Chapter 11

I freeze, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest as some meathead’s massive fist hovers inches from my face, cocked back and ready to rearrange my features. His grip on my shirt is ironclad, yanking me forward so close I can smell the sweat and rage pouring off him. The guy’s a fucking beast—6’3”, built like a goddamn tank, with messy brown hair plastered to his forehead and eyes blazing with pure fury. Time slows down, every detail etching itself into my brain: the veins bulging in his neck, the way his knuckles whiten around my collar, the distant shrill of the teacher’s whistle piercing the air like a siren. The gym around us is a blur of chaos—polished hardwood floors echoing with the squeak of sneakers, basketballs thumping forgotten on the ground, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and the metallic tang of sweat hanging thick in the air. Kids are frozen in place, some with wide eyes, others whispering excitedly, but no one’s stepping in. Why would they? And here I am, the skinny new kid with a target on his back, about to get my ass handed to me.

Right before this meathead unleashes his fury, the piercing shriek of the coach’s whistle blasts directly into his ear, making him flinch like he’s been slapped. The massive brute freezes, his cocked fist hovering mid-air, veins throbbing in his neck as his wild eyes dart to the side. The teacher, a grizzled old-timer with a whistle perpetually dangling from his neck and a gut that speaks to too many post-game beers, steps right up, red-faced and bellowing. “Damnit, Buddy! Cut that shit out before you end up in jail!”

Buddy’s shoulders slump, the rage draining from his face like air from a popped balloon. He mutters a dejected, “Sorry, Coach,” his voice low and grudging, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The coach turns his glare on me, looking me up and down with a mix of pity and disdain, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. “This pipsqueak ain’t stealing your girl, now give me 20 burpees and get back to your game!”

“Yes, Coach,” Buddy grunts, dropping to the floor immediately, his massive frame pumping out burpees with mechanical precision, sweat flying off him onto the scuffed gym floor.

I exhale shakily, rubbing at my chest where his fingers had dug in. On one hand, I’m eternally grateful—the coach just saved my scrawny ass from becoming a smear on the hardwood. On the other, fuck you for calling me a pipsqueak. I’m not that scrawny, am I? My hazel eyes flick to my reflection in the gym’s mirrored wall, catching my skinny 5’8” frame in the baggy gym shorts and tee, and yeah ... maybe I am. But still, ouch.

Over by the bleachers, the girls have all clustered around Nancy like a protective flock. She’s standing there, her straight black hair with that red stripe falling over one shoulder, her light blue-grey eyes flicking between me and Buddy. The piercings in her ears, nose, and who knows where else glint under the gym lights, and those DD-cup tits strain against her tied off shirt. They’re whispering furiously, probably grilling her about what the hell I said to her that set off her boyfriend. Nancy just smirks, shrugging them off, but I can feel the heat of their stares on me—lust mixed with curiosity, thanks to these damn pheromones.

A nerdy guy from class sidles up to me, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He’s one of those awkward types, lanky and unassuming, probably spends his free time gaming or something. “Flirting with Nancy right in front of Buddy? Are you crazy?” he whispers, glancing nervously at the burpee-ing behemoth.

I rub the back of my neck, still catching my breath. “Hey, I didn’t know she was with that meathead.”

He looks at me like I’m the dumbest fuck alive. “How do you not know that? Besides, who do you think a girl that looks like her would date?”

Fair point. Nancy’s got that dangerous, flirty vibe—the kind of girl who thrives on bad boys and risky shit. And Buddy? He’s the epitome of that: messy brown hair, built like a linebacker, with a reputation for violence. I gotta start assuming if she’s hot, she’s probably with someone who could snap me in half. Oh shit, that means Angela from history class is probably dating a footballer or some jock who’d love to curb-stomp me. Great, just what I need—more enemies.

I turn back to the guy. “You’re right about needing to assume they’re dating someone. But I just got here yesterday. Don’t know the whole social circle yet. Who is that guy, and what’s his deal?”

He gestures with his head toward Buddy, who’s still grinding out those burpees, sweat pouring off him. “That’s Buddy Revell. He got kicked off the football team last year for being too violent. Coach said if he goes a whole semester without getting in a fight, he can join the team again. I don’t think he’s gonna make it.” The guy pauses, eyeing Nancy. “The girl you were talking to is Nancy Downs. Trust me, just do what I do and admire her from a distance.”

