violation.

"You are doing something," Sydney reminded her, grinding down harder, squeezing Layla's breasts painfully with both hands. "You're servicing me. And not particularly well."

Layla had no choice. Through the fog of agony, she forced herself to concentrate on Sydney's pleasure. She found the other girl's clit with her tongue and attacked it with desperate intensity, alternating between firm pressure and rapid flicks. In between laps, she stabbed her tongue as far into her abuser’s slit as she could reach and flailed in a desperate attempt to find anything sensitive enough that Sydney would react.

Sydney didn’t show much sign of pleasure, but her pussy was getting wetting so something must be. Layla desperately tried everything he had found over and over again, hoping that whatever was working would continue to work even if she hadn’t figured out what it was yet. Her world contracted to a single point — Sydney's pussy on her face, the key to ending this particular torment. Nothing else mattered — not her pride, not her dignity, not even the searing pain as Jordan fucked her ass with the unyielding metal bat. The foreign invader reshaping her asshole from within was distracting, through… Layla could only hoping she wasn’t missing whatever was working.

Then, without warning, Sydney's thighs clamped tightly down, squeezing Layla's skull between powerful muscles. The pressure was immediate and terrifying. Layla couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't escape the crushing force of Sydney's thighs. Oxygen deprivation compounded the agony of the anal violation, sending her spiraling toward blackout.

Just as spots began to fill her vision, Sydney relaxed her grip slightly, allowing Layla a desperate gasp of air before squeezing again. She continued this pattern—squeeze, release, squeeze—while Layla worked her tongue with increasing desperation. Each brief window of oxygen was just enough to keep her conscious, to prolong her suffering. She could only hope that this was a sign of Sydney being close, because the woman still hadn’t given her any guidance… it was enough to make her long for Riley’s insults and Aria’s obvious enthusiasm for raping her.

"I'm… I’m almost there," Sydney announced at last, her calm tone finally showing cracks of pleasure.

Layla had no idea what she had done that was working but she redoubled her efforts, sucking Sydney's clit directly between her lips and flicking it rapidly with her tongue. All she could taste was the flavor of Sydney's arousal… and finally the other woman’s breath hitched, the first real sign of her impending orgasm. Her thighs clamped down with crushing force, cutting off Layla's air completely as her body began to shudder.

"Per… fect…" she gasped as the orgasm took her, her hips jerking against Layla's face in uncharacteristically uncontrolled movements for the precise girls. Unlike the others, Sydney came almost silently, her pleasure expressed through muscle tension rather than vocal release.

Layla fought against the darkness closing in, her lungs burning for oxygen as Sydney rode out her climax. Just when unconsciousness seemed inevitable, the vise-like grip relaxed. Air rushed into Layla's lungs in a painful gasp, pulling her back from the edge of oblivion.

Sydney lifted herself, looking down at Layla with detached interest. "Adequate performance," she assessed, reaching for her neatly folded clothes. "Though your technique lacks refinement. You will need training."

Layla barely heard her. Both bats were motionless now but they remained buried deep inside of her. She lay still, her muscles unable to respond to the simplest commands. Breath came in shallow gasps. Tears leaked silently from the corners of her eyes, no longer accompanied by sobs — she had moved beyond the point where crying seemed adequate. The pain had become a living thing inside her, pulsing with each heartbeat, colonizing every cell until she couldn't remember a time before it existed.

The girls stepped back, admiring their handiwork. With Sydney no longer blocking her view, Layla could see for herself. Her body was a canvas of abuse — bruised breasts marked with finger-shaped welts, inner thighs stained with blood and other fluids, red friction on her arms and shoulders from where the resistance bands and dug in. Between her legs, her sex and sphincter were spread obscenely and two comically large metal rods jutted from them.

"She looks like a fucking crime scene," Riley remarked, her tone filled with amusement.

"It's what she deserved," Aria replied, setting the bats aside with casual disregard for the bodily fluids coating them. “She ought to never be the same again.

Sydney merely observed, her analytical gaze cataloging each mark and bruise on their victim. "The human body is remarkably resilient," she noted. "Most of this will heal within two weeks."

Layla barely registered their comments. The gymnasium ceiling swam above her, fluorescent lights seeming to pulse in time with the throbbing between her legs. Her mind grasped for coherent thought but found only fragments—prayers half-remembered from childhood, pleas for mercy, desperate bargains with a God who seemed to have abandoned her entirely.

Footsteps approached, and Jordan's face appeared above her, blocking the harsh lights. Her expression was neither triumphant nor sympathetic — merely contemplative, as if examining an interesting but not particularly valuable artifact.

"You still with us, princess?" Jordan asked, nudging Layla's cheek with her finger. "Don't check out yet. We still have things to discuss."

Layla's cracked lips parted. "Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. "No more. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Jordan's eyebrow arched. "That's a dangerous offer to make."

