The Gold (Nuno's Story)

 

Nuno Gallego wore his standard uniform of superiority: a crisp, fitted black polo shirt that strained slightly over the meticulously sculpted peaks of his triceps and pectorals, and deep blue denim jeans that fit his powerful, soccer-honed thighs like a second skin. At six-foot-three, Nuno was one of the strongest men in the entire Olympo Campus, the gilded captain of the men’s premier soccer team, a physical specimen so flawless the freshmen whispered his nickname, “The Hercules,” with genuine awe.

He looked into the mirror of the men’s team locker room—a private space, thankfully, that only smelled faintly of sweat and liniment, not the metallic stink of blood and defeat. He ran a hand through his shock of sun-kissed blonde hair, adjusting the calculated messiness, his blue eyes assessing the handsome, chiseled face that society and the Olympo marketing team had deemed perfect. He had the perfect body, the perfect status, and the most envied girlfriend on campus.

But beneath the beltline, everything was wrong. He cupped his hands, gingerly, protectively, feeling the deep, throbbing ache of his precious balls. It was a pain that didn't just hurt; it wounded his soul.

It was more than humiliation. He had just finished the mandated inter-squad spar with the Olympo women’s soccer team. The administration, pushed by the progressive femininomenon movement that had swept through the international athletic circuit, had mandated competitive inter-gender practice sessions. The revolution, as the women were calling it, was here, but deep down, Nuno knew the men weren't ready—not for the challenge, and certainly not for the accompanying arrogance.

That match was a catastrophe, a total, unmitigated disgrace. The female team, led by Clara, his own girlfriend, had systematically dismantled his men’s squad, defeating them with an embarrassing 3-0 scoreline. It wasn't the goals that mattered, though; it was the final, defining strike.

In the 88th minute, with his team pressing desperately to save some shred of dignity, Nuno had gone in hard for a challenge against Clara. It was a captain-to-captain move, a last-ditch attempt to show her who held the physical advantage. Clara had seen him coming, a glacier of muscle and momentum. Instead of folding, she had shifted, tucked, and unleashed a low, blindingly fast kick that bypassed the ball entirely, connecting with a brutal, sickening crunch right into his testicles. The impact was so severe, so calculated, so perfect in its placement, that he immediately seized up, unable to breathe, his legs collapsing underneath him. He had to be substituted, carried off the pitch like a wounded lamb, the air ripped from his lungs.

He swore to every god he didn’t cry, but the tears had come instantly, involuntary spasms of animal agony when the ball hit his jewels so hard it felt like his spine was telescoping into his diaphragm. He’d tried to tell the athletic trainer it was just a usual soccer injury, a momentary knock, but no—this was different. This was targeted. This was a woman—his woman—who had done this to him, and to make the degradation absolute, the "Gold" scholarship committee had been watching that match. He was on the verge of losing the most prestigious award in Olympo history to the woman whose name he usually heard moaning beneath him.

His balls felt ruined—swollen to nearly twice their normal size, hot and heavy like two overripe plums packed into a sack that was now two sizes too small. The deep, sick throb was relentless, a pulsing ache that climbed into his gut and made his stomach churn with nausea. The skin was hypersensitive; even the fabric of his black boxer briefs brushing against the bruise felt like sandpaper dragged across raw flesh. When he shifted his weight, the left testicle especially screamed—a sharp, electric stab that forced a hiss through his clenched teeth and made his vision gray out for a second. He could feel the exact spot where Clara’s kick had crushed them against his pelvic bone, a tender, egg-shaped knot of pure, unadulterated agony that hadn’t let up once in the last hour.

He was shaky, clammy, consumed by the kind of pain that makes a man afraid to stand upright in case he throws up or passes out on the pristine tiled floor. His thighs trembled involuntarily every few minutes, aftershocks from the original impact that had instantly short-circuited his nervous system. He kept instinctively cupping himself, but even the lightest touch brought forth a renewed spike of pain, making him jerk his hand away like he’d been burned by liquid nitrogen. He was confined to a narrow, bow-legged stance, unable to assume the casual, powerful posture that defined the Alpha of Olympo.

Mentally, he was in free-fall, the image of his perfect life cracking like cheap marble.

He was not just furious; he was enraged, a silent, white-hot fire against Clara, against her entire damn team, at the referee for not giving a dangerous-play card for assault, and most humiliatingly, at himself for freezing instead of jumping aside.

