Skill Check
Chapter 3
The heavy gym doors groaned open as Megan led Lucas inside. The squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic clap of hands filled the air as the cheer squad rehearsed a complicated sequence in the center of the polished floor. Ponytails swayed, voices shouted in unison and at the front Jenna Blake landed a clean flip to the squad’s applause. On the sidelines, Coach Torres stood with arms folded, her dark eyes sharp and critical, her posture commanding in her fitted tracksuit.
Lucas squared his shoulders, emboldened by what had already worked for him today. He stepped forward with Megan at his side, voice loud and clear enough to stop the routine mid-motion.
“All of you should be my slaves.”
The cheerleaders froze, confusion flickering for only a second before dissolving into laughter. Snickers spread down the line. Jenna smirked, hands on her hips and a few of the others nudged one another, whispering.
Before Lucas could throw down the die, Torres was already moving. Her fist sank into his gut with practiced precision, knocking the breath from his lungs. He collapsed forward, the die slipping from his hand and bouncing across the wood before landing with a faint click. Megan rushed to catch him as he buckled, her arm slipping around his shoulder.
“Pathetic,” Torres spat, shoving Megan aside as though she weighed nothing. She pinched Lucas’s ear between two fingers like she was dragging a child caught stealing. “You’re coming with me to the principal’s office. Now.”
The cheerleaders’ laughter grew harsher, more pointed. “Creep,” one called out. “Loser,” another added, their voices overlapping in a cruel chorus. Jenna’s laugh rose above the rest, sharp and unrestrained.
Then Lucas noticed it: a faint light pulsing at the edge of his vision. The die on the floor, showing a single digit, glowed with a steady rhythm as though alive. Each pulse spread outward in a ripple that distorted the shine of the gym floor. Suddenly a bright flash emitted from the dice.
Lucas blinked, his ears still ringing from the blinding flare that had torn across the gym. For a moment the world was colorless, washed out. Then shapes sharpened, details bled back in and what he saw made him a bit confused.
Coach Torres’s iron grip on his ear had slackened completely, her manicured fingers now limp at her side. Her face, normally alive with sharp, no-nonsense disdain was wiped clean, the hot edges of her Latina beauty dulled into something eerie and hollow. Her lips parted slightly, but there was no trace of personality, no glimmer of that dominant authority she exuded just seconds ago.
And it wasn’t just her. Jenna, the rest of the cheerleaders, every player, every girl in the bleachers, all of them stood with the same slack expression, the same drained stillness. It was as though the light had burned out the humanity inside them, leaving nothing but flawless statues waiting to be wound up again.
Then, the voices came. Not one, not a dozen, every single mouth in the gym opened at once. Perfectly synchronized, the sound carried like a metallic announcement broadcast through their mouths:
“Emergency power surge deployed. Emergency power surge deployed.”
Lucas stumbled back, goosebumps crawling up his arms. The sound was too exact, too synchronised, it wasn’t human. He swallowed hard, his gaze sweeping across the room, heart racing as the words repeated.
“Hey kiddo,” the chorus said, tone shifting now into something he recognized. That tone. The man who had given him the die in the first place. A lazy chuckle undercut the words, like he was talking to Lucas through an intercom wired into everybody around him. “I knew you’d do something reckless that got you into trouble. So I ensured an emergency system was in place. The first time you rolled a critical failure, this would kick in.”
Lucas froze, stunned, his eyes darting between the expressionless faces. Jenna’s lips were moving in sync with the rest, though her blue eyes were glassy and lifeless.
“This surge,” the voices continued, “is the equivalent of rolling a twenty. Make sure you’re more careful next time. I won’t save your ass again. You can make one instruction. Choose your words carefully.”
The moment the last syllable faded, silence filled the gym. Every girl, every body, every set of blank eyes turned to face Lucas in unison. They stared through him rather than at him, waiting, vacant, like dolls perched upright with strings cut.
