Owned by a Karen
Copyright© 2026 by Xanzibar
Chapter 1: Parlay Pets
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: Parlay Pets - Bianca and Carmen, Valdez-Delgado, a bi-sexual couple, who move to a very affluent neighborhood, get in a rivalry with their next door neighbors. The Karen and Frank Mitchell. A rivalry that escalates into an unlickely bet to be made, a parlay, three unlickely events that if they happen will force Carmen and Bianca to make good. Only they have no idea how depraved the winners of the bet will be if they win. There is no way all three legs can the parlay can happen right? Right?
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Fa/ft Mult Consensual Drunk/Drugged Reluctant Slavery Fiction Cheating Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching RAAC BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Interracial White Male White Female Hispanic Female White Couple Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Food Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Foot Fetish Leg Fetish Public Sex ENF Nudism Politics Transformation
A parley, a bet based on a set of separate outcomes from multiple events. An odd phrase that determined the fates of Bianca and Carmen, the self-proclaimed bisexual couple, but because they are married most only ever see them as lesbians. Next door to Karen and Frank Mitchell. Polar opposites in almost every way, almost as if they were living magnets repelling each other to different polarities.
Bianca’s golden-brown skin glowed in the sun, her powerful frame moving with a champion’s confidence. Beside her, Carmen’s wild curls framed a face made for sly smiles. When they stood close, their low laughter drew attention like a magnet.
Karen’s icy eyes missed nothing, her blonde hair sculpted perfectly into place. Frank stood broad-shouldered at her side, his voice a low rumble of authority. When he touched her waist, it was a declaration: together, they were untouchable.
So it was not surprising the very liberal Bianca and Carmen did not mix with the Mitchells’ were their natural rivals and they all four were competitive people. It did not take long for the Mitchell’s first gathering for there to be a passive-aggressive back and forth between the two start up. It was inevitable, really, that Bianca and Carmen outspoken liberals, self-styled iconoclasts, brimming with opinions and pride would clash with the Mitchell’s, who wore their conservatism and country club values like custom-fitted armor. Both couples had an appetite for competition that transcended mere sport and infected every aspect of their existence, from the tennis courts to the neighborhood association’s holiday lighting contest. The chemistry between them was instantaneous and electric, but not the kind that bred easy friendship. Instead, something more volatile sizzled at each encounter a mixture of rivalry, wary fascination, and the faintest shimmer of mutual allure.
Their first real meeting took place over a forced dinner invitation a Sunday evening, late spring, Karen’s backyard staged to perfection with white-linen tablecloths and monogrammed napkin rings, every detail curated with the obsessive energy she usually reserved for match point. Bianca and Carmen arrived five minutes early, bearing a bottle of organic Pinot and a vegan charcuterie board, a subtle gauntlet thrown at the Mitchell’s’ Midwestern meat-and-potatoes sensibility. Frank greeted them with a handshake so firm it bordered on parody, while Karen’s air-kiss hovered at a safe, chilly distance.
The opening volley of conversation was civil, almost tedious, as if both couples were stretching before the real game. They skirted politics, steered clear of sex and religion, defaulted to safe terrain mutual acquaintances, summer travel plans, the new club pro’s questionable backhand. But the subtext was all sharp edges and feints, each couple probing for advantage.
“So, Carmen,” Karen asked with a smile that barely reached her eyes, “is there a secret to keeping your serve so ... unpredictable?”
Carmen leaned back, crossing her legs with deliberate languor. “Just a matter of practice, I think. And maybe a little willingness to break the rules.” She smiled, dark eyes glinting. “I’m sure you know the feeling.”
Bianca snorted, earning a covert nudge from Carmen under the table. Frank smirked, refilling his own glass before offering the bottle to Bianca, an unsubtle reminder of who controlled the table.
“The league finals should be interesting this year,” he said, gaze flicking from Karen to Bianca. “Lot of strong contenders. Some people are even saying you two” he nodded to Bianca and Carmen “might have a shot at the mixed doubles’ trophy.”
“We’re flattered,” Bianca replied, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “But we don’t mind being the underdogs. Some of us thrive on it.”
Karen’s lips curled in a polite smile. “It’s always adorable when people underestimate themselves.”
The table tittered. Even the Mitchell’s’ son, a sullen teen in designer polo, smirked into his phone.