But the vast majority of that rage was directed at Clara. His Clara. The girl who used to look at him with adoration, the girl whose body was his to command in their shared apartment, the girl who wore his spare, oversized training top around the apartment as a badge of ownership. And she had done this. In front of everyone. She had systematically taken his team apart, and then, in the most primal violation, she had taken his manhood apart with one vicious, perfectly placed strike between his legs while he stood there like a defenseless statue.

Humiliation burned hotter than the physical pain in his crotch. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the slow-motion replay: the ball rocketing off her foot, his own hopeless, clumsy attempt to twist away, the wet, meaty impact, the way his knees had buckled and he’d dropped like a sack of rocks while the girls’ bench erupted in a chorus of brutal, triumphant laughter and cheers. He could still hear the stadium roar—half shock, half delight at seeing the great Hercules felled.

As the team had gathered in the locker room, he’d been aware of the universal, shared male pain that radiated from his teammates. They hadn't rushed to him immediately on the field; they’d just stared, their hands instinctively flying down to shield their own vulnerable jewels—a silent, ancient acknowledgment of vicarious castration. Later, in the privacy of the locker room, the solidarity was quiet, anxious, and deeply resentful.

“She’s a psycho, Nuno,” Marco, his vice-captain, had muttered, voice low and laced with an uncomfortable reverence for Clara’s skill and savagery. “That wasn’t a tackle. That was a hit job. She was aiming to take you out.”

Another teammate, Alex, had simply gripped Nuno’s shoulder, a gesture that conveyed pure, unadulterated fear. “She beat us, man. But you? She broke you. And she loved it.”

He knew tomorrow the clip would be everywhere. Already, the comments were probably flying across the Olympo social channels: “Sexy female captain destroys sexist boyfriend’s balls—watch him cry on the pitch.” He’d be a meme soon, a viral symbol of everything the femininomenon movement claimed they were fighting against: fragile, easily-broken male power. The scholarship, "The Gold," which represented the culmination of years of physical sacrifice and projected excellence, was slipping through his numb, sweaty fingers. The thought of Clara standing on that stage, accepting the prize that should have been his, simply because she knew how to find the single most vulnerable, unarmored spot on a man’s body, made him want to smash every mirror in the room.

The corridor outside the men’s locker room was long, polished, and brightly lit, turning his distress into a theatrical performance. Nuno walked like a man who was trying to carry a bowling ball between his thighs without letting it touch anything, an agonizing, slow-motion ballet of self-preservation.

His steps were tiny, stiff, bow-legged shuffles, knees bent outward, feet sliding more than lifting. Every time his thighs brushed even slightly together, he winced hard, his lips peeling back from his teeth to reveal a silent snarl of pain. His hands hovered in front of his crotch like he was afraid his guts might spill out if he didn’t guard that central, ruined junction. Sweat beaded on his forehead even though the air was cool, and his face was drawn and pale. He looked drunk, except drunk people usually moved with more confidence and faster.

Gavi, his usually loud, jovial teammate, caught up to him, still in his damp training kit. Gavi had been there for the whole game, and his expression was a mix of pity and absolute terror.

“Ey, capitán… you alright, mate?” Gavi asked, his voice overly cautious, like he was addressing a bomb. “You’re walking like you shat yourself.”

Nuno didn’t stop his agonizing shuffle, just grunted a wordless sound through his nose. His voice, when it came out, was tight and higher than usual, strained by the fear of movement.

“She fucking destroyed them, Gavi,” Nuno rasped. “Swear to God they’re the size of oranges. I can feel the ache vibrating in my throat.”

Gavi glanced down, eyes widening a little at the bulge Nuno was shielding, then quickly looked away, the shared masculine empathy dissolving into embarrassment and discomfort. This was not a wound of glory.

“Shit… did you get more ice? You need to call the doctor, man, seriously.”

“I’ve had ice on them for twenty minutes. It doesn’t help. Every step feels like someone’s kicking me again. Like a goddamn repeat performance.” Nuno’s mind was already spinning, calculating how long he’d be sidelined, how many training sessions he’d miss, the disadvantage stacking up against Clara in the scholarship race. “She did this on purpose. That bitch knew exactly what she was doing. No way that was an accident.”

