Chapter 6: Claiming the last hole

“ ... so Melanie told Sophie she saw him kissing that little brat Celia, and she, of course, absolutely lost it!” The beautiful Pam, playing the part of the perfect sovereign, listened to Sue and Jenny—her loyal court—as they gave the morning report. They navigated the hallways of her ephemeral kingdom between History and Bio, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and cheap perfume.

“Obviously...” Pam murmured. In reality, she was barely tracking the drama. She just had to nod, throw in a shocked gasp, or a disgusted face at the right intervals. Years of practice made it autopilot, leaving her mind free to wander back to the things that actually mattered. Or rather, the person who did.

“Pam, you okay? You’re walking kind of low-key weird today,” Jenny said, her voice dipping with concern. Pam flashed a practiced, effortless smile.

“Oh, nothing! I just went way too hard on the splits in dance class yesterday. My legs are basically numb,” she lied. Jenny bought it instantly, never suspecting that the real reason for her stiff, careful gait was the heavy, polished weight of the silicone plug stretched deep inside her.

It wasn’t just “discomfort”—it was a constant, throbbing reminder of Damian’s ultimatum. “Either you prep yourself, or I’m going to wreck you,” he’d told her. He’d been a bit more clinical about it, but the vibe was crystal clear. She had a set of four, each one more intimidating than the last, and she was currently struggling with the second. She had to reach the fourth—the one that finally matched the thickness of her master’s dick—before their next session. Driven by a mix of fear and sheer horniness, she was wearing them 24/7, only taking breaks for the shower or the quick, boring session she’d had to give Brent yesterday to keep up appearances.

But she wasn’t just doing it because she had to. She was thriving. Every time she called him ‘Little Master,’ her skin prickled with electricity. It was nothing, though, compared to the absolute rush of hearing his voice—that perfect mix of nerdy crack and deep authority—call her ‘Slave.’

The word made her feel lightheaded. She replayed the image of him reigning over her bedroom chair, his bare feet resting casually against her cheeks while she worked. If anyone had walked in on them—the school’s golden girl worshipfully licking the sweat and grime from between the toes of the former insignificant sophomore nerd—there honestly wouldn’t have been any other words for it. “Master” and “Slave” weren’t just edgy nicknames in those moments; they were the absolute, unfiltered truth. The dirt on her tongue and the weight of his soles on her face felt more honest than anything else in her scripted, perfect life.

She couldn’t wait to give him the one part of her body no one else had ever touched. She was finally going to be entirely his, and the thought of being fully “broken” by him made her breath hitch.

Slave ... slave ... slave... The word looped in her head, synced to the throb of the plug. She could almost see his sapphire eyes and that smug, boyish smirk.

“Hey, little guy! Hahaha!!”

The shout snapped her back to reality. She looked over to see Bobby Harris getting clowned on by a couple of guys who had bumped into him. The nickname had spread like wildfire, thanks in no small part to Brent, who had shouted it across the cafeteria yesterday, blissfully unaware he was being a pawn in Pam’s game.

Poor Bobby. He looked like a kicked dog, his tough-guy act completely evaporated. When he caught Pam’s eye, she didn’t offer him a shred of sympathy. She just gave him a cold, sharp smile. The little worm had made Damian’s life hell for years; this wasn’t just gossip—it was karma, and it tasted better than anything Melanie or Sophie could ever stir up.

Bobby looked away, defeated, while Pam adjusted her stride, feeling the delicious, heavy stretch of her secret keeping her grounded.

“Hi Pam...” a dark-haired girl murmured as she passed, offering a hesitant wave.

“Hi Susy!” Pam called back with that flawless, practiced warmth. For a split second, Pam got the vibe that Susy wanted to say more, but the girl’s eyes darted away, her face flushing as she scurried down the corridor. Pam just shrugged and went back to her bodyguards’ gossip.

Susan Lockhart was a junior, and most people would just call her “unconventional.” Her family had moved to Raleigh from NYC over the summer, and Pam—acting as the saintly head of the student committee—had helped her navigate the culture shock. They’d formed a weirdly sweet bond. Susy knew she wasn’t in Pam’s league; hanging out with the “royals” was too much pressure, but she looked up to Pam kinda like a big sister. To Susy, Pam was the ultimate authority on how to be a girl—wise, put-together, and seemingly perfect.