If the conversation was a match, the scoreline was dead even. They traded jabs about racket preferences, debated the merits of clay versus grass, and dissected the club’s fitness center upgrades with the fervor of Supreme Court justices. The competition was so fierce, so relentless, that it almost became a game in itself: how many subtle put-downs could be volleyed before someone broke and said what they really thought?
Carmen, always the tactician, made the next move. “Karen, you’ll have to give me the name of your stylist I swear, you never look anything less than perfect out there.”
Karen beamed at the compliment, but Bianca caught the quick, sidelong glance at Carmen’s unrivaled beauty as if measuring the gap between them. “Thank you, dear. I think presentation is part of the sport, don’t you agree?” Bianca knew her wife was objectively hotter than 99 percent of the women they came across. No matter what people said, The erections that followed her did not lie.
“Oh, certainly,” Bianca said. “But I find that grit usually wins over gloss.”
Frank let out a grunt of amused approval. “That’s what I always say! Winning ugly is still winning.”
“Well, not everyone can be beautiful,” Karen murmured, then raised her glass in a mock-toast. “To competition.”
Carmen clinked her glass against Karen’s, eyes narrowed in good-natured challenge. “To competition,” she echoed. “And to keeping things interesting.”
Later, after the meal had devolved into dessert and increasingly pointed banter, Bianca surveyed the table and realized that despite the snark and the one-upmanship, there was a strange sense of satisfaction in being pitted against worthy opponents. The Mitchell’s might represent everything Bianca and Carmen claimed to reject, but they were never, ever boring.
It was the beginning of a rivalry, certainly, but also a courtship of sorts, each encounter sharpening the edges until neither couple quite knew where antagonism ended and attraction began.
The dinner ended in a draw, but both sides were hungry for the next round each left with the sense that the real games had only just begun.
The Rivalry escalates,
The rivalry between the two households did not confine itself to the sterile safety of dinner parties or the metaphoric volleys of the tennis courts. It seeped outward, like a slow-acting toxin, into every intersection of their public lives. It began with Frank’s son born of his first wife before Karen, and Bianca’s nephew, a beginning made for petty grievances and then evolved into the grown-up world, where every minor slight was not only remembered but catalogued and weaponized.
Bianca first noticed the escalation during the annual end-of-summer barbecue, a town ritual held at the country club where all social classes, temporarily, pretended to mingle. Carmen had warned her that with the open bar and the proximity of rival tennis teams, the evening was likely to combust, but even she was unprepared for the speed with which the conservative values of the Mitchell’s’ circle spilled over into outright confrontation. Frank, loosened by bourbon, made a grand production of the pledge of allegiance, nudging his son to belt out “under God” loud enough to snap heads around the patio. Karen circled with her coterie, making pointed remarks about “certain lifestyles” and the decline of “traditional values.” Bianca, who prided herself on her volcanic restraint, let it go until the fifth time Karen called Carmen “her friend” in a tone dripping with condescension.
It was then, as dusk bled into darkness, that the first true skirmish erupted. Karen, refusing to back down from a dispute about school board policies, lobbed an insult at Carmen in front of half the club. Bianca, propelled by a force half protective, half primal, closed the gap between them in an instant. Words were exchanged that would echo through the neighborhood for months. Voices rose, wine splashed, and Bianca was only barely restrained by a desperate Carmen. The spectacle was the talk of the club for weeks. Neither woman would ever admit it, but the fight had been electrifying jolt of something close to admiration, sharpened by a blade of mutual contempt.
Frank, who coached the high school football team in his spare time, their neighborhood was wealthy enough that the private school needed volunteer coaches. Frank played in high school so he decided to coach his son. The school did not mind as their football team was the least of their attributes they were known for. He found fresh satisfaction in targeting Jamie, Bianca’s nephew, on the field. Jamie, a running back with the build of a tank and the speed of a sprinter, had always played with a chip on his shoulder, but against the Mitchell’s son, Luke, his fury was incandescent. The community packed the stands for the fall’s crosstown rivalry game. Each play became a proxy for old-world machismo versus progressive grit, every first down a microcosm of the war waged nightly across their driveways.
