Locker Room Pact Ch. 01

Chapter 1: The Pact Begins

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Daniel shouldn't have come back.

The gym still smelled the same. Sweat soaked into the concrete. Rusted iron weights. That lingering tang of musk and testosterone that seemed to bleed from the walls. His sneakers scuffed across the floor as he walked past the old lockers--each one dented, scraped, and sprayed with fading tags, graffiti from a decade ago still visible in faded black marker. Meatheads Rule. #69 Forever. Tight End = Loose Hole. It looked just as he remembered, only heavier with the scent of time, sweat, and something darker. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The air felt heavy. Claustrophobic. Like the walls themselves remembered.

He told himself it was just a placement. Just another rotation.

Final year medical students didn't get much choice in their clinical allocations, and this time he'd been dropped into something unconventional: embedded field support for a regional beastman rugby team. Player monitoring, injury assessments, preventative care. He thought it would be boring. Sweaty jocks and sprained ankles. Maybe some basic first aid, a few post-game bruises. Instead, the assignment brought him back here--to his old school gym, to the very team he once cheered for in the background, never imagining he'd walk into their locker room again.

He was the only human in the building.

The locker room door creaked open, and he saw them.

The team. The beasts they'd become.

Twenty-four of them. Fifteen field players, eight substitutes, and one towering coach. Each of them a different breed of beastman: horsemen, bullmen, gorillamen, jackals, even a hulking rhino-beast standing half a head taller than the rest. They were a wall of sweat-slicked muscle, thick necks and thicker cocks barely contained by jockstraps. Fur glistened under the fluorescent lights. Their bodies radiated heat. The musk of a hard workout clung to them like a second skin--an intoxicating blend of sweat, body spray, testosterone, and something rawer. Deeper. Something beastly.

The scent hit him like a wall. He froze.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. It was too quiet. Too still.

They looked at him like they'd been waiting.

Trent was the first to speak. A golden-furred bullman, his horns polished, chest broad, arms thick from years of scrummage. His mane was longer now. The same shit-eating smirk twisted across his lips. His jockstrap bulged, barely holding the girthy length of his dark, ridged cock, the thick head visibly flared through the strained fabric.

"You remember what you said, right?"

Daniel blinked. "I'm here as a medical student."

Trent smirked wider. "That wasn't the question."

A few chuckles echoed around the room. Dax, a boarman with sweat-damp skin and tusks that gleamed when he sneered, stepped behind him. His hooves echoed against the tile. His cock was already half-hard in his jock--thick, blunt, and impossibly long. The head, wide and flat like a battering ram, pressed veiny and leaking against the jock's waistband. He reeked of heat and aggression. Daniel could feel him behind him, looming, his hot breath brushing his neck.

He turned, panic rising. "I think there's been a mistake--I'm just here to observe. I'm not--"

Coach Garron's voice cut through the tension. Deep. Gravelled. Final.

"You are."

The silverback gorillaman stepped out of his office, bare from the waist up, towel draped over one shoulder. His chest was thick with grey-black fur, his biceps bulging as he crossed his arms. His shoulders were wide enough to block the light. Eyes hard and unreadable. He radiated authority. Even the ridge of his cock, heavy in grey compression shorts, seemed to pulse with unspoken command.

"You made a promise. And this team keeps its traditions."

Daniel frowned. "What promise? I'm not even from here."

Coach snorted. "You think anyone cares what you meant? You opened your mouth. That's enough." He stepped forward. Each motion was deliberate. Heavy. Inevitable.

Before Daniel could reply, Maddox--his son--stepped from the crowd. Younger, leaner, but still broad-shouldered and quiet-eyed. His gorillaman frame was compact but muscular, his cock thick at the base and darkly mottled down its length, already stirring beneath his jock. He grabbed Daniel's arm and pulled him toward the bench. Daniel stumbled. His heel slipped. He kicked. Someone caught his leg. Another hand clamped his wrist. He twisted, shouting, his voice echoing against the tiled walls.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," someone muttered, breath hot against his ear.

His shirt was ripped off first. Then his shorts. Then his jock. They left him bare in the middle of them all, the only smooth-skinned, hairless human surrounded by fur, heat, and muscle. Hands groped his chest, his thighs, his ass. Fingers dragged across his skin like he was being inspected. One slapped his cheek. Another traced his lips. He flinched at every touch. Some laughed. Others murmured darkly.

He shouted. Screamed. No one listened. Not even Maddox. His grip only tightened. Daniel kicked at them, but they caught his legs. Spread him. Held him.

They bent him over the wooden bench. The same one he'd sat on during high school scrimmage nights. Now it burned his skin with cold and fear.

Hands spread his legs. He twisted, but they were stronger. Their weight pinned him down like he was nothing. His bare human ass was exposed to the open air of the locker room. The sounds around him became overwhelming--grunts, laughter, the wet sounds of cocks slapping into palms, the sharp crinkle of wrappers.

He heard a condom wrapper tear. Then another. The soft rustle of latex.

Then Dax's voice:

"Fuck, do I have to?"

Coach growled. "Yes. Condoms for everyone. We don't need one of you boys sick because this slut gave you an STI. Don't be a dumbass, Dax."

Dax groaned. Latex stretched. Spit squelched.

"Shit, it won't fit right. My cock's too wet already."

"Then double-wrap it," Coach snapped. "Or I'll take your place and fuck him myself, and you can watch."

Daniel shivered.

Dax's cock pressed to his hole. The head--flat, wide, and textured with swollen veins--smacked wetly against his cleft. He spat on it again, rubbing the thick flare between Daniel's cheeks, slicking him with spit and pre. Daniel could hear his breath catch, feel his hands gripping his hips tight. Dax's thighs tensed. He leaned forward.

Daniel tried to crawl away. Maddox gripped his arms. Trent held his hair.

Then Dax shoved forward.

Daniel screamed.

Pain split through his spine. His hands clawed at the bench. His hole stretched wide around the obscene girth of him, and still Dax kept pushing. Inch after inch. He didn't stop until his hips slapped against Daniel's ass. The condom strained audibly around his girth. He pulled back and thrust again, harder, forcing Daniel against the bench with each stroke.

Dax groaned, deep and satisfied. "Fuck, he's tight. He's fuckin' perfect."

The locker room echoed with cheers. Laughter. The slap of skin on skin. Daniel's body jolted with every thrust. His voice cracked. His vision blurred.

They called him names. Cumdump. Mascot. Good luck charm. Whore. Breeder. Each word branded his skin. His face burned. His legs shook. Some of them cheered each other on. Some called dibs.

Coach watched from the doorway. Arms crossed. Not smiling. Just waiting his turn.

"You think this is unfair?" he said. "You asked for this. Every win from now on is on your back. Don't screw it up."

He stepped inside. Closed the office door behind him. Daniel could feel his eyes on him even as Dax rutted into his stretched hole, the bench creaking beneath him. His legs had stopped fighting. His throat was hoarse. The worst part was that they hadn't even finished with him yet.

"This is what you are now," Coach said.

"The team's lucky charm."