"Just... stop." Each word cost Layla immense effort. "Let me go. I won't... tell anyone."

Jordan's laugh was soft but genuine. "Oh, I know you won’t.” She crouched beside the bench, bringing her face closer to Layla's. “But we’re not letting you go.”

Layla's fear solidified into something harder, more desperate. "If you let me go now, maybe I won't press charges. But if you don't—" her voice gained strength, fueled by the last reserves of her defiance, "—I'll tell everyone what you did. You'll all go to prison."

Jordan's expression didn't change. She didn't appear concerned, or angry, or even amused. Just patient, as if waiting for Layla to catch up to something obvious. "That’s your right. Soon, you’ll be back in your own bed, and you can tell whoever you want," she said calmly. "That's your right… just like it'll be my right to tell everyone what you did."

Confusion bloomed on Layla's tear-streaked face. "What I did? You just—" she tried to gesture at her violated body but couldn't move her bound arms.

"Not this," Jordan clarified. "Though I doubt hearing all about how good of a cunt-licker you were is going to do you many favors with your church group.” She tilted her head. "The truth is, you never change, Layla.”

The non sequitur was confusing enough for a moment that Layla couldn’t process it. "What?"

"I said, you never change," Jordan repeated, her voice conversational. "Remember middle school?”

"You can’t blame me for that! I was a kid," Layla blurted out… an excuse if there ever was one. She had been old enough to know exactly what she was doing when she lied to the school and claimed her Jordan Chen had tried to kiss her in the bathroom, and she hadn’t shied away from using the same tactics again and again.

"So was I," Jordan replied evenly. "A kid who trusted you. Who thought you were my friend." She shook her head. "And like a friend, I used to do all kinds of things for you. Remember Mr. Stevenson’s algebra?”

Layla couldn’t help but let out a startled little laugh. “Asking you for answers for a math test?” she said, startled amusement in her voice despite herself. Could… could Jordan actually be that naive? “You think you can get away with this… because I’m too ashamed of cheating on a math test in the 6th grade? You’ll go blabbing to everyone about how you helped me cheat on it?”

Jordan just smiled. “That’s the thing, Layla. I changed… I found friends. People who actually like me, not people who worship me. You, though… you never change. You’re still the exact same thing now you were then. A lying, cheating bitch who will steps on anyone in her way to reach the top."

Ice spread through Layla's veins, momentarily eclipsing even the pain. “What are y-”

"I know what you did to get into your precious Duke,” she said with a smile.

Layla felt a stone settle somewhere in her stomach. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"I think you do," came a new voice from behind Jordan.

Jordan stepped aside, revealing a figure Layla hadn't noticed before. A petite girl with wire-rimmed glasses and long black hair tucked behind her ears stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore jeans and a Lakeside Science Club hoodie. The normally cringing, shy girl didn’t look very shy right now.

Her name surfaced in Layla's mind like a corpse floating to the top of a lake. Emma Chen.

"Didn’t expect to see me here, did you Layla?” Emma said quietly.

Layla stared at her, uncomprehending. What was she doing here? Emma was just a nerdy little nobody she'd been bullying since freshman year of high school. She was a pathetic loser, but she was smart… smart enough that when Layla had tied her up and stuffed her in a locker in the boys locker room she had agreed to take Layla’s ID and take the SAT in Layla’s name, guaranteeing the score Layla needed to secure her future.

"You," Layla breathed, the full horror of her situation crashing down on her. "What are you doing here! How did—"

Emma walked up, and Jordan slipping an arm around Emma's waist in a protective gesture. Then she kissed her on the cheek. "We’ve been dating for the last three months. Small world, isn't it? She’s so sweet, so amazingly brilliant… can you imagine how angry I found how how scared she was of some bitch at Lakeside making her life hell?”

Layla's mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged. This couldn't be happening. For the first time in her life she couldn’t even think of a lie or even of a distractingly vicious thing to say. She suddenly felt she understood animals that would gnaw off their leg to escape from a bear trap.

"So, Layla…" Jordan said, her voice soft but implacable. "We know that your daddy's expecting his little princess to follow in his footsteps at Duke. Do you think Duke will take someone who can prove she cheated on her tests? They have academic integrity… unlike you. Your history will be gone. I sure hope you didn’t apply for any scholarships on the strength of a test score you didn't earn, because that would be Federal fraud."

"You can't prove anything," Layla whispered, but the defense sounded hollow even to her own ears.

Emma stepped forward, her shyness momentarily eclipsed by quiet anger. "Actually, I can. I kept the threatening texts you sent me. You made me pay for the test, remember? I still have the receipt with the ID number."

"Emma's always been smart," Jordan said, looking at her girlfriend with unmistakable pride. "Unlike you, she didn't need to cheat to get perfect scores."

Layla's mind raced, seeking escape routes and finding none. They… they had her. That would destroy everything — her college acceptance, her future, her father's reputation as the town's moral authority. The preacher's daughter, caught in a cheating scheme. The scandal would eviscerate her family.