Jamie bulldozed through the Mitchell defense for three touchdowns, but it was the final play, a brutal collision between him and Luke, that people remembered. Both boys limped to their respective benches, bloodied but grinning, exchanging a look that mingled respect with the promise of future vengeance. Frank Mitchell fumed, but to Bianca and Carmen their nephew had just liberated a small country. The blue-bloods who thought they were always superior were trounced and despite Luke playing well, Jamie’s team embarrassed Frank.
Bianca got in many digs at Frank’s expense, even remarking that maybe Frank’s team could go to the summer football camp hosted by the coach of the team that just trounced him. She was good at getting his goat. To Bianca Frank was just another equal rival on the playing field, to Frank, she was someone he was furious with competing at all. Like Karen, their old world sensibilities meant they did not belong her.
But even that wasn’t the end. Bianca thought the rivalry would fade when the kids graduated, but fate, or perhaps some crueler cosmic force, had other plans. It turned out that Jamie and Luke, despite everything, had both landed football scholarships to colleges destined to face each other on national television.
It wasn’t just a suburban rivalry anymore. It was a saga, an arms race, a family feud for the twenty-first century.
Superbowl Sunday the year before the big day.
Kansas City had taken the Super Bowl to overtime, sealing the win with a last-minute touchdown that splintered furniture and sensibilities across the Valdez-Delgado household. Bianca, nose already flushed from victory tequila shots, had predicted the exact point-spread at halftime, and thus could not, by any law of nature, let Carmen or their guests forget it. The whole Sunday had unfolded like a stage play, with the two families Valdez-Delgado and Mitchell locked in a living-room armistice as children and spouses circulated bean dip and barbs in equal measures.F The tension, never wholly dormant, was now weaponized by the win. The Mitchell’s, old-world in their football allegiances and even older world in their sense of fair play, had staked the evening’s dignity on the 49ers, and now nursed their bruised pride on the back patio, lit by tiki torches and the low blue glow of a snowmelt sky.
Bianca could have let it ride could have simply enjoyed the afterglow of the game and the literal aftertaste of seven-layer nachos, but gloating was as much a part of her family DNA as stubbornness and second helpings. She and Carmen held court at the kitchen island, surrounded by a raucous subset of parents and teens, retelling the final moments with the forensic precision of crime scene investigators. Every replay was another opportunity to needle the Mitchell’s, to reframe their “solid team fundamentals” as “quaint, but ultimately irrelevant in the face of raw offensive genius.”
The first shot across the bow was delivered with surgical precision. “Frank, did you see that fourth-quarter blitz? Textbook stuff. You know, Coach, I hear some teams practice that sort of thing.” Bianca’s grin was broad enough to expose the gold of her orthodontic past. Frank, jaw set, mustered a game smile but did not rise to the bait, instead gesturing magnanimously with his beer. “Sometimes luck’s as important as talent,” he replied. “Not everyone can win with grace.”
“Oh, we can win with grace,” Carmen chimed in, piling on. “But it’s much more fun to win with style.”
Karen, perched on a barstool with the erect posture of a vengeful swan, rolled her eyes so pointedly that Bianca could almost hear the clatter. “Well, small victories for small teams,” she said. “But I hear Kansas City is lovely in February. I hope they can enjoy their parade before the next scandal hits.”
The air vibrated with the energy of the exchange. Even Frank’s son and Bianca’s nephew seemed to sense that something bigger was at stake. Jamie, now a high school senior and quarterback-in-training, dissected the playbook with a cold, analytical precision, while Luke Mitchell, his on-again, off-again the best frenemy, scrolled through his phone in search of memes suitable for retaliation. The gender lines blurred as Karen got into the act, which saw Bianca embarrass Karen for not having a job.
As the evening wound down, the rival families retreated to opposite sides of the living room. Bianca poured herself on another drink, surveying the battlefield with almost maternal pride. She let her eyes linger on the Mitchells’, who huddled with their heads together, plotting some future rematch. Carmen caught her look and raised an eyebrow. “You think we should go easier on them next year?” she asked.
Bianca snorted. “They like it. They’d be bored out of their minds if we didn’t show up.”
“True,” Carmen said, her hand finding Bianca’s under the counter. “But next year, we raise the stakes.”