But Susy was currently spiraling. There was one topic she was dying to bring up, something so private and low-key depraved that she was terrified Pam would look at her like she was a freak. She was desperate to confide in someone, just to find out if the cravings she’d been having were normal or if her brain was actually broken.

She sighed, clutching her books to her chest as she walked toward her lit presentation. She had five minutes to stop thinking about her kinks and start thinking about Shakespeare.

Sally Cook had never hated anyone as much as she hated that total pick-me, Amanda Derrik. The two of them were currently locked in a mental cold war, exchanging murderous glares across the classroom while Mr Avery droned on. All because of him. The absolute god that was Damian.

He was such a literal saint. Sally felt her heart melt just thinking about how he’d sat them both down, eyes downcast and looking so stressed out, explaining that he just couldn’t make up his mind. He told them he was so flattered by their attention that he felt ... overwhelmed. Like his heart was too big for his chest or something. He’d said he couldn’t choose one over the other because he didn’t want to hurt anyone, so he thought it was best to just back off. Sally let out a dreamy, shaky sigh. He was just so sweet, so sensitive, so... perfect.

Naturally, instead of letting it go, she and Amanda had turned it into a full-blown war. Both of them knew Damian was a prize worth fighting for, and Sally was 100% confident she’d win. She just had to prove she was wife-material compared to that thirsty tramp Amanda.

She had to be careful, though; Amanda didn’t play fair, and she wasn’t exactly a shy nun. Sally knew she had to step up her game. Especially with those insane rumors about the locker room flying around. Her hands began to sweat ... Sally was dying of curiosity. The thought of Damian being “gifted” like that made her stomach flip in ways she knew her strictly conservative parents would kill her for. She felt a wave of guilt, thinking about the “moral principles” they’d drilled into her since she was a kid, but every time she looked at his gorgeous, model-tier face, she couldn’t stop picturing the raw, heavy power the girls were whispering about. It was a “sinful” curiosity she couldn’t shut off.

She was seeing him at 5:30 today. Her dad would be at the office, and her mom would be totally zonked out in front of her soap operas. They’d have a solid hour of being completely alone. Everything was perfect. She planned on “winning” him over with sweet, tender kisses. Yeah, just kisses ... And yet that dark, loud part of her wanted to see if the rumors were actually true.

“Exactly, my bro!” Brent’s voice boomed through the hallway, loud enough to turn every head in the corridor.

Damian was heading toward the cafeteria, and Brent Miller was busy “coaching” him like he was the freaking sensei of game. Brent’s heavy arm was draped across Damian’s shoulders in a show of total bro-camaraderie, dispensing “invaluable” advice. At least, that’s what Brent believed. Damian just let him bask in that delusional flex, hiding a smirk while he laughed his balls off internally.

“This is key, you gotta lock this in! You too, Danny, don’t sleep on this!” Damian winked at Danny, who was still adjusting to being part of the elite circle.

“I’m on it, Brent!” Danny chirped, playing his part.

Behind them trailed the “squad”—the same pack of handsome, arrogant jocks that used to hunt them. Now, they were Damian’s personal escort. It was hilarious; Damian had utterly transcended Bobby Harris. By exposing Bobby’s “little” secret, Damian had made the guy look so pathetic that his status hadn’t just been revoked, it had been incinerated. Bobby’s place in the “social heavens”—which his underdeveloped brain had worked so hard for—was gone. It was sadistically funny to Damian; the more he tasted revenge, the more he wanted to burn the whole hierarchy down from the inside.

“You gotta use your brains with these girls, man! Don’t let ‘em finesse you!” Brent shouted, his ego swelling as the crowds parted like the Red Sea. Students flattened themselves against the lockers just to let the VIPs pass, eyes filled with thirsty, envious admiration. Damian and Danny nodded like bobbleheads.

“You need reps, obviously,” Brent continued, loud enough for a group of freshmen girls to hear. “But with a bit of practice, you’ll read their minds like a damn book. Just look ‘em in the eyes and you’ll know if they’re ready to fold. Once you learn the vibe, they can’t hide shit from you!”

Brent sounded like a preacher; Damian almost expected the guys behind them to shout ’Amen.

“I don’t know, Brent, sounds pretty high-level...” Damian said, playing the “clueless” card.