"What do you want?" Layla asked, her voice hollow with defeat.

Jordan's smile was thin and without mercy. "Now she asks the right question." She knelt beside the bench again, bringing her face close to Layla's. "What do we want? I just to see you finally face consequences for once in your privileged life."

"I'll do anything," Layla repeated, meaning it this time. "Just don't tell anyone!"

"Anything?" Jordan echoed her earlier question. "That's still a dangerous offer."

"Please." The word was barely audible, stripped of all pride, all pretense. "Please."

Jordan exchanged looks with the others, a silent communication passing between them. Then she returned her attention to Layla.

"Here's what's going to happen," she said, her tone businesslike. "Tonight is just the beginning. You thought you were going to serve me for a day? Try the rest of the school year. Every weekend, you're ours. Every day after school, you come to see me. You'll do what we say, when we say it, how we say it. You're mine until the end of the school year."

Fresh tears leaked from the corners of Layla's eyes. "I can't — my parents—"

"You’ll tell them your working with your cheerleaders, or studying, or… whatever damn lies you need to tell," Jordan cut her off. "You're good at lying, aren't you, Layla?"

The question landed like a slap. Yes, she was good at lying. She'd built her entire life on carefully constructed falsehoods—about her grades, her purity, her kindness. The mask of perfection she showed the world. Now that would be turned against her as well.

"Then, after graduation," Jordan continued, "You are going to have an opportunity to convince us you get to leave this town and go off to school. You have all summer to convince us that you’re a changed woman."

"You can't do this," Layla whispered, but there was no conviction behind the words.

"We can," Jordan said, an angry smile on her face. "And we will. Unless you'd prefer I call the College Board tomorrow morning?"

The threat hung in the air, undeniable in its simplicity. One phone call, and Layla's life as she knew it would be over.

"Time to decide, princess," Jordan said, checking an imaginary watch. "What's it going to be? Our pet, or exposed as a fraud? Maybe even a jailbird?"

If Layla's body was broken, her spirit didn’t feel far behind. The answer formed itself, bitter as poison on her tongue. "Your pet," she whispered, the words carrying her surrender.

Jordan's smile widened. "I was hoping you'd say that." She straightened up, looking to her friends, grinning. "And with that… I think it’s mine turn, wouldn’t you say?” She began to strip off her own cheerleading shorts. “No rest for the wicked, Layla,” she said as she dropped her shorts on the ground in a crumpled pile. “And especially not for Wicked Queens cast down from their throne.”

Jordan stood beside the bench, now naked from the waist down like the others had been. Her athletic build was lean and powerful, her thighs muscled from years of cheerleading. Unlike the others, who had positioned themselves over Layla's face, Jordan reached down and grabbed a fistful of Layla's once-perfect blonde hair.

"Time to earn your keep," she said, and Layla whimpered as Jordan's grip tightened, pulling painfully at her scalp. Then she pulled on it hard, tugging the blonde off the bench to hit the ground. Jordan then sat down in the space she had just vacated. "And I'm not going to do all the work here. You get to put in some effort for once, skank. Sit up!”

Moving was agony. Every muscle in Layla's body protested as she struggled to pull herself upright on the bench. Her abused core screamed in protest, the torn tissues between her legs sending fresh waves of pain with each slight adjustment. When she finally managed to sit, Jordan pulled her forward and up by the ponytail until her cheek rested against Jordan's thigh.

The scent of Jordan's arousal was immediate and inescapable, her sex just inches from Layla's face… evidence of just how much pleasure she was taking from her revenge. "Now," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "you're going to show me how much you appreciate my generosity in giving you a chance at a future.”

With trembling limbs, she turned toward Jordan. Each movement sent fresh pain radiating from her abused openings. Slowly, agonizingly, she lowered herself until her face was level with Jordan's exposed sex.

"That's it," Jordan encouraged, leaning back on her hands. "Show me how eager you are to please your new owner."

It was a fresh humiliation. Unlike the others, who had positioned themselves on Layla's face, Jordan was making Layla do it herself… to move herself into position, to be an active participant rather than a passive recipient. The idea burned through Layla like acid, but she had no choice. No escape. No recourse but to obey. She leaned forward, bringing her mouth to Jordan's sex, and began to lick.

This close, the scent was overwhelming — musky, human, intimate. Jordan's flesh was hot against her tongue, already slick with anticipation. Layla forced herself to focus on technique rather than meaning, on action rather than implication. She found Jordan's clit, circling it with the tip of her tongue as she had done for the others before sliding into the other woman’s soaked cunt and searching for sensitive spots.

"Mmm," Jordan hummed, her hips shifting slightly. "Not bad. You're a quick study when you want to be. You’ve learned something already."