A year later, the prophecy proved true. The Super Bowl was merely the overture, the appetizer to the main course of rivalry that would define their families for the next decade. That fall Luke and Jamie would meet again, this time in college. with the entire town turning to the tv to watch. By then, the feud had become legend, the story told and retold at booster meetings, bake sales, and on local access TV. But what none of them could have predicted was the way everything would change after that fateful game a single, violent collision in the end zone and the taboo it would break, forever altering the shape of their war.
That, as they say, was when the real game began.
The following year a leap year, an election year, a year of omens felt like a collective holding of breath in the close-knit, claws-out suburbs that shielded the Valdez-Delgado and Mitchell households from the chaos of the outside world. It was a year when every little thing seemed to matter, when every blade of grass on the football field and every unreturned serve on the tennis court was a harbinger of things to come. The rivalry had outgrown the boundaries of the families themselves; there were now neighbors, teachers, coaches, and even the local weather guy on Channel 8(He and his wife played in the doubles’ tournament every year, all people seemed invested in the outcome. Side bets were placed between grocery clerks and Starbucks baristas. The fate of the world, it seemed, hinged on the destinies of two rising stars: Jamie Valdez and Luke Mitchell, both Division I football rookies, both refusing to know their place.
The Valdez-Delgado, for all their loudness, did not care much for pro football allegiances. They loved their Chiefs, certainly, but Bianca and Carmen focused as much on the spectacle the halftime shows, the pageantry, the drama of watching grown men reduced to tears or godhood in the span of a single quarter. Karen, on the other hand, lived and died for her Eagles. She dressed in Kelly Green every game day, decorated the entire house in banners and streamers to mark playoff weeks, and made themed charcuterie boards that looked like mini football stadiums. Frank, who had never played a down in his life but coached as if he’d invented the game, became insufferable once the Birds started winning. He memorized stats, quoted them at strangers, and dissected every loss no matter how slight as a sign of cosmic injustice.
This year, the Eagles were on a tear, obliterating the league under Sirianni’s new regime. Patrick Mahomes and his tight end bromance with Travis Kelce paled in comparison, according to the Mitchell’s, whose loyalty was so fierce it bordered on the religious. Bianca and Carmen, loyal but not delusional, still liked Kansas City’s chances. The real agony was that Jamie and Luke, their respective scions, were now playing for rival universities, both true freshmen, both already starting, both scheduled to face each other in the second week of October.
It was inevitable, then, that the pregame trash talk began months in advance, and that it turned into their social lives with a force that made previous years look tame. Every dinner party became a sparring session. Local cliques took sides. A hastily created group text called “Gridiron Showdown” grew to forty-seven members, including the Valdez-Delgado’s parish priest and the Mitchell’s rabbi. Carmen found it hilarious, Bianca found it exhausting, and the Mitchell’s simply reveled in it.
By late September, the shots were being fired over group chats, backyard fences, and even at the local Trader Joe’s. The boys were off at college, but the parents waged their own campaign of psychological warfare, finding new and inventive ways to get under each other’s skin. Bianca, who normally avoided high-volume public events, organized a “watch party” for the college game at the local sports bar, inviting everyone on both sides of the rivalry. She even rented out the back room and ordered commemorative pint glasses with the names of both schools etched on the side. Karen, never one to be one-upped, immediately countered by hosting a tailgate party in her own driveway, complete with a bounce house, two decommissioned marching band members, and a live bald eagle borrowed (illegally) from a local raptor rescue. The neighborhood was forced to choose a side, and while most just wanted to watch football and eat dip, the competitive tension could have powered the electrical grid.
Frank, feeling the pressure, started inventing new statistical categories just to needle Bianca. He was relentless, texting her at all hours with screenshots of Jamie’s missed tackles or awkward post-game interviews. “He’s good,” Frank would concede, “but he’s no Luke.” Bianca, who could argue about football in her sleep, volleyed back with GIFs of Mahomes’s best throws and links to articles about Jamie’s “grit” and “leadership qualities.” Carmen mostly watched from the sidelines, giggling behind her phone, only chiming in to point out that Frank’s obsession was starting to look “a little bit stalker.”
All of this, of course, was prelude to the real contest: the annual doubles tennis tournament at the country club, a social bloodsport that Karen and her partner Karen had dominated for three years running. Bianca, not to be outdone, threw herself into training with Carmen, improvising drills and dragging her reluctant spouse out for sunrise sprints and yoga. The tennis match became the third leg of a seasonal Triple Crown: first the college football game, then Super Bowl. Then the club doubles. A trio that would change both couples lives forever.