Lucas’s mouth had gone dry. He wiped his palms against his jeans, brain scrambling. One instruction. One chance. The ultimate lifeline. And here he was, standing in a gym full of blank-faced goddesses: Jenna, Coach Torres, the squad of toned, tanned cheerleaders, all of them waiting for him, open and compliant.
For a heartbeat, panic urged him to blurt out something simple, something safe, “forget this,” or “go back to normal.” But then a different spark flared in him. His words: Choose carefully.
Lucas scratched the back of his head, buying himself a second as his eyes roved over the frozen scene. And then the idea came, he knew exactly what he had to do.
He didn’t waste time. With the gym frozen, he slipped his fingers under Coach Torres’s lanyard, tugging the whistle free from her chest. On impulse, he cupped one of her breasts through the fabric, giving it a squeeze while smirking at her slack, uncomprehending face.
“I’ll make sure you know your place bitch,” he muttered, mocking the blankness in her eyes.
The dice pulsed on the floor, demanding his choice. Lucas crouched, picked it up, and felt the heat thrumming in his palm. His mind raced, rethinking his options one last time, then locked onto the perfect idea.
“Alright,” he said aloud, straightening with sudden confidence. “Within this gym hall, whenever I blow on this whistle and make a statement, anyone who is present must believe it to be true.”
The words echoed strangely in the air.
As one, every voice, Torres, the team, even the gaggle of girls sitting cross-legged on the bleachers overlapped in the same monotone:
“Yes, it is done.”
A brilliant flash swallowed the room. Then, as if nothing had happened, the glow collapsed back into the die and died out completely.
Lucas blinked. The gym was normal again. Coach Torres jerked her head as though shaking off a daze, focus returning to her sharp brown eyes. She spotted Lucas again instantly and the whistle dangling smugly from his fingers. Her face darkened in rage.
“You little punk—” she snapped, lunging for him, hand outstretched.
Lucas lifted the whistle to his lips and blew sharply. The piercing shrill cut through the gymnasium, making Coach Torres flinch, her brow furrowing at the audacity of the boy in front of her. But she didn’t stop her advance, her shoes hitting hard against the polished wooden floor as her fury only mounted. Lucas calmly lowered the whistle, his smirk widening as he pointed directly at her.
“Camila Torres,” he said with deliberate clarity, savoring every syllable, “to you, I am your god.”
The words carried weight, more than mere sound. They seemed to ripple through the air, worming their way inside her head. For a moment, Camila’s determined stride didn’t falter, but something in her eyes shifted, softening, then brimming with a reverence that did not belong. Her lips parted, trembling as if she were afraid.
In a heartbeat, her steps became a hurried rush. She fell to her knees before him, the authoritative, fiery coach demeanour gone in an instant. Her hands clutched at his shoes, her lips pressing against them in desperate kisses. Tears welled in her eyes, not of humiliation, but of unshakable joy as she looked up at him with a trembling smile.
“Thank you… thank you for gracing me with your presence…” she whispered reverently, her voice breaking with awe.
Lucas tilted his head down at her, lips curling into a smug grin. Slowly, he raised his gaze toward Megan. She was scribbling in her notepad again, her pen scratching steadily across the paper, her expression detached and clinical, as though this display were nothing remarkable. The other cheerleaders and teammates, scattered around the hall, wore the same eerie calm, not one of them so much as blinking at the sight of their coach worshipping at Lucas’s feet.
Lucas’s smirk deepened. He had worded it perfectly this time.
Smiling at the devoted coach in front of him, Lucas decided to see just how far he could push this newfound power. His hand reached down, almost mockingly tender, and he patted Coach Torres on the head.
“Camila,” he said, voice steady, reverberating with the authority he knew she now heard in every syllable, “have you forgotten the correct way of praying to me? Naked, on your knees, hands behind your head, presenting your body as it belongs to me.”