Layla didn't respond, couldn't respond. She concentrated solely on the mechanical aspects of the task—pressure, rhythm, location. If she thought about what she was doing, about whose body she was pleasuring, she would shatter completely.

"Look up at me," Jordan commanded.

Layla hesitated, then raised her eyes without lifting her mouth… and horror froze Layla mid-lick. Jordan was holding her phone, its camera lens pointed directly at Layla's face as it pressed against her sex. Jordan’s expression a mixture of arousal and triumph. "Smile for the camera, princess."

"No," Layla gasped, pulling back. "Please, do that! Jus-"

Jordan's free hand shot out, tangling in Layla's hair and forcing her face back into position. "Did I say you could stop? Keep licking while we talk."

Trapped, Layla resumed her ministrations, the knowledge of the recording adding a new layer to her humiliation.

"I need you to make a little confession for me," Jordan explained, keeping the camera steady as Layla licked her. "If you’re a good girl I’ll never need to show anyone, but right now I want you to explain to everyone — especially your ‘idiot boyfriend‘ Steve — why you can't be with him anymore."

Fresh panic bloomed in Layla's chest. "What are you talking about?"

Jordan tugged her hair sharply. "Less talking, more licking. But listen carefully." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You're going to look into this camera and explain how you've realized you're a dyke. How you've been lying to yourself for years. How you find cock disgusting and you're completely in love with me."

"I can't do that," Layla whispered, even as her tongue continued its mechanical service. "No one will believe it. They wi-”

"I think you’ll be surprised how ready your ‘friends’ will be to believe the worst about you, Layla," Jordan mocked her. "Of course, if this is too much for you, we can always film a confession about your little SAT adventure instead.”

The trap was perfect, inescapable. Either way, Layla's carefully constructed life would crumble. But one option might leave her future intact, even if her reputation was destroyed.

"Do it," Jordan commanded, adjusting the phone to capture Layla's face. "And make it convincing. Pause from licking me every few seconds to speak your lines. I want this to look like your passionate confession, interrupted by your desperate need to taste my pussy."

Tears welled in Layla's eyes, spilling over to track down her cheeks. Jordan smiled, reaching down to wipe them away with her thumb. “Tears of joy,” she said with a smirk. “They must be… because you’re not ashamed of who you really are, are you Layla?”

The mockery cut deep, slicing through the last vestige of Layla's dignity. She blinked back the remaining tears, swallowing hard.

"That's better," Jordan said, raising the phone again. "And don’t even think about trying to ruin this… I’ll just edit around anything you screw up for me. Now, look into the camera and tell your boyfriend why you're breaking up with him."

Layla took a shuddering breath, her face still pressed against Jordan's most intimate flesh. Then she looked directly into the camera lens, her blue eyes dull with defeat. "Steve," she began, her voice cracking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."

"More enthusiasm," Jordan directed. "You're excited about this revelation, remember?"

Layla cleared her throat, forcing a tremulous smile onto her face. "Steve, I know this is hard to hear, but there's something I need to tell you. Something I've been hiding for a long time." She paused, lowering her head to lick at Jordan's clit for a moment before looking back up. "I'm... I'm a dyke."

The word felt foreign on her tongue, a slur she'd used against others now turned back on herself. She wanted to start crying again.

"And?" Jordan prompted.

"And I've been lying to myself," Layla continued, the script unspooling from her lips like poison. "I've been pretending to be straight, but the truth is..." Another pause, another lick. "The truth is I find men disgusting. I find your... your cock disgusting."

Jordan nodded encouragement, her free hand stroking Layla's hair almost tenderly.

"I'm in love with a woman," Layla forced herself to say, the words acid in her mouth. "She makes me feel things I never felt with you. The way she touches me, the way she tastes..." She lowered her head again, extending her tongue to demonstrate her point with a long, deliberate lick along Jordan's slit. “It can’t compare.”

"Tell him what you love doing," Jordan instructed, her breathing becoming slightly ragged as arousal built.

"I love licking pussy," Layla said to the camera, the crude words feeling strange and wrong coming from her. "I love the taste, the smell, the way it feels against my tongue." Another lick, longer this time. "I'm sorry, Steve, but I can't be with you anymore. I can't keep pretending. I'm a dyke, and I need to be true to myself."

Layla poured all her effort and attention into pleasuring Jordan. She used everything she had learned from the other three women, applying pressure where it seemed most effective, varying her rhythm based on Jordan's responses.

"That's it," Jordan breathed, still filming. "Show everyone what a natural pussy-licker you are."

Layla closed her eyes, trying to shut out the reality of what she was doing, of what was being recorded. But Jordan's hand in her hair forced her to stay present, to remain conscious of her actions. "Look at the camera while you eat me," Jordan commanded. "I want everyone to see the look on your face while you worship my cunt."

Layla obeyed, opening her eyes and looking directly into the lens as her tongue worked against Jordan's clit. She knew what she must look like—face smeared with the evidence of multiple women's pleasure, eyes dull with defeat, mouth actively pleasuring another girl. The perfect picture of her complete fall from grace.