It was Frank who, one evening in late September, proposed what would become known in neighborhood lore as “The Parlay.” The Mitchell’s hosted a bbq and Bianca and Carmen came over, despite their rivalry both always made sure the other was invited to everything. He was tipsy on Karen’s homemade limoncello and grinning the cocky, wolfish grin that Bianca had always secretly admired. “Let’s make this interesting,” he said, slinging an arm around Karen and raising his glass in a mock salute. “We do this right, all or nothing. The three events: college games, Super Bowl, tennis tournament. A Parley ... Winner takes all.” He had been ogling Carmen all night and no doubt Bianca’s wife would be putting extra work inside Frank’s fantasies.
Bianca arched an eyebrow, already game. “And what, exactly, does ‘all’ mean, Frank?”
Frank leaned in, eyes flashing, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Losers are at the mercy of the winners, no questions asked, for an entire month.” He let the words hang, relishing the effect. Carmen sputtered into her wine. Karen’s nostrils flared like she’d caught a whiff of victory.
Karen, never one for subtlety, burst out: “So, like, housecleaning? Yard work? Babysitting?”
Frank shook his head. “Anything we ask. Losers do ANYTHING the winners ask SEXUAL or anything else.” His gaze lingered on Bianca a touch longer than necessary, the corners of his mouth curling in a challenge.
Bianca swirled her drink, thinking it over. “What if it’s a split? That’s two games to one.”
“Then the parlay’s off. All three must go to the same side. Otherwise, we shake hands and call it a wash.” He was negotiating like a true Midwesterner, but the undercurrent was unmistakable: Frank wanted to win. He wanted to win Carmen. He knew proposing a Parlay would make it so Bianca would say yes. Frank knew that Bianca spoke for both of them, she was definitely the “man” in the relationship, Bianca definitely considered herself one, she always behaved like she was as tough as any man. However, Parlays are such long shots, Bianca was not really scared because in her head the odds of all three happening are next to zilch, especially when put up against the greatness of Mahomes, and their nephew was going stomp all over Pitt.
Carmen, who had been quiet, piped up. “Sounds a little risky for you, no? I mean, we did beat you last year. Twice.”
Karen’s laugh was sharp, but not unkind. “That was a fluke, darling. This is our year. I feel it in my bones.” Bianca looked at Karen; as she always thought she was a smoke show and wanted to have her fun with Karen for some time. Karen was gorgeous, the avatar of tan, blonde, and knockout bod. She could be in a magazine, and no one would be surprised. Carmen did too but as a lover not like her Domina. Carmen was by all rights the hottest, however, she was, she had a body that defied physics it seemed and she got the attention of every guy she walked into the room with. The fact that Bianca was the one that had nabbed her just showed how hyper-successful Bianca was. Her short pixie haircut, and iron will were a thing to behold. Carmen knew underneath the pantsuits and power clothing, Bianca was a gorgeous woman in her own right. Bianca started getting fantasies of turning Karen into her plaything as well, possessing two things Frank wanted.
Karen noticed her look and as if to say “I am not your play toy” countered, “Nuh uh sweetie, if we do this we do it for keeps, a YEAR. Backed up the deed to our houses. If the loser squelches, the winner gets the others house. I want guarantees. If you guys are going to bet my ass. I am not going to leave empty-handed.”
“Honey, that is our house!” Frank tried to interject feeling this had gone far enough. Karen sounding pissed off abruptly responded, “Should have thought of that before you bet me without asking Hun, and you two bitches need to be taught your place!” She shot back and looked at Bianca and Carmen like they were meat as well.
“I ... I do not even know how that would work.” Frank said flabbergasted. He looked like he realized his drinking might have written a check that neither wanted to cash. Karen shot back, “Vinny”
“Vinny De Luca, you cannot be serious?” Frank uttered.
“Yes, that Vinny, the one that lives in Valley Forge, he can enforce things that are a little in the “gray” area”. Vinny was the head of a bookkeeper operation friend they had before gambling became legalized. Now he dealt in mostly, vice and other operations that were less on the legal side.
“Honey are you sure you want to involve... them.” Frank whispered and shouted to Karen.