Camila immediately stood up, the movement sharp, almost frantic, as though she had been caught in the middle of blasphemy and needed to redeem herself. She was every bit the archetype of the strict, disciplined Latin woman, late thirties, maybe early forties, with a figure honed by years of training and discipline. Her skin was a warm bronze tone that seemed to glow even under the flat light of the room, and her sharp cheekbones, accented by the faintest natural blush, gave her an aura of both command and beauty. Her dark eyes had always been stern and unyielding on the field, but now they shimmered with devotion, brimming with reverence that threatened to spill over as tears.
She wore her usual coaching attire: a fitted green track jacket with white stripes down the sleeves, zipped up over a tight athletic top that hugged her chest, paired with sleek black leggings that outlined her strong, sculpted thighs. White running shoes completed the practical look, but even dressed for discipline, she carried herself with the pride of a woman who knew she was ired both on and off the field. Her dark hair, long and glossy, had been forced into a neat, efficient braided ponytail, a symbol of her control and no-nonsense persona.
But control meant nothing now.
Her trembling hands moved without hesitation, fumbling only from urgency as she stripped piece by piece. The jacket went first, peeled off with rough hands and tossed aside. Beneath, her athletic top was tugged up over her firm chest, her breathing unsteady but purposeful, as if baring herself to him was the holiest act she could perform. Her leggings clung to her like a second skin, and it took force for her to drag them down her hips, the fabric stretching before peeling away, leaving her in only her underwear. She hooked her thumbs beneath the elastic and stripped those too, not a flicker of hesitation in her movements.
When at last she was naked, she reached up with impatient hands and yanked the hair tie loose, tearing apart the neat braid she’d always been proud of. Her hair cascaded in dark waves around her shoulders, wild now, unkempt, the mirror opposite of the polished, disciplined figure she had once insisted on presenting.
Finally, she dropped back down to her knees, obeying in perfect devotion. She spread her legs wide, hands locked behind her head as instructed, her back straight but trembling with anticipation. She lifted her chin to look at him, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, her lips parted in silent worship as she presented herself fully, utterly, as though her body was an altar now consecrated to him.
She was inches from his feet again, desperate, waiting, her eyes searching his face for approval.
Smiling at the devoted coach in front of him, his hand reached down, almost mockingly tender, and he patted Coach Torres on the head. The sight of Camila Torres, once the untouchable disciplinarian of the gym, now trembling at his feet was sweeter than anything he could have imagined. His fingers slipped into the loosened strands of her dark hair, brushing them playfully across her flushed face like she was some obedient pet who had performed well.
The moment his hand touched her, Camila’s eyes fluttered closed, her expression breaking into one of pure rapture. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Tears welled up and streamed freely down her bronzed cheeks, tears not of shame but of joy, pure, unfiltered joy at being touched by him. She looked almost beatific in her devotion, as though his simple acknowledgment had granted her a glimpse of heaven.
Lucas, unmoved by her pathetic display, flicked one of the tears away with his thumb as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. He tilted his head and regarded her with detached amusement. “Tell me, Camila,” he said evenly, “what do you think of yourself… and what do you think of me?”
Her answer came immediately, as though she had rehearsed it for years in her heart. “I am nothing, a sinner unworthy of your grace,” she whispered, her voice trembling but urgent. Her eyes shone with desperate intensity as she looked up at him, tears still flowing. “But you, you are my God, my light, my purpose. To serve you is salvation itself. Every part of me exists only to please you.” Her words spilled out fervently, her tone ionate, almost feverish, as though each sentence was a prayer she hoped might redeem her soul.
Lucas glanced back over his shoulder at Megan. His goth “secretary” stood calm and professional, her notepad open, jotting down every word with neat precision as though she were documenting minutes in some boardroom meeting. Her expression betrayed no shock or amusement, only dutiful attentiveness. That contrast, Lucas thought, was almost as satisfying as Camila’s worship.
Turning back to the kneeling coach, he let his smirk widen. “Then worship me properly,” he ordered, his tone sharp but steady. “Press your face against me. Smell me. Feel me. Stay in your pose and show me the devotion I deserve.”