"That's it," Jordan gasped, her hips beginning to move more insistently against Layla's face. "That's my good little dyke fuck toy."

The words cut through Layla like knives, but she didn't stop, couldn't stop. Her entire future depended on making Jordan cum, on completing this final humiliation of the night. So she redoubled her efforts, focusing all her remaining energy on bringing Jordan to climax.

Layla's jaw ached, her tongue growing numb from exertion as she continued to service Jordan. The camera's eye remained fixed on her, its digital gaze capturing every flick of her tongue, every moment of her degradation. She had passed beyond shame into some new territory of humiliation—a place where her own body felt foreign to her, where her actions no longer seemed connected to the person she had always believed herself to be. She was adrift in a nightmare that showed no signs of ending.

"Keep talking to the camera," Jordan directed, her voice husky with growing pleasure. "Tell everyone more about your sexual awakening."

Layla pulled back slightly, her lips glistening with Jordan's arousal. She looked into the camera, trying to find words that would satisfy her tormentor. "I've been... living a lie," she said, the rehearsed quality of her voice betraying her. "All these years pretending to be straight when really..." She lowered her head, delivering another long lick before continuing. "When really I just wanted to be like this. To be who I really am and be with another girl."

"Better," Jordan nodded. "But I'm not convinced. Tell them specific things you love about pussy. Be graphic."

Layla swallowed hard, her mind searching for words that would sound convincing. "I love how wet she gets under my tongue," she forced herself to say. "I love the way she tastes. It’s so different from—"

She gasped, her train of thought derailed by an unexpected sensation between her legs. Something warm and wet was touching her abused sex—something that felt alarmingly like a tongue. Startled, she tried to look down, but Jordan's hand immediately tightened in her hair, forcing her attention back to the camera.

"Eyes up here," Jordan commanded. "Nothing else but right here matters. Keep talking."

Bewildered, Layla struggled to process this new development. Someone was between her legs, licking her battered, bruised sex. The gentle strokes were nothing like the violent penetrations still wedged inside of her — these were soft, almost apologetic in their tenderness, and despite the bats still stretching her they felt…

Good.

"I... I..." she stammered, finding it impossible to concentrate as the tongue moved with delicate precision over her sensitive tissues. It was… it had to be Emma. The realization that the same girl she had been bullying for years was now intimately acquainted with her most private parts.

The tongue between Layla's legs found her clit, circling it with gentle, precise movements that sent unexpected sparks of pleasure through her battered body. She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily.

"Continue your confession," Jordan insisted. "Tell Steve and everyone else how much you love being a dyke."

"I..." she tried again, fighting to focus on Jordan's demands rather than the growing sensation between her legs. "I love being a dyke. I love how it feels to... to lay with nice, gentle woman instead of a man." To her horror, she realized her body was responding to Emma's ministrations. Despite the pain, despite the trauma, despite everything they had done to her - or perhaps because of it - her treacherous flesh was awakening. Moisture that had nothing to do with blood or urine was gathering between her legs.

"Tell them how you feel right now," Jordan prompted, the camera never wavering.

Layla's face burned with shame. "It makes me feel... good," she admitted. “I love a woman’s tongue on my… my pussy…”

Emma's tongue grew more insistent, its rhythm perfectly calibrated to build Layla's arousal. For someone so shy, she was remarkably skilled—finding exactly the right pressure, the exact tempo needed to bypass Layla's pain and access her pleasure. A moan escaped Layla's lips, unbidden and genuine. The sound shocked her, evidence of her body's betrayal captured forever on Jordan's phone.

"I'm feeling... hot," she gasped, no longer entirely acting. "My body is... responding. I can feel myself getting wet." The admission cost her dearly, but it was becoming difficult to separate truth from performance. Her body was definitely responding to Emma's expert attention, pleasure building in a way that terrified her. She didn't want this. She couldn't want this. She wasn't gay. She wasn't like them.

But her body didn't seem to care about her sexual identity. It responded to stimulus the way bodies do, nerves firing, endorphins releasing, arousal building despite her mental protestations.

"Look at you," Jordan observed, the camera capturing Layla's flushed cheeks, her dilated pupils, her parted lips. "You're getting turned on. Your body knows what you are, even if your mind won't admit it."

"No," Layla whimpered, but the denial was undercut by another involuntary moan as Emma's tongue fluttered against her clit with butterfly-light touches.

"Yes," Jordan countered. "Tell the camera. Tell everyone watching how turned on you are right now."

Layla's hips were moving of their own accord now, small, helpless thrusts against Emma's mouth. The physical pleasure was creating a dissociative effect—as if she were splitting into two people. One remained horrified, violated, traumatized. The other was surrendering to pure sensation, climbing toward a peak she hadn't anticipated.