Karen looked dead serious, “Honey, I have faith in our son. He might not be mine by birth, baby, I might be your 27-year-old trophy wife, but dammit if I want these two bitches under my heel” she said in a tone of terse finality.
Frank looked at the women, especially at Carmen...
“All right ... besides I seriously doubt all three are going to happen.” He said rationalizing the preposterous bet.
The bet was set, and Frank, ever the stickler for ceremony, insisted they write it down and sign it. He produced a cocktail napkin, and everyone scribbled their names, the ink bleeding into the condensation. Bianca snapped a photo for evidence. There was no turning back now. Karen immediately made a call to Vinny. The enforcement mechanisms were arranged within a hour of the parley being made.
1st Leg of the Parlay: The College Game
The college game was a microcosm of everything the rivalry had become, tense, ugly, brilliant, and oddly intimate. For weeks the town’s bars buzzed with predictions, most of them wrong. Jamie’s Kansas Jayhawks were slight favorites, but Pitt’s defense, anchored by Luke at safety, had a reputation for making even Heisman hopefuls look like JV pretenders. From the first snap, it was clear that neither team would give an inch.
Jamie played the game of his life. He was a revelation out of the backfield, slashing through the linebackers, catching screen passes, even throwing a trick-play option pass for a two-point conversion. ESPN’s sideline reporter called him “the heart of the Jayhawks tonight.” At home, Bianca and Carmen shrieked and cussed and threatened to break up with the TV every time Jamie was dog piled or shoved out of bounds. Carmen wore her college hoodie and gripped Bianca’s hand, so tightly her knuckles went white, but neither could tear their eyes from the screen. Every time Jamie took a hit, Carmen flinched. Every time he got up, Bianca grinned like a prize fighter.
Luke Mitchell, by contrast, was quiet rage and calculation. He stalked the field, reading Jamie’s every move, anticipating every cut. The two former high school rivals didn’t exchange a single word when they lined up, but the cameras caught the tension: how Jamie would look away, jaw flexing, and how Luke would never blink. By halftime, Pitt was down ten points, and the Kansas section of the bar was in full throat. Bianca was already imagining the post-game gloating, mentally composing her victory texts to Frank. The teasing to Karen of the outfit she will have to wear.
But football games, like wars and marriages, are won in the little moments nobody sees coming. In the fourth quarter, with ninety seconds left and Kansas clinging to a four-point lead and Pitt needing a stop desperately, Jamie lined up for a swing pass to ice the game. The pass was woefully off the mark, he reached with all his might but the ball just missed fingertips and out of nowhere, Luke read the play, broke for the sideline, and snatched the ball clean, streaking fifty-seven yards down the boundary for the go-ahead touchdown. Jamie chased, but it was hopeless. At the goal line, Luke dropped the ball and stared directly into the camera, jaw set, eyes wild. The stadium detonated.
Kansas got the ball back with forty-five seconds left, desperate. Jamie, to his credit, shook off the pick and ripped a thirty-yard return on the ensuing kick, giving the Jayhawks one last gasp. Three plays later, with seventeen seconds left, they were inside the Pitt red zone. The entire bar fell silent. Carmen chewed her lip bloody. Bianca crossed herself, even though she hadn’t set foot in a church in years.
On second and five, the ball went to Jamie on an inside zone. He danced past one tackle, then another, and before anyone knew it Jamie surged toward the end zone already at the five when, from behind, Luke crashed in. The hit was surgical, a perfect jab at the ball. Jamie went spinning, the ball popped loose, and Pitt recovered. The game was over.
For a moment, neither Bianca nor Carmen said anything. Then Bianca howled, pounding the bar top so hard an empty glass toppled and shattered. Carmen just shook her head, still watching the slow-motion replay of Jamie’s fumble, her face a storm of pride and heartbreak.
Frank, meanwhile, was insufferable. He texted instantly “Told you so! Also: that was a championship-level play by Luke. No hard feelings?” and then sent a photo of Karen doing a touchdown dance in a full Pitt gear, Karen beside her with a bottle of chilled Prosecco. The group chat exploded, memes and trash talk flying until the early morning. “Don’t worry we can let you serve Luke when he comes home for Christmas. I am sure he would like to meet the help” Carmen fumed, and Bianca got serious.