There’s an awkward silence after that, the gym echoing with the sounds of bouncing basketballs and sneakers squeaking on the floor. I can tell he’s itching to ask me something—his eyes keep darting to me, then away. Finally, I sigh. “Go ahead and ask it.”

He hesitates, then blurts out, “So, is it true you’re Regina George’s boyfriend, and any woman you want has to fuck you?”

This guy doesn’t beat around the bush. I chuckle, trying to play it cool even though my mind flashes back to the whirlwind of the last couple days—the threesomes, the dominance, the endless stream of willing women. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but yeah, that’s basically true. Except for the fact that none of the guys are on board with that idea, obviously.”

He’s staring at me in shock, mouth agape, looking me up and down like I’m some alien specimen. Then he stammers, “How?!?”

I shrug, keeping it vague. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I just seem to be irresistible to women.” Before he can fire off any follow-up questions, the bell rings, sharp and final, signaling the end of class. The gym erupts into chatter and movement as everyone heads for the locker rooms.

We’re probably supposed to shower, but fuck that. The idea of stripping down in a room full of guys who might want to murder me over their girlfriends? No thanks. I bolt into the locker room, the air thick with the smell of sweat and cheap body spray. Rows of metal lockers line the walls, benches scattered in between, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Guys are laughing, stripping off shirts, some heading to the showers in the back. I find my spot, change as fast as humanly possible—peeling off my sweaty gym clothes and yanking on my regular stuff without so much as a grunt of pain. All that exercise actually loosened me up; the soreness from yesterday’s marathon fuck sessions with Regina and her mom has faded to a dull ache. I feel almost human again. Small victories.

I text Michelle as I sling my backpack over my shoulder: “Hey, this is Chris. Can you give me a ride to your house?” My phone buzzes almost immediately with a barrage of texts:

Oh hi.
Yes I can.
I ride the bus home.
You can ride with me.

More keep coming, but I stop reading and just head out to the bus pickup area. I shoot Jess a quick text letting her know what I’m up to, then text Regina: “Meet me by the buses.” The bus pickup area is a wide, open lane at the northern edge of the parking lot. A couple of metal benches huddle under a covered awning, trash bin overflowing nearby. Students mill around, chatting and scrolling on phones, the air filled with the rumble of idling buses.

Regina spots me first, striding up with that confident sway of hers, reddish-brown wavy hair bouncing, blueish-grey eyes locking onto mine. She pulls me into a big kiss, her perfect C-cup tits pressing against my chest, but then she wrinkles her nose and pulls away. “You are stinky,” she says, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I just got done with P.E. and didn’t want to shower in the locker room,” I explain, shrugging.

Just then, Michelle walks up, her bright red hair in a ponytail, green eyes wide and excited. “Hey Chris, so awesome we get to work together! I’m on bus 56, it’s a short ride home. I’m not supposed to have boys over, but it’s for school so it should be okay. If my mom comes home, tell her...”

She trails off mid-sentence as she spots Regina, freezing like a deer in headlights, her mouth hanging open.

Regina extends her hand gracefully. “Hi, I am Regina. Pleasure to meet you.”

Michelle stammers, “Michelle Flaherty, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” repeating it like a mantra.

I lean into Regina’s ear, whispering, “I think you broke her.”

Regina whispers back, her breath warm against my skin, “Do whatever you want with her, just shower afterwards,” and she playfully pokes me in the ribs.

I kiss Regina goodbye, feeling that spark of dominance flare up inside me, then climb onto the bus with Michelle, who’s still babbling incoherently as we find seats.

The bus lurches forward, pulling away from the school with a groan of its engine, and Michelle launches into a nonstop torrent of words that hits me like a verbal machine gun. She’s sitting next to me in one of those cracked vinyl seats, her petite frame bouncing with every bump in the road, bright red ponytail swishing like a flag in the wind. “Oh my god, Chris, I can’t believe we’re partners for this project! It’s on subtext in To Kill a Mockingbird. I love that book, read it three times last summer, and Scout is just the best character, don’t you think? Anyway, my house is only like ten minutes away, super close, and we can use my laptop, or do you have yours? Oh, wait, you probably don’t since you’re new, that’s okay, mine’s fine, it’s a MacBook, my dad got it for me for my birthday...”