"I'm turned on," she admitted, her voice breaking on the words. "I'm getting close to... to..."

She couldn't say it. Couldn't admit that she was approaching orgasm from another woman's mouth. That final surrender seemed worse somehow than all the previous violations.

"Say it," Jordan insisted. "Tell everyone you're about to cum from eating my cunt and having your pussy eaten."

The crude words sent a fresh wave of shame through Layla, but it was mingled now with something else—a hot, unfamiliar feeling that made her skin prickle and her breath come faster.

"I'm going to cum," she whispered, barely audible.

"Louder," Jordan demanded. "Like you mean it."

"I'm going to cum!" Layla repeated, her voice rising with genuine urgency. "Oh God, I'm going to cum from... from being with girls. From being a dyke." The confession tore from her throat as Emma's tongue found the perfect rhythm, the perfect pressure. Pleasure built like a wave, rising higher than she thought possible given her physical state. Her body, which had endured so much pain, now trembled on the edge of release.

The orgasm took Layla by surprise, crashing through her with unexpected intensity. She cried out, her face contorting in pleasure, her hips bucking against Emma's mouth even as her holes clenched agonizingly around the bats stretching them out. The camera captured everything—her parted lips, her closed eyes, the unmistakable expression of sexual ecstasy.

"Oh my God," she gasped, the words no longer performance but genuine reaction she couldn’t suppress, no matter how much she wanted to. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

Her body convulsed, waves of pleasure radiating outward from her core, temporarily eclipsing the pain of her injuries. For a few brief seconds, she existed purely in the realm of physical sensation, free from thought, from shame, from identity.

Then reality crashed back, and with it came a horror deeper than anything she had experienced yet. She had orgasmed. On camera. From another woman's mouth. While performing oral sex on her sworn enemy.

"Well, well," Jordan said, her voice thick with satisfaction. She set the phone down, smirking. "That’s enough of that. I think anyone who watches this isn't going to have any doubt you're a filthy dyke after seeing that."

Layla's face crumpled, tears flowing freely now. This was worse than the pain, worse than the penetration, worse than the forced confessions. Her body had betrayed her in the most fundamental way, responding with pleasure to her own violation.

From between Layla's legs, Emma emerged, her face glistening with evidence of Layla's unwilling climax. She met Layla's devastated gaze with an unreadable expression—not quite triumphant, not quite sympathetic. Then she moved to stand beside Jordan, watching.

"Please," Layla sobbed, pulling back from Jordan's sex. "Please stop this. Please."

Jordan's hand tightened in her hair, forcing her face back into position. "We're not done yet," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "You came. Now it's my turn. Finish what you started and make me cum like the good little dyke-toy you are."

Layla had no strength left to resist. Her body still tingled with the aftereffects of her unwanted orgasm. Her mind was a wasteland of confusion and self-loathing. She returned to her task, licking and sucking Jordan's clit with passionless skill as tears streamed silently down her face as she tried to find the rhythm that elicited the strongest reactions from her rapist. Her technique had improved over the course of the night — a thought that brought fresh shame flooding through her. This was not a skill she had ever wanted to acquire.

"Harder," Jordan commanded, her grip tightening painfully. "Put your whole mouth on it. Suck it."

Layla obeyed, sealing her lips around Jordan's swollen clit and applying suction. The response was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of the fingers in her hair, a slight lifting of the hips. "Yes," Jordan hissed, her thighs tensing on either side of Layla's head. "Just like that. Don't you dare stop."

The position was agonizing. Layla's neck strained at an uncomfortable angle, her bruised body protesting every movement. Emma's attention had temporarily distracted her from the injuries inflicted by the baseball bats, but now the pain returned full force, a burning, tearing sensation that reminded her with every heartbeat of what had been done to her. Between her legs, the new angle pressed the bats painfully against the ground and that pushed them against her ravished insides that still throbbed with the confused signals of pain and unwanted pleasure.

Jordan's breathing quickened, her hips beginning to move in small, insistent jerks against Layla's face. "Deeper," she demanded. "Fuck me with your tongue."

Layla didn’t want to, but Jordan's impatient tug on her hair left no room for refusal.

Awkwardly, Layla maintained contact, delicately moving her tongue deeper between Jordan's legs. She explored the wet heat, feeling the abruptly familiar texture of another woman's inner walls as her tongue stabbed in and then out again.

"Curl it up," Jordan instructed, her voice tight with building pleasure. "Find the roughest spot you can and press."

Layla followed the directions mechanically, curling her tongue upward until she found a textured area that made Jordan gasp when she pressed it. She established a rhythm, her tongue grinding against it, working to bring Jordan closer to climax.

"Fuck yes," Jordan breathed, her head falling back as pleasure built. Her thighs began to tremble on either side of Layla's face, muscles tensing in anticipation of release. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop you lying, venomous, evil little cunt."