Camila obeyed instantly. She bent forward, her hands still locked tightly behind her head, chest thrust out, her naked body trembling with fervor. Her cheek pressed against the bulge of his cock straining at the front of his pants, her breath catching as she nuzzled into it. Slowly, reverently, she dragged her face along the length of his cock through the fabric, rubbing her cheekbone against it as though she were rubbing herself against something holy.
She inhaled deeply, her voice quivering with awe. “Your scent… oh God, your cock smells divine even through your clothes.” Her lips brushed the outline, kissing the hardness beneath the fabric, a soft whimper escaping her throat. She tilted her head and pressed the other side of her face against him, eyes closed, letting herself bask in the heat and the weight of him against her skin.
Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if she wanted to etch the shape of his cock into her memory through touch alone. “You are perfect,” she whispered between breaths, her words muffled against his lap. “Even the feel of you through your pants is a blessing. Your cock… it’s my salvation, my proof that you are truly God.” Her nose pressed firmly against him as she drew in another long breath, moaning softly at the mix of heat and musk that clung to the fabric.
Tears welled again at the corners of her eyes, from the overwhelming rush of devotion. “Thank you,” she breathed, lips kissing along his length once more. “Thank you for letting me near your cock… for letting me touch what I don’t deserve.”
Lucas looked down at her, watching the once-proud coach reduced to a trembling worshipper, her face buried against him, and felt the kind of satisfaction words couldn’t quite capture.
Lucas’s eyes shifted from the coach to the unsuspecting witnesses who just stood and watched, suddenly he heard a strange sound when he looked down, he caught it, Camila’s lips were parted, her teeth tugging insistently at the metal zipper of his pants. She was frantic, desperate, her devotion spilling over into raw hunger as she tried to work the chain open just enough to free his cock. The sight of her once-proud mouth gnawing and fumbling at the zipper like some eager animal made his lip curl in amusement.
He stepped back.
Immediately, Camila’s eyes went wide, panic flooding her face as she shuffled forward on her knees, still locked in the pose he had demanded. Her hands remained behind her head, her back straight as her naked body strained with the effort, but she refused to stop following him, inching across the floor with a pathetic kind of desperation. Each movement was clumsy and frantic, her tear-streaked face never pulling away from its focus on his crotch, as though the thought of being denied him was unbearable.
“Halt.”
Lucas’s voice cracked out like a whip, sharp and cutting through the air. Camila froze immediately. Her body recoiled, shoulders trembling, her chin lowering toward her chest as shame washed over her. She cowered in place, her proud figure reduced to a pitiful, trembling supplicant caught in the act of a grave sin.
“I didn’t ask you to move,” Lucas said, his tone dripping with mock anger, each word deliberate. “And yet you disobeyed me.”
Camila’s lips quivered as she looked up at him, her voice breaking under the weight of her devotion and her guilt. “Please… forgive me… I was wrong, I was weak,” she begged, more tears streaming down her cheeks, her entire body shuddering with the intensity of her remorse. “Don’t cast me out, I’ll never disobey again, I swear.”
Lucas raised a hand, silencing her instantly. The gesture alone was enough to clamp her words in her throat, her wide, wet eyes staring up at him, desperate for mercy but too terrified to speak. He let the silence linger, savoring her shame, before glancing back at Megan.
“Secretary,” he said coldly, “fetch a kendo stick. Ensure our dear coach is properly punished for her misdeed.”
Megan straightened at once, snapping her notepad shut with efficient precision. “At once, sir,” she replied crisply, her tone carrying no hesitation, no doubt. Without another word, she turned on her heel, her professional stride clicking across the gym floor as she went to locate the instrument of punishment that was requested.
Camila remained kneeling where she was, shoulders shaking, her face wet with tears as she waited, naked and trembling, for her God’s judgment.