Gavi hesitated, uncomfortable with the accusation, but unwilling to defend Clara after witnessing the brutality. “Look, she’s competitive, Nuno. We all know that. But she’s your girl, right? Maybe… maybe she didn’t realize how hard she got you.”

Nuno stopped, freezing his ridiculous shuffle. The movement cost him a sharp, blinding spike of pain. He lifted his head slowly, fixing Gavi with a venomous glare that made Gavi instinctively step back.

“She knew,” Nuno hissed. “She looked right at me, Gavi. She had that look she gets—that psycho grin she uses when she’s about to dismantle someone’s confidence. She didn’t just foul me. She sent a message. And that message was: I’m taking your place, and you can’t do shit to stop me.”

They reached the glass doors of the brightly lit, modern cafeteria. Inside, Clara and Ana, one of her fiercest defenders, were already at a corner table, their legs stretched out in a posture of relaxed, victorious ease. They were laughing over their phones, still in their match kits, and Clara’s hair was in a messy, sexy victory bun. Her cheeks were flushed, her whole being radiating an infuriating, smug satisfaction.

The moment Nuno pushed the door open, executing his delicate, painful entrance, Clara spotted him. Her bright, beautiful smile turned instantly predatory, sharp-toothed and devoid of warmth.

“Aww, look who finally walked in!” Clara’s voice cut through the background chatter of the room, loud enough for half the athletes and trainers present to turn their heads. Her eyes tracked his agonizingly slow movement. “How’re my favorite balls doing, babe? Still sore from the personal lesson?”

Ana snorted a laugh so hard she choked on her water bottle, covering her mouth with her sleeve and shaking her head, tears streaming from her eyes.

Nuno froze in the doorway, pinned in the spotlight. His face went from pale to a bright, burning crimson in less than two seconds, his ears hot with mortification. He stood there, bow-legged and incapacitated, while a couple of youth-team kids at another table started giggling, and an older male coach across the room shook his head in pity.

I am the Captain. I am Hercules. I am not this paralyzed, broken fool, he thought, even as the pain in his groin contradicted every syllable.

“Clara, shut up,” Nuno managed, the sound a thin, choked hiss that completely lacked his usual commanding authority.

Clara leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, her gaze moving slowly over his rigid, protected posture. Her eyes sparkled with pure, unapologetic villainous joy.

“What? I’m just asking if they still hurt, babe,” she purred, drawing out the last word with patronizing sweetness. “You were making the cutest little sounds out there on the pitch. Did you know a lot of the girls were timing how long it took you to stop wriggling? We had a betting pool going. Ana won.”

Ana lifted her hands in a triumphant shrug. “Seven minutes of silent suffering. You’re tougher than I thought, Nuno. Barely.”

Gavi, standing awkwardly behind Nuno, muttered, “I’ll be… I’ll be over there, Cap. Need a Gatorade.” He immediately backed away, refusing to be collateral damage in this savage, public execution.

Nuno forced himself to shuffle the rest of the way to the table like an ancient man with severe arthritis, lowering himself into the metal chair inch by agonizing inch, his core rigid with tension. He finally sat with his legs splayed wide, his hands settling protectively, possessively, over his lap.

“This is not a joke, Clara,” Nuno grated out, his voice low and dangerous, though the forced softness meant to conceal his pain only made him sound weak. “You could have done permanent damage. That was a red card offense. You aimed.”

Clara gave a slow, deliberate shrug, sipping her water. “Did I aim? Of course, I aimed. You were standing there, all six-foot-three of you, believing your captain’s armband and your dick automatically gave you the right to body-check me out of the play. It was a physics problem, Nuno. And I solved it.” She paused, letting the silence hang. “The weakness in the male structure is always the same. So, I took the shortcut. Consider it a precision warning shot.”

Nuno’s jaw worked soundlessly. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to flip the table, but he was physically held hostage by the throbbing, agonizing mass in his jeans. He could barely focus, let alone launch an effective counterattack.

“A warning shot for what, exactly?” he managed, his control beginning to fray. “Because you’re losing your mind over this scholarship? You’re acting like an unhinged psycho, Clara. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Clara threw her head back and laughed, a loud, clear sound that drew even more attention. She was playing to the gallery, making sure everyone knew the Alpha Captain was defeated and powerless.

