The world spins. Tilts. Blurs.
I'm stuck in some cheap, broken tilt‑a‑whirl—bin walls scraping my shoulders, metal ringing in my ears, the girls' laughter orbiting like a pack of wild animals.
Blood rushes to my head. My stomach flips.
Everything sloshes in the wrong direction—organs sliding toward my throat like they want to crawl out.
And the smell—God.
Worse now.
Hot, sour rot breathing straight into my face. Stale sweat. Old juice. Gum mashed into the corners. That damp, cottony thing brushing my cheek like it's alive.
I gag. It retreats. Like it heard me.
Hands clamp around me again. Three sets. Lexxa. Avery. Casey.
My feet stop being feet.
Just objects—arch, heel, toes—picked up, examined, owned. I twist.
Nothing catches. No floor. No grip. Just hands, everywhere, like I'm being passed around by a cult.
Fingers rake the curve of my foot—light, surgical, tracing lines I never knew existed.
A cold grip clamps my ankle, steady and merciless, like it could crush me on a whim.
Thumbs roam, circling, pressing, claiming skin that never signed up for this.
Their voices crowd in, warm and close enough to lick.
"So stiff…" Avery whispers, voice sliding down bone.
Casey laughs straight into my heel.
Lexxa mutters, "Stop squirming," like squirming is a crime she's ready to prosecute.
Thinking becomes optional. Then impossible.
Chest tightening. Stomach rolling.
And heat—slow, rising, stupid heat—blooming in places I don't want it, but it's there anyway.
My nerves wake up all at once, greedy. Hungry.
Hands everywhere. Pressure. Grip. Pull.
Three women laughing like they're taking turns with a new toy.
My toes curl. My brain denies it. My body won't listen.
That flicker—shame, fear, something hotter—burns low and refuses to die.
"Ooh, the baby's dizzy!" Casey cackles.
Lexxa's grip clamps tighter around my ankles—stone hands, no mercy. She shifts me higher, adjusts her stance, my weight dragging against her arms.
Something gives.
A scrape. A slip.
Then—
Pop.
My shoe pops off in Lexxa's hand.
Hollow. My foot swings free. Sock rubbing cold air. Kicks slap nothing. I'm dangling, unmoored, exposed.
She holds it up, like a trophy, dangling it over the girls.
The bin tilts. Wobbles. Leans. My weight drags it toward disaster.
Casey jerks back, nose wrinkling. "Just throw that shit in the trash, it stinks… Get it away from my face!"
The girls strain. Arms shaking. Fingers clutching me like I'm made of wet noodles.
Something shifts above me. A hand pulls back. My sock brushes open air. Weight gone.
I hear it sail. A hollow whoosh through the air.
A wet plonk—right in the toilet. My chest jerks at the sound.
"Woah…" Casey laughs, voice loud. Triumphant. "Holy shit… that shoe just dived straight into the toilet! Christ, Lexxa, what a toss!"
Hands press again, shove me, hold me tight. Cold fingers dig into shoulders and hips. Pressure from all sides. I shift, jerk, scrape against metal.
The bin tilts. Leans. Stops. Solid. My back presses against the wall. My legs don't slide anymore. Trapped. Pinned.
Avery sniffs sharply. Close enough, I feel her breath on my calf. "Dang… that smell…" she mutters, voice low, disgusted but curious. "Your feet… they fucking reek, Spunga."
Pft!
Warm, wet, slick—spit hits my sock, soaking the cotton, clinging to my skin. My toes curl. Heat blooms, sticky, slick, rubbing.
"That looks fun…" Casey's voice cuts through the spin, sharp, crooked with excitement. "…let's try it as well!"
Another pft! Thick, hot, wetter than the last. Hits the top of my sock, splat. Cold air sucks against the wet cotton. A shiver climbs my leg. A third streak—higher this time—over the knob of my ankle. Damp, slick.
Then—thwock.
A hard, precise spit. "Bullseye," Avery cheers. Right on my mouth. Warm, wet, bitter. My tongue recoils violent. My chest stutters.
Pft! Another—this one into my left ear. Thick, hot, rolling, filling the canal. My skull buzzes, reverberates with the impact.
Every drip. Every splash. Every slick slide—skin, sock, ankle, hair. Constant. Chaotic. Electric. Muscles twitch. Nerves scream. Skin tight. And something else, crawling under it all.
Upside down. Gravity betrays me. Warm streaks don't land—they run. Nose. Cheek. Temple. Jaw. Ear.
One streak slides straight into my mouth.
No warning. Just heat. Salt. Spit.
Reflex takes over. My throat grabs it before I can even think.
A straight shot.
Down.
I try to cough, but coughing upside down is useless. Just another mistake. Another swallow. Air and spit fighting for the same space.
Warmth pours along my tongue, wrong and intimate and inescapable. Every drip becomes a path. Every path ends in my mouth. My own body choosing the worst option every time.
Gravity is the bully now. Holding my head open. Feeding me whatever lands.
I splutter. Gasp. Uhh… My chest heaves, stomach lurching. Air and spit fight for space. My head swings, sock dragging through wet streaks.
A voice—crooked, loud, cackling—splits the air. Dry. Sandpapered. Like she scraped her throat clean after spitting on me.
"What…" she coughs mid-word, clears her throat hard, "…what the fuck are those sounds Spunga is making?"
Another voice drags out behind her. Heavy. Gruff. Like she's grinding gravel between her teeth.
"So… disgusting…"
Lexxa. Even her disgust sounds dehydrated.
A breath hits my calf—hot, sharp, dragged through a throat that's been emptied out.
Avery tries to sniff. but catches. cracks halfway. Turns into a thin, dry grunt.
"Hhh...shit…" Another swallow, forced, like her throat sticks. "This is the… fuck… female bathroom."
A rasp against my ear.
"Spunga… You don't belong here."
Another dry swallow.
"Get out. You pervert."
Casey hacks out a laugh—wet in the chest, sandpaper in the throat.
"Ugh… god… my mouth feels like fucking chalk."
She spits air. Nothing comes out. Just a pathetic little pff.
"That's what we get for emptying ourselves on his face," she croaks.
Lexxa grumbles low, her voice scraping. "You're the idiot who kept going."
She tries to clear her throat—nothing moves at all. Just raw, broken growl.
Avery breathes, sharp but shaky. "Ugh… my throat… fucking burns… thanks to you, freak…" She coughs into her elbow, dry, harsh. "…Can't even… can't even swallow properly."
Casey taps the bin. "Hear that, Spunga? Hope you're happy. You drained us like fucking Capri-Suns."
Her voice ghost-cracks on the last word.
Lexxa's fingers tighten around my ankle, her voice a sandpaper whisper. "Stop squirming before I drop you."
I sputter again… "Uhhh… ghhh… kh…"
Every sound sticky. Ugly. Wet in all the wrong places.
They go quiet for a second. Just breathing. Dry, scraped-out breathing.
Then Casey's voice, cracked and amused:
"Jesus… we need water."
"Not before we're done with him," Avery breathes, hoarse enough to scrape.
"Move," Lexxa snaps, voice like a branch splitting. "Let's dump this idiot properly."