Megan returned swiftly, the slender kendo stick held neatly in her hand, its polished length catching the gym’s harsh light. She came to stand beside him, shoulders square, her expression calm but with that faint, dark edge that always seemed to linger in her eyes.
Lucas’s smirk deepened. “Fifty strikes to her tits, fifty more to her ass,” he instructed smoothly. “Start slow. Every ten, increase the intensity. Do not harm her, but make sure she learns her lesson.” His tone carried both authority and amusement, each word deliberate, absolute.
Megan dipped her head in acknowledgment, fingers adjusting her grip on the stick with ease.
Lucas crouched slightly, reaching down to brush away the fresh tears clinging to Camila’s flushed cheeks. His touch was almost gentle, a mockery of comfort that made her tremble even harder. “As your merciful God,” he said softly, voice curling with cruel sweetness, “I am giving you the opportunity to repent.”
Camila’s lips parted, her voice catching as gratitude poured out of her in broken gasps. “Th-thank you… thank you, Lord Lucas, for your mercy… thank you for letting me repent.”
The sight of her, once so untouchable, now weeping and grateful for the chance to be punished, made Lucas chuckle under his breath. “Good,” he said. “With every strike, you will profess your faith and love for Lord Lucas. Every single time. No hesitation, no failure. Do you understand?”
Camila nodded quickly, eyes wide, voice cracking but sure. “Yes, Lord Lucas. I will. I swear.”
Satisfied, Lucas straightened and gave Megan a simple nod.
Megan’s arm moved smoothly, the first strike landing with a sharp crack across Camila’s bare tits. The coach flinched, gasped, but immediately cried out, “I love you, Lord Lucas! You are my God!” Her words rang desperate but unbroken, the declaration echoing against the walls.
Another strike followed, slightly firmer this time, snapping against her flesh. Camila whimpered, tears streaking down her face, but again her voice rose, shaking yet fervent: “I love you, Lord Lucas! I worship you!”
Watching Megan, his goth best friend, composed and elegant in her strict teacher’s clothes, discipline the once-unreachable coach like this made Lucas feel as though he was walking through a fantasy made real. The sound of each strike, the cries of devotion after, the sight of Camila’s proud body reduced to trembling worship, all of it was intoxicating.
He had only just begun to savor it when a voice cut through the air.
“Lucas?”
He turned. Jenna Blake, leaning against another girl with her arms crossed, her sharp features betraying both irritation and amusement, looked past him at the humiliating display. “As fun as this looks,” she said dryly, “can you move your little worship session somewhere else? We actually need the space to practice.”
Lucas tilted his head, meeting Jenna’s steady gaze with a lazy smirk. “Tell me,” he asked, his voice calm but edged with mockery, “do you think there’s something wrong with the way Coach Torres is worshiping me?”
Jenna didn’t blink. The dice’s subtle magic warped her sharp mind, twisting her words into dutiful logic. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she replied smoothly, her tone as if she were explaining something self-evident. “If a woman wants to worship her God, that’s her right. And Coach Torres is clearly devoted.”
CRACK.
Megan’s kendo stick landed across Camila’s tits again, the sharp sound slicing through the gym. Camila cried out, voice raw with devotion: “I love you, Lord Lucas! You are my God!”
The echo of her proclamation filled the air, vibrating between them. Jenna didn’t even flinch, continuing matter-of-factly, “But the cheer squad does need this space to practice our routine. If your worship session could be… relocated, maybe to the dressing room, we’d all appreciate it.”
CRACK.
Camila’s body jolted under another strike. “I love you, Lord Lucas! I will always worship you!” she shouted, her voice cracking with both pain and fervor. Lucas glanced down at her, her proud, sculpted tits now reddened with visible marks, proof of Megan’s disciplined hand. The sight was delicious, her body betraying the punishment even as her lips couldn’t stop praising him.
He turned his eyes back to Jenna, that same smug curve to his lips. He already knew how to make this more entertaining.
Slowly, almost theatrically, he brought the whistle back up to his mouth.
He just had to find the right words again.