“Embarrassing myself? Honey, I just captained a team that publicly humiliated the supposed best team on campus, and I did it without crying or needing a medic for a bruised ego,” Clara countered, her voice dropping to a deceptively sweet whisper, her eyes hard. “You’re the one currently sitting like a terrified old queen on a toilet seat. And the scholarship? Please. You know why you’re so angry, Nuno? Because you expected to win it automatically. You think your status makes you a lock. The truth is, you’re sloppy, predictable, and your conditioning is all show. I’m better. And you’ve spent the last six months mocking the ‘femininomenon’ movement as just a bunch of angry women yelling about nothing. That kick, Nuno, was the sound of the nothing you mocked kicking back.”

Ana smiled, a genuine, satisfied smile this time. “It’s called accountability, Captain. It’s painful when it’s delivered locally.”

Clara reached across the table, her hand resting on Nuno’s forearm, the gesture sickeningly intimate given the context. “Poor baby. Want me to kiss them better later? Or are you afraid I’ll get a taste for blood?”

Nuno dropped his forehead onto the sticky cafeteria table with a resounding thud. The humiliation was total. He was defeated, publicly unmanned, and physically broken, all by the woman who was supposed to be his devoted partner. His rage reached a boiling point, congealing into a single, toxic thought: She will pay for this. I will find a way to take back my power. I will destroy her confidence the way she just destroyed my body.

He lifted his head, eyes cold, and stared at Clara, who was now scrolling through her phone, basking in the victory. The path to defeat her professionally was difficult, if not impossible now. The path to defeating her physically was unthinkable. But there was another path—a way to reclaim his lost dominance immediately, through an easier, more pliable target. He needed adoration, not conflict. He needed to prove he was still The Hercules to someone who wouldn’t challenge him, but worship him.

In his mind, an image solidified: Lyla. The Cheer Captain. All bright smiles, easy validation, and eager-to-please energy. Lyla, who looked at Nuno with genuine, uncomplicated awe..

 

Part 2

The clang of the glass cafeteria door had barely faded when Gavi, looking like a nervous, oversized Labrador, returned to the table. He carried two bottles of electrolyte drink—one for himself, one for his broken captain.

Nuno was still sitting rigid, legs wide apart, hunched over the metal tabletop, breathing shallowly through his nose. His hands were clasped over his crotch not just for protection, but because the cold, hard reality of his ruined status had just settled over him like a shroud.

Gavi slid into the chair opposite, avoiding eye contact with Clara, who was now expertly rolling tape around her own muscular ankle, her focus absolute. He held out the bottle to Nuno.

“Here, Cap. This is the good stuff. Maybe it’ll dull the… the sensitivity,” Gavi muttered, his voice barely audible. He looked around the cafeteria again; the curiosity was settling back into the general hubbub of post-training hunger, but the memory of the scene—the great Hercules felled by a girl—was already cemented in Olympo lore.

Nuno didn’t acknowledge the bottle. He just stared at the table, his eyes flicking up to Clara’s face every few seconds, a raw, naked hatred burning there.

Clara finished taping her ankle and finally looked up, catching Nuno's glare. She picked up the thread of the conversation with the chilling precision of a surgeon.

“He thinks I’m a ‘psycho,’ Gavi. He thinks I was ‘unhinged,’” Clara said, leaning back and resting her bare feet, still smudged with field dirt, on the opposite chair. She made no move to get changed, revelling in the sweat and the victory. “He doesn’t understand that he just experienced an act of pure, strategic merit.”

Gavi looked confused, twisting the cap off his drink. “Merit? You almost sent him to the hospital, Clara.”

Ana, who had been quietly scrolling through her phone, snapped it shut and chimed in, her voice calm and pedagogical, like she was leading a seminar on evolutionary biology.

“Let’s discuss the neutral view, Gavi. Tell me, honestly, what is the rational, biological reason to protect the testicles at all costs?” Ana challenged, folding her arms. “They are a part of the human body, yes, like any other, but they are not a vital organ. The vast majority of human beings, female, live perfectly fine lives without them. If the femininomenon movement rose up overnight and collectively castrated ninety percent of all men—which, it’s fun, Nuno—there would still be more than enough viable genetic material left for the human species to continue. So why the cult of protection?”

Gavi shifted uncomfortably, taking a large gulp of his energy drink. Nuno was still silent, rigid, absorbing the philosophical attack like an electrified sponge.

“Because they hurt, Ana. A lot,” Gavi offered weakly. “It’s primal. It’s a paralyzing pain. Everyone knows that.”