“Haha! Well, you’re only a sophomore, bro. You’ve got a long way to go! First priority: getting you laid. Can’t have a face like that and still carry your V-card.” Brent leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to be “confidential” but still performatively loud. “Especially with the rumors, man. Word is you’re packing serious heat.”

“C’mon, dude! Don’t you think it’s a little too soon for him to get his dick wet?” Andy Thomas laughed, shaking his head. Brent spun around, wearing a grin that was pure, unfiltered arrogance.

“When the fuck do you think I lost mine, bruh?”

“Wait, for real?”

“Yeah, for real! Ask your sister—she still sends me tit pics!”

The group absolutely lost it, exploding into a chorus of ’Ohhh!’ and vulgar barks. Even Andy was doubling over, taking the hit like a good little soldier in Brent’s army. Brent was eating it up, chest puffed out, looking every bit the king of the hill—a god reigning over a bunch of mindless monkeys.

“Now!” Brent barked, turning back to Damian. “I know you’ve got two thirsty-ass girls fighting for a piece of you already, right?”

Damian braced himself for the next wave of absolute nonsense, wondering if Brent would still be acting like a mentor if he knew his “student” had already spent the week treating the school’s prize princess’s face like a footstool.

Danny Altman could never have imagined that popularity-by-proxy would feel this insane. Ever since Pam and Brent had “adopted” Damian, Danny had been pulled right into the center of the orbit. Back in the day, Damian was the textbook nerd and Danny was the behind-the-scenes computer wiz, but now the hierarchy had flipped. Standing next to Damian’s movie-star glow-up meant that hot girls actually waved at him and varsity dicks gave him high-fives. It was a total rush; he’d never felt more alive, damn it.

In the background, Brent’s loud, gravelly voice was still droning on about “unleashing the beast,” bragging to Damian about how girls were basically hard-wired to crave a guy who was packing as much heat as the locker room rumors suggested.

Danny tried to look cool and nod along, but inside, his brain was fried. All this constant talk about sex and body counts had turned him into a permanently horny animal. He was jerking off basically every time he was alone, but he would’ve sold his soul to have an actual girl touch him for once. The fact that he was still a virgin was his only big problem—a heavy, frustrating weight he carried every second he spent around these guys. It felt like a ticking clock, making him feel like a total fraud in this elite circle. Not that Damian had done it or anything but Danny felt his odds were way lower than his friend.

He shifted his weight, trying to hide the fact that he was low-key catching a stray boner just listening to the talk. He knew he wasn’t some chiseled idol like Damian, and being the “tech guy” didn’t exactly scream alpha in a hallway full of jocks. It was intimidating as hell feeling like the only one in the group who hadn’t seen any real action.

He let out a shaky sigh, his eyes drifting to a group of juniors in yoga pants walking past. Just the idea of a girl’s hands on him—actually feeling soft skin instead of his own palm—was making his jeans feel dangerously tight.

The 3 PM bell finally cut through the afternoon haze, and Damian moved through the thinning crowds like he owned the place. He swung his locker open, but as he reached for his Physics book, he spotted a small, folded square of notebook paper resting on the cover.

He plucked it out, his brow furrowing for a second before he flicked it open. As he scanned the short, handwritten line, his expression shifted into a slow, wicked smirk. He let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated in his chest.

Written in a soft, bubble-letter style—the kind of feminine handwriting that looked like it belonged to a “good girl”—were the words: “At night I dream of sucking you off,” followed by three little pink hearts and the initials S.L.

Damian shook his head, a surge of pure ego hitting him like a shot of adrenaline. He tucked the note into his back pocket, the paper crinkling against his jeans. “Join the club, babe,” he thought, the smugness radiating off him. “You’re definitely not the only one.”

He slammed the locker shut, the metallic bang echoing in the hall, and headed for the exit with a new spring in his step. It was wild—he’d never have believed that his little “unplanned” locker room flex would have fanned the flames this hard. The whole school was basically vibrating with thirst for him.

S.L., he mused, scanning the faces in the hallway. Who the hell could that be?

{3}

“Mmmm ... Damianmmm...” Sally’s moan was lost in the back of her throat as Damian’s tongue slipped into her mouth. Good heavens, he was talented. He massaged hers in such a sweet, hypnotic rhythm that she almost forgot about the hands roaming her back. They were tangled together in the backseat of her mom’s SUV, the expensive leather creaking under their weight, the only sound in the garage besides the wet, rhythmic smacks of their kisses.