Layla had no intention of stopping. She wanted this over, wanted this final violation complete so she might collapse into whatever respite they would allow her. She redoubled her efforts, ignoring the cramping in her hand and the burning in her jaw, focusing only on bringing Jordan to climax as quickly as possible.

Jordan's hands tightened in her hair, pulling painfully at her scalp as her excitement mounted. "Yes, yes, right there," she gasped, her hips bucking more forcefully against Layla's face. "I'm getting close."

Layla could feel it — the way Jordan's inner walls began to pulse around her tongue. She increased her pace, pushing through her exhaustion with the desperate energy of someone who can see the finish line ahead.

Without warning, Jordan's thighs clamped tightly around Layla's head, crushing her ears and cutting off all sound except the thunder of her own heartbeat. The pressure was immense, painful, trapping her in a vise of flesh and muscle. Jordan's hands forced her face harder against her sex, smothering her completely.

She couldn't breathe. Her nose and mouth were sealed against Jordan's flesh, her airway completely blocked. Panic surged through her as her lungs began to burn, desperate for oxygen. She tried to pull back, to turn her head, to find some pocket of air, but Jordan's grip was implacable.

Above her, Jordan was lost in the throes of approaching orgasm, either unaware or uncaring that Layla was suffocating between her thighs. Her body tensed, back arching, a low groan building in her throat as pleasure crested. Black spots appeared in Layla's vision, her oxygen-starved brain struggling against its sudden deprivation. Still, her tongue worked automatically, driven by pure survival instinct. If she could make Jordan cum, this would end. If she could make Jordan cum, she might breathe again. If she could make Jordan cum, her life might be worth something.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Jordan chanted, her voice sounding distant through the barrier of flesh and the roaring in Layla's ears. "Yes, yes, YES!"

Jordan's orgasm hit with seismic force, her entire body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Her sex pulsed violently around Layla's fingers, her clit throbbing against her tongue. Fluid gushed forth, flooding Layla's already oxygen-deprived mouth and triggering her gag reflex.

Unable to turn away, unable to breathe, Layla felt herself starting to lose consciousness. The edges of her vision darkened, the world narrowing to a distant pinpoint of light. Her struggles weakened as her body began to surrender to the inevitable.

Just when unconsciousness seemed certain, Jordan's thighs finally relaxed their death grip. Air rushed into Layla's burning lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp, carrying with it the taste of Jordan's release. She coughed and sputtered, still trapped between Jordan's legs but no longer in immediate danger of suffocation.

"Holy shit," Jordan panted above her, riding the aftershocks of her climax with small, satisfied movements against Layla's face. "That was fucking incredible."

Layla couldn't respond. She lay there, half-conscious, gulping air between Jordan's trembling thighs. Her face was drenched in the evidence of Jordan's pleasure, her hair matted with it, her lips and chin coated in the sticky fluid.

After what felt like an eternity, Jordan finally released her grip on Layla's hair. Without that support, Layla immediately collapsed, sliding off the bench and onto the cold gym floor in a boneless heap. She curled into a fetal position, her body one massive throbbing pain, her mind a wasteland of trauma and exhaustion.

Jordan looked down at her, satisfaction evident in her flushed face and lazy smile. "Not bad for a straight girl," she commented, reaching for her discarded clothing. "We'll make a proper dildo out of you by the end of the school year."

Layla lay curled on the gym floor, her body a road map of abuse—each bruise, each tear, each violation marking the route her journey had taken from arrogant queen bee to broken captive. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking silently from beneath her lids. She was hollow, emptied out, scraped raw. Everything that had made her Layla Morrison — her pride, her status, her certainty about her place in the world — had been systematically stripped away, leaving nothing but a shell of quivering flesh and fractured identity.

"Don't fall asleep on us now, princess," Riley's voice came from somewhere above her. "It’s time to go.”

Layla forced her swollen eyes open. Riley stood over her, holding a large blue and silver duffel bag—the kind used for transporting sports equipment.

"What are you doing?" Layla asked, her voice a raw whisper. The simple act of speaking sent pain shooting through her sore tongue.

Riley dropped the bag beside her. "Packing."

Confusion momentarily overrode Layla's pain. "What?"

Jordan approached, now fully dressed in her River West uniform, looking as if nothing unusual had happened — as if she hadn't just spent hours orchestrating Layla's systematic destruction.

"You didn't think you were going to get to go home tonight, did you?" Jordan asked, her tone suggesting Layla was being particularly slow-witted. “I’m not even close to do with you.”

A fresh wave of panic surged through Layla's exhausted body. She thought she’d have at least a little time to rest… maybe even time to figure out a way out of this. "Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. "I need to go home. My parents will worry. They’ll thi-"

"Your parents think you're at a sleepover with your cheer squad," Aria said. "Jordan texted them from your phone while you were... occupied with Riley."