Clara gave a sharp, triumphant laugh that grated on Nuno’s nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Precisely. It’s primal. It’s the single most pathetic weakness in the male biological armor,” Clara declared. “No, Gavi, the extreme protection of the testes is something men have instituted for one simple, selfish reason: to compensate for their own humiliating biological weakness. It is a pathetic, culturally imposed taboo designed to hide their central vulnerability.”

She gestured dramatically, sweeping her hand across the table. “Look around, boys. Is anyone writing rules to protect the vagina or the ovaries in every contact sport? No. It’s not all organs involved in human reproduction that are supposedly off-limits; it’s only the testicles. Why? Because the rest of the reproductive system is internally secured. The male reproductive system is mounted externally, highly exposed, and fragile. It’s an evolutionary blunder that men decided to mask with a thousand years of societal law.”

Ana nodded slowly, confirming the lecture point. “The rules and taboos that protect testicles are only in place to give men an unfair advantage—to hide their natural disadvantage. You might call it ‘unfair’ or ‘dirty’ to use such a humiliating vulnerability against men, but when have men ever played fair? They use their on-average greater height, greater strength, greater cardiovascular capacity, and greater institutional weight to their advantage every single day, without apology. Isn't it about time women decided to play rough with the only tool nature gifted us?”

The argument, cold and rational as it was, hit Nuno harder than the kick itself. It reframed his agony as a political statement, his pain as proof of his structural weakness. He finally lifted his head, his face contorted not just by the residual throbbing, but by a consuming, entitled rage.

“That’s the most twisted, unhinged bullshit I have ever heard,” Nuno spat, his voice strained and tight with effort, managing to keep it slightly above a whisper only through sheer willpower. He was visibly trembling. “Are you actually trying to justify assault in the name of some cracked, pseudo-feminist theory? You almost caused testicular torsion, Clara. You could have rendered me sterile. Do you even understand the implications of that? The long-term physical damage? But sure, let’s call it a ‘precision warning shot.’”

He leaned forward slightly, wincing as his thighs moved, fixing Clara with eyes that were no longer blue and handsome, but cold and predatory.

“You ask why we protect them, Ana? It’s not about ego. It’s because they’re important. They produce the testosterone that drives every male athlete in this building! The T that makes the difference between us and you is generated right there! They are the chemical engine for the entire men’s athletic division! And you talk about them like they’re two useless little appendages we decided to turn into a cultural totem.”

Gavi, finding courage in Nuno's defense of the male condition, chimed in, his voice louder this time. “And it is illegal, Clara! It’s a dangerous-play foul in every league in the world, including the ones you play in. It’s not about gender—it’s about protecting an essential part of the human body, reproductive or not, from unnecessary, disabling injury! We don’t go for the knees after the whistle. We don’t tackle neck-high. These are rules of engagement!”

Clara merely scoffed, crossing her legs on the chair with deliberate, mocking slowness, looking at the two men with undisguised contempt.

“Rules of engagement established by men, for men. You call it ‘essential,’ Nuno. We call it a design flaw. And yes, I understand the implications of rendering you sterile. The implication is that you’d never accidentally pass on those brittle genes that make you cry like a baby over a minor inconvenience. I’d be doing the next generation a favor.”

Clara switched suddenly to a sugary, baby-voice, mockingly sweet, leaning closer until her face was inches from his.

“Aww, my poor baby is so angry right now… look at that little vein pulsing in your forehead. It’s adorable. You look like a sputtering little teapot ready to blow.”

She reached out with two fingers and flicked the muscle twitching furiously in his jaw. The contact was light, but it made Nuno flinch violently, a response he couldn’t control, adding another layer of humiliation.

“Three – zero, Nuno. I still hear the scoreboard in my head,” she purred, her breath hitting his cheek. “And then… pow.”

She mimed the kick with her hand, slow and dramatic, right in front of his crotch, stopping barely an inch from the protected fabric.

“Sent you straight to the bench crying. You never, ever win against me anymore, do you, honey?”

The silence that followed was heavy with Nuno’s silent, desperate struggle for self-control. His face was scarlet, his fists clenched on the table so hard his knuckles were white. He couldn’t look at her, staring instead at the condensation rings from Gavi's water bottle.

He took a sharp, ragged breath and launched into his defense of his status, his voice hoarse but determined.

