The last time I saw Mia before tonight was at our high school graduation. We’d been everything to each other—shared secrets, lazy summers, clumsy almost-kisses that never quite landed. Then university pulled us apart into silence.

Now she stood in my dim apartment doorway, rain glistening on her leather jacket. But her eyes, once bright with mischief, were hollow pools.

“They took me, Liam,” she whispered, the words a fractured thing. “The tennis club. It wasn’t just serves and volleys.”

She stepped in, shedding the jacket to reveal a simple black tank top. My breath hitched. This wasn’t the girl I knew. Her movements were too precise, her posture coiled like a spring.

“The captain, he… he started with ‘private coaching’,” she said, her fingers tracing the edge of my kitchen counter. “Then it was his cock in my mouth after practice, threatening to send videos to my scholarship committee if I didn’t swallow.”

I was hard instantly, a guilty, brutal throb in my jeans. She saw it.

“They all had a turn,” she continued, voice flat. “Made me their little cocksleeve. Court six, after dark. They’d bend me over the net, hike up my skirt, and just… take.” Her hand drifted to her own thigh, squeezing. “They loved how tight my pussy was, said it was like winning a trophy.”

She closed the distance between us. I could smell her—rain, and underneath, something muskier, like sex and sweat.

“They trained me,” she breathed, her lips an inch from mine. “To crave it. To need a rough hand in my hair