"You have a date with me and Emma," Jordan said as she stood over Layla's curled form. "It's Friday… Which means we have the whole weekend to get better acquainted and get you more agreeable before you go back to school on Monday. " She reached out to stroke Layla's matted hair, the gesture perversely gentle. "You're going to be the best little cunt-licker on the planet."

"And after graduation," Emma added, running her fingers through Layla’s tangled hair, "we have all summer for you to convince us that we should let you go to college."

All summer. The words landed like physical blows. Months of this. Months of being their toy, their slave, their sexual plaything. The prospect stretched before her like an endless dark tunnel.

"No," Layla sobbed, fresh tears welling despite her dehydration. "Please, no. I'll do anything."

"You already told us," Jordan reminded her, standing up. "And you will do anything, Layla. Everything. Whatever we want, whenever we want it." She nodded to Riley. "Let's get her packed up."

Riley unzipped the duffel bag, revealing its empty interior—a space barely large enough for a human body. Aria moved to Layla's other side, and together they began to lift her from the floor.

Pain exploded through Layla's bat-stuffed body as they manhandled her. "Please," she begged, her voice breaking on the word. "Please don't do this."

Jordan reached down and picked up her own discarded panties from where they had been lying on the gym floor. Then she shoved the panties into Layla’s mouth. The taste was completely of her arousal… evidence of how much her once-rival had enjoyed herself with the fallen cheerleader.

"We’re going to need you to be quiet now,” Jordan said with a smile. "Can't have you making noise and attracting attention."

Riley and Aria began to fold the cheerleader’s body up, pushing her knees to her chest. The position was excruciating as it pressed the bats more firmly against one another again, putting pressure on her injuries and stretching her already damaged muscles. "She's actually pretty compact when you fold her right," Aria observed, as if discussing an origami project rather than a human being.

"The resistance bands will help keep her that way," Sydney suggested, retrieving several of the elastic bands they had used earlier to bind Layla's wrists.

Working together, they secured Layla's folded position with the bands—one around her wrists and knees, another around her ankles and back, effectively creating a human package that would fit inside the duffel bag. Layla wanted to struggle but her body had no strength left. The bands weren't even necessary — she was too broken to fight, too exhausted to resist. Still, she whimpered through her gag, a last, pathetic protest against what was happening to her.

"In she goes," Riley directed, and with coordinated movements, they lifted Layla's bound form and lowered her into the duffel bag.

The interior was dark as Layla found herself curled at the bottom of the bag, her body forced into a fetal position that echoed her emotional state—helpless, vulnerable, prenatally defenseless. Jordan's face appeared above her, looking down into the bag with satisfaction. "Comfy?"

Layla could only stare back, her eyes pleading where her gagged mouth could not.

"Don't worry," Jordan said, her tone almost consoling as she dangled Jordan’s car keys from her hand. "I’m sure you have a nice trunk. The car ride isn't too long. And when we get you home, Emma and I have a nice cozy closet all prepared for you." She smiled. "My parents are away for the weekend, so we'll have plenty of privacy to continue your... education."

Then she began to zip the duffel bag closed. Darkness engulfed Layla inch by inch as the zipper traveled its path. The last thing she saw was Jordan's face — not cruel, not angry, but calmly satisfied, like someone who had finally taken a heavy weight off her back.

Then the zipper closed completely, and Layla was entombed in darkness.

She felt the bag being lifted, the combined strength of the four cheerleaders making her weight manageable. The motion swayed her from side to side, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through her injuries. Through the material of the bag, she could hear their muffled voices, casual conversation as if they weren't carrying a kidnapped, violated girl to some new location for further abuse.

"Need help getting her set up at your place?" Riley asked.

"Emma and I can handle it," Jordan replied. "But thanks for this. Couldn't have done it without you all."

"Anytime," Aria's voice responded. "Just let us know when you’re ready to share again."

Share. The word penetrated Layla's darkness like a blade. She was an object now. A thing to be shared, used, passed around like party favors. Her humanity had been stripped away along with her clothes, her dignity, her sense of self.

The cool night air seeped through the bag's material as they carried her outside. Soon she felt herself being lowered into what must be the trunk of her own Mercedes. The slam of the trunk closing was the final punctuation on her old life.

As the engine started and the car began to move, Layla Morrison understood perfect clarity that her old life had ended in that gymnasium. Whatever came next would be dictated by Jordan and the girls she had once mocked as the "Dyke Squad." Her body, her life, her future — all now belonged to them, payment for a debt she hadn't realized she was accumulating with each casual cruelty, each thoughtless act of bullying.

Layla closed her eyes inside her portable prison. It made no difference — darkness looked the same whether her eyes were open or closed. Just as her future looked the same regardless of her preferences or protests.

The car accelerated, and Layla Morrison — former Queen of Lakeside, former cheer captain, former person — curled tighter within her canvas prison as she was carried away into the night, bound for a new life she had never imagined and could not escape.

---

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