The President

Caleb had reached a point of psychological no-return. Sitting in the dimly lit corner of the hospital library, the blue light of the laptop screen was the only thing illuminating his hollowed-out features. He had been watching the feed from Apex Fitness for weeks, but nothing could have prepared him for the one-month anniversary of Zaria’s "employment." What he saw on the 4K feed wasn't just a betrayal; it was a ritualistic dismantling of every moral fiber Zaria had once possessed.

On the screen, Zaria was no longer the hesitant receptionist. She had spent the last month refining her role as the gym’s hidden secret. She stood in the center of the familiar, rubber-matted storage room, her 5'2" frame barely covered by a set of sheer, neon-pink athletic wear that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Marcus was there, looking like a titan of mahogany muscle, but he wasn't alone.

Zaria had convinced him to bring his "crew"—three other men who looked like they had been carved from granite. They were all massive, possessive, and radiating a raw, predatory energy. Caleb watched as Zaria greeted them, her eyes glassy with that terrifying, dazed heat. She wasn't afraid; she was practically vibrating with anticipation. The "President" was long gone, replaced by a woman who had orchestrated this specific, multi-man "session" to scratch an itch that a single man could no longer reach.

"Is this everyone?" Zaria’s voice came through the high-gain microphone, a low, hungry purr. "I told Marcus I wanted the strongest men in the building."

The men didn't waste time with words. One of Marcus’s friends, a behemoth with deltoids the size of Zaria’s head, grabbed her by her thick, springy obsidian curls and yanked her head back. Caleb watched in agonizing high-definition as Zaria’s lips parted in a desperate, eager smile. She dropped to her knees, her hands working with a frantic, professional speed as she began to service two of them at once, her technique so advanced and aggressive that it made Caleb’s stomach churn. She was a master of her craft, her head bobbing in a rhythmic, desperate cadence that showed she had been practicing more than just university policy.

Then, the "pulverizing" began.

The four men took turns with her, treating her petite, voluptuous body like a common piece of gym equipment. They manhandled her with a brutal, coordinated entitlement, tossing her between them as if she weighed nothing. Caleb watched, frozen in a state of sick fascination, as Zaria was impaled and hammered in every position imaginable. She was bent over the industrial shelving, pinned against the cold brick walls, and held aloft by Marcus while the others took their turns.

The intensity was jarring. They were fucking her brains out, their movements a relentless, jarring pounding that left Zaria’s vision blurred and her voice reduced to a series of guttural, muffled screams. She was calling out their names, begging them to hit her harder, to go deeper, to use her until she broke. Every time one man finished, another took his place, and they weren't holding back.

True to her dark request, they began to fill her. Caleb watched the screen as Marcus finished inside her for the first time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep within her. He didn't pull out; he stayed until the next man was ready to take his place. Over the course of the next two hours, the cycle repeated with a mechanical, relentless cruelty. Each of the four men came inside of her at least three times, their collective seed creating a visible, dripping testament to her total debasement.

Zaria was a mess of sweat, bronze skin, and the evidence of their conquest. Her springy curls were matted against her forehead, her bronze skin was covered in red handprints and the stinging marks of their palms against her rounded posterior. She looked "broken" in the most absolute sense, her body trembling with the aftershocks of a dozen climaxes, yet her eyes remained fixed on them with a dazed, compliant heat. She loved the weight of it; she loved the feeling of being filled to the point of overflowing by the strongest men she could find.

"Again," she rasped through the speakers, her voice a shredded, desperate whisper. "Don't stop yet."

Caleb watched as the men laughed, their hands reaching out to smack her flushed, wet skin once more before starting the next round. He felt a dark, secondary corruption taking root in his own soul. He should have called the police; he should have run to the gym to "save" her. But he didn't move. He sat in the dark, his hand hovering over the mouse, his eyes wide and fixed on the screen.

He was watching his wife-to-be become the city’s most used and sated vessel, and to his horror, he found himself recording every single second of it. He realized that the "President" was truly dead, and as he watched her swallow the evidence of her fourth man’s climax, he realized that the Caleb he used to be was dying right along with her.