“This is the top senior scholarship for the academy, right? The Gold,” Nuno began, leaning into his title, trying to channel his former, arrogant confidence. “One spot. Historically, it’s always gone to the men’s team captain because we operate at a demonstrably higher physical level. Full stop.”

He jabbed a finger at the table, trying to bring objective science to the emotional wreckage.

“Men’s matches are faster, more physical, higher intensity. The data is public: average sprint speed, vertical jump, shot power—men are ten to fifteen percent above elite women. That’s not opinion, Clara, that’s physiology,” he insisted, practically pleading with data. “If we’re talking pure sporting merit, the male captain—me—led our team to the national quarter-final, in a league where the competition is fierce, funded, and brutally physical.”

Clara cut him off mid-sentence, her expression perfectly serene. “But we win the whole national tournament, baby. Undefeated. You stopped at the quarter-final, Nuno. We brought home the trophy. So don’t talk to me about ‘intensity’ when your team chokes every time the pressure is actually on.”

Nuno ignored her, forcing himself back on track, trying to appeal to institutional fairness.

“Giving the scholarship to the women’s captain just to look ‘progressive’ is charity, not merit,” he insisted, the word charity spat out like poison. “Separate categories exist for a reason. We don’t put flyweight boxers in the ring with heavyweights and give the belt to whoever ‘tried hardest.’ Same here. Women already have their own scholarships, their own national team funding, their own pro track. Taking the main academy scholarship—one that’s always been for the top men’s prospect—is reverse discrimination.”

Clara’s smile was glacial. “Reverse discrimination? Oh, honey, that’s so cute. You think equality feels like oppression because you’re losing. It’s not discrimination when the person who is actually superior gets the spot, is it? You just don’t like the idea that a woman can be better than you at the one thing you rely on for your entire identity.”

She leaned even closer, lowering her voice to a sensual, venom-sweet whisper so only he could hear the intimate cruelty. She pulled back just enough to cup his burning cheek with a mock tenderness that felt like a slap.

“Tell me, baby… are you mad? Are you humiliated? Go on, say it. I want to hear it.”

Nuno’s jaw was locked, his breath held captive in his chest. He could feel the desperate, toxic energy radiating off him. Say it, you weak little bitch. Say you’re broken. The thought was so loud it roared in his head.

Clara continued, watching his struggle with delighted fascination.

“Good. Because from now on, I’m the winner. I’m the one they’re going to talk about, photograph, sponsor… and you? You’re going to be my perfect, handsome boyfriend standing right there beside me, smiling pretty for the cameras while everyone knows I own you.”

Her thumb stroked his lower lip, a soft, seductive movement that made his body react reflexively despite the agony in his groin. He wanted to push her away, but he was paralyzed.

“You always loved dragging me around like a shiny accessory to your fame, didn’t you?” Clara cooed. “‘Look at my hot girlfriend, captain of the girls’ team.’ You were so secure knowing I was always a level below you, always the supporting character in your cinematic life. Well, tables turned, captain. Now it’s my spotlight, and you get to be the hot hunk on my arm. How’s that feel?”

She sat back, grinning wide, and tapped the table right in front of his crotch—a light, teasing click of her fingernail. He still flinched hard, the internal damage screaming a warning.

“I think I ruined your little masculinity today, didn’t I? One kick and the whole world saw the big tough Nuno drop like a sack. And the best part? You’re still getting hard under the table thinking about it. I can tell. Your eyes always glaze over when you’re fighting the inevitable.”

Nuno’s jaw was so tight it trembled. The angry twitch in his cheek jumped again, a muscle spasm he couldn’t suppress. He couldn’t handle the combination of public shame and her intimate, predatory knowledge of his body.

Clara clapped her hands together, cooing, delighted. “There it is! That angry little muscle. God, you’re so cute when you’re mad. Come on, baby, be mad some more. Show me. Let me see those pretty eyes burn for me.” She blew him a kiss, a devastating gesture of dismissal and dominance. “This is just the beginning, handsome. Better get used to second place… and to walking behind your new champion.”

That was the last straw. The verbal battery was complete. Nuno's toxic entitlement couldn't survive being reduced to an "accessory" and a "hunk" by the very woman he was meant to own. He could not fight her with words or reason; her logic was too brutal, and her confidence too impenetrable.

He shoved the chair back, ignoring the blinding spike of pain that shot through his groin. He had to escape, to regain control, to find validation immediately.