I try to tune her out, staring out the grimy window at the passing suburbs—neat rows of houses, kids on bikes, the occasional dog walker. But her voice is relentless, high-pitched and rapid-fire, drilling into my skull like a jackhammer. She talks about everything: school gossip, her favorite TV shows, why pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, and back to the project again. My annoyance builds with every syllable, that dark, dominant side of me—the one that’s been unleashed since the wasp sting—stirring like a beast waking up. I nod occasionally, grunting responses, but inside, I’m gritting my teeth. How the fuck does she not run out of breath?

Finally, the bus squeals to a stop in a quiet neighborhood, and Michelle grabs my arm, yanking me up. “This is us! Come on, it’s just down the block.” We step off into the afternoon sun, and she leads the way to her house—a modest single-story ranch-style home, the kind that screams middle-class suburbia. The exterior is well-kept, with fresh white paint, a neatly trimmed lawn dotted with flower beds bursting with colorful blooms, and a welcoming front porch adorned with hanging flower baskets blooming in vibrant reds and purples. It’s cute, cozy, nothing like Regina’s mansion, but it feels lived-in and warm.

She unlocks the door and ushers me inside, still chattering. Inside, it’s cozy and well-decorated, like stepping into a Pinterest board. The living room has plush beige carpets, floral-patterned curtains framing bay windows that let in streams of sunlight, and walls adorned with family photos and framed art prints. A sectional sofa faces a flat-screen TV, throw pillows everywhere, and the air smells faintly of vanilla candles. No clutter, everything spotless—her parents must be neat freaks. I ask about them to stem the tide of words, and she confirms they’re at work, no siblings, just her and the cat. She probably said that on the bus, but who the fuck knows? I wasn’t listening.

We head to her bedroom down a short hallway—neat and girly, with pastel pink walls, a twin bed covered in throw pillows, a desk cluttered with notebooks and her MacBook, and posters of bands and movies. She plops down at the desk, firing up the laptop. “Okay, so for the project, we need to analyze three examples of subtext and write a two-page essay. I was thinking we start with the Boo Radley stuff, like how he represents innocence or whatever...” And she’s off again, yapping nonstop as I sit on the edge of her bed, trying to focus. I pull out my notes from class, nodding along, but her voice is like nails on a chalkboard now—endless, grating, pulling at that demon inside me.

I try to steer us back to work, suggesting we outline the essay, but she derails into tangents about her English teacher’s outfits, then some story about a school dance last year. My patience snaps like a brittle twig. That dark urge rises, hot and insistent, the same one that had me dominating Regina, her mom, and every other woman who’s crossed my path since the sting. My cock twitches in my pants, hardening at the thought of shutting her up the only way that’ll satisfy this beast. “Michelle,” I growl, my voice low and commanding, standing up and towering over her petite 5’4” frame. “Shut the fuck up.”

She freezes, green eyes widening in surprise, but there’s that telltale flush creeping up her neck—the pheromones hitting her hard. “W-what? Chris, I—”

I grab her by the ponytail, yanking her head back to look up at me, my hazel eyes burning into hers. “I said shut your goddamn mouth. All you do is talk, talk, talk. Time to put that mouth to better use.” The demon’s out now, and there’s no reeling it back. I shove her down to her knees on the carpet, her B-cup tits heaving under her shirt as she gasps. She doesn’t resist—hell, her eyes light up with lust, those fast-talking lips parting in anticipation.

I unzip my pants, pulling out my swollen cock—still enhanced from the sting, thick and veiny, pre-cum already beading at the tip. “Open wide, you chatty little slut,” I snarl, gripping her head and slamming my dick into her mouth. She gags immediately, her throat convulsing around my shaft as I force it deep, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she moans, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure up my spine. I fuck her face hard, relentless, my balls slapping against her chin with every thrust. “That’s it, choke on my fat cock, you yapping bitch. This is what happens when you don’t shut the fuck up.”

Tears stream down her cheeks, her green eyes watering as I pound her throat raw, but she’s loving it—her hands clutching my thighs, urging me on. I can feel her tongue swirling desperately, trying to keep up, but I’m too rough, too demanding. Her voice, when she tries to mumble around my meat, comes out hoarse and broken. I pull out briefly, letting her gasp for air, strings of spit connecting her lips to my glistening cock. “Please, Chris... “ she croaks, her voice already raspy from the abuse.