“Shut up, Clara. Just shut up,” he snarled, finally finding the force to match his rage. “I need to go.”

He pushed away from the table, his steps still a ridiculous, bow-legged shamble, a humiliating, walking advertisement for his defeat. He didn’t look back at Clara’s triumphant face, stumbling through the cafeteria doors, the sound of their glass frame rattling as he slammed it shut behind him.

He needed space. He needed silence. In a college built for noise and competition, there was only one place that was truly empty, truly neutral: the main library. It was the least-visited building in Olympo, the intellectual antithesis to the physical glory of the stadium.

He dragged his ruined body toward the quiet, marble halls of the library, driven by one single, desperate thought. Lyla. The Cheer Captain. Lyla, who craved his attention. Lyla, who would validate his dominance without question. He needed her worship to remind himself that he was still the Captain, still The Hercules, even if only in the privacy of her desperate admiration.

 

Part 3:

The Olympo College library was the largest, most gilded building on campus, yet it was the emptiest. Built with quiet money and marble ambition, it was a mausoleum of thought, a place where the students with the lowest social status—the fringe athletes, the academics, the genuinely studious—came to hide. For Nuno Gallego, the Captain of Captains, the Hercules of Olympo, entering this sterile, silent haven felt like a public confession of his defeat. He was running from the roar of the arena and the judgment in the cafeteria, seeking sanctuary in a place that didn't worship physical prowess.

He pushed open the heavy oak doors, the sound muffling instantly into the carpeted silence. His bow-legged walk, still agonizingly slow, looked even more ridiculous against the rows of silent, towering bookshelves. He scanned the aisles, the single name echoing in his head like a desperate mantra: Lyla. Lyla. Lyla.

He found her huddled in a carrel near the back, under the low hum of fluorescent lights, seemingly trying to become invisible among the texts. Lyla, the cheer captain, was petite, almost fragile, and fiercely quiet—a stark contrast to Clara’s Amazonian strength and blinding confidence. She was focused on an open textbook, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her small, athletic frame swallowed by an oversized Olympo hoodie and shorts. She was the one person in Olympo who still looked at Nuno with pure, uncomplicated adoration. She was the antidote to Clara’s poison.

He didn’t pause. He didn't speak. He needed to reassert his reality, not ask for permission. His heart hammered in his chest, fueled by a toxic cocktail of rage, pain, and desperate need for external validation.

The second Lyla looked up, startled by the shadow falling over her study materials, Nuno was on her.

He grabbed her waist hard, his powerful hands digging into the soft flesh above her shorts, and slammed her back against the nearest bookshelf. The abrupt impact sent a tremor through the quiet aisle, and a couple of heavy, unread reference books rattled ominously. Before she could even register the shift from quiet solitude to violent aggression, Nuno crushed his mouth to hers like he was trying to punish her lips. It wasn’t a kiss of passion; it was a desperate, ugly takeover.

His lips were rough and demanding, biting against hers, tasting faintly of the stale electrolyte drink and the raw, desperate hunger in his gut. One hand fisted immediately in her ponytail, yanking her head back, exposing the fragile column of her neck. He bit down hard, marking her with rough, angry sucks, his hot breath a growl against her skin. His other hand shoved under her oversized hoodie, bypassing her stomach and ruthlessly palming her breast as if he owned the very structure of her body.

Lyla gasped, the sound thin and sharp in the silence. Her phone clattered to the floor, forgotten, the small screen flashing a notification.

Nuno ground his hips into her, the residual blood flow from Clara’s mocking earlier attack and his current, desperate state having gifted him a hard, painful erection straining against his denim. He needed to feel something that wasn’t humiliation, something that wasn’t Clara’s shadow.

“Tell me I’m the fucking king, Lyla. Tell me right now,” Nuno growled against her throat, the words raw, the voice cracking with a hideous blend of dominance and pathetic need. He was a starving beast demanding to be fed adoration.

He didn't wait for her response. He spun her violently, bending her over the large, central reading table, ignoring the startled whimper that escaped her lips. He yanked the waistband of her shorts down just enough to expose the pale curve of her ass, and slapped her hard, once, twice, watching the skin bloom red under the fluorescent light. It was a vicious, calculated act of dominance, meant to affirm his power in the only way he knew how—through pain and submission.

He pressed himself tightly against her from behind, the heavy, muscular weight of his body meant to crush her defiance, his voice a frantic plea that betrayed the Alpha façade.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me I still ruin girls. I need to hear it.”

Lyla braced her hands flat on the polished wooden table, breathing fast and unevenly from the shock and the rough handling. Her initial shock, however, quickly transitioned to a quiet, cold resistance that was utterly unexpected.

Lyla stiffened under his grip, not from pleasure, but from rejection. She pulled her shorts back up with a surprisingly firm tug, pushing his hands away from her waist. She turned in his grip, facing him, her small frame surprisingly unyielding. Her large, usually shy eyes were suddenly clear, serious, and completely sober.

“Stop. Nuno, stop,” she said, her voice quiet, but firm and absolute.

He froze, his hand still raised, ready for a third, dominating slap. Her simple, unyielding refusal hit him with the force of a cold shower.

“What the fuck, Lyla?” he snarled, the sexual momentum killed instantly.

“I’m done. I’m not doing this anymore,” Lyla whispered, stepping away from the table, away from his heat and his need. “I’m not your revenge fuck every time Clara puts you in your place. That’s all this is. She humiliates you on the field, so you come here to conquer the easiest girl you can find to re-inflate your ego. I want to do the right thing, Nuno. If you’re with her, be with her. If you’re not, then choose. But I am not the side chick you use to feel like a man again.”

Nuno’s chest was heaving, his breath ragged and loud in the library’s suffocating silence. His face twisted into a mask of anger, panic, and desperation. The humiliation of the field, the pain in his groin, and the rejection by the one person he needed to validate his reality all crashed down on him.

His voice dropped, the anger dissolving into a pathetic, raw pleading.

“Lyla, please,” he choked out, his eyes wide and wet. The Alpha persona vanished completely, replaced by a wounded, frightened child. “I’m… I’m injured, okay? She kicked me so fucking hard today, I need to know everything still works. I need to know I still work. Just, let me inside you, let me feel you worship me for five minutes. I’m begging you. I need this. I need you to prove I’m still the Captain.”

He dropped heavily to his knees in front of her, ignoring the scream of pain from his already ruined groin. He clamped his hands desperately onto her thighs, looking up at her with wet, furious eyes that were filled with genuine, pathetic torment. He was utterly broken, his knees bent in submission not for sex, but for emotional survival.

“Please, baby. Just be a good girl, don’t leave me. Please… I don’t have anything else,” he whispered, the Captain of Olympo reduced to a whimpering mess kneeling before the cheer captain. “Clara is taking The Gold, she won the match, she made me cry in front of everyone, and if you leave me, Lyla, I have nothing. Nothing! Tell me I’m still daddy. Tell me I’m still the strongest. Just once, I need to hear you say it. I’ll make things right. I swear to God, I’ll leave her. Just tell me I’m the best, Lyla. Please.”

The silence that followed Nuno’s broken, desperate monologue was thick and absolute, broken only by his ragged, shuddering breaths. Lyla looked down at him, her expression a mix of pity and absolute finality. She took another, decisive step back, her small frame standing tall against his desperate pleas.

And then a cold, amused voice sliced through the silence from the shadows behind them. The sound was Clara’s, but filtered through a mic, amplified just enough to carry that lethal, mocking quality.

Clara clapped slowly, deliberately, the sound flat and echoing in the marble hall.

“So this is what losers do when they lose.”

The voice was like a bucket of ice water dumped over Nuno’s head. He scrambled to his feet so fast that his already tender body couldn’t handle the motion. His shoulder slammed violently into the heavy bookshelf, sending a stack of volumes raining down around him with dull, pathetic thuds. Thump. Thud. Thump.

His hands flew to the front of his jeans—too late. The erection, fueled by his desperate plea for dominance, was obvious, straining against the denim like a betrayal he couldn’t hide. His face drained of color, then flooded crimson with immediate, absolute shame.

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out but a cracked, animal sound—half-whimper, half-sob. His eyes darted from Clara to the doorway behind her and widened in pure, frozen horror.

Because it wasn’t just Clara.

The entire women’s team, maybe a dozen girls, were crowded in the aisle, spilling into the library hall. They were still in their practice kits—hoodies, slides, shorts—a sea of victorious femininity. Every single girl had their phone held high, recording, the screens acting as cruel, glowing spotlights aimed directly at Nuno.

Someone whistled low.

“Caught in 4K, bro!” a voice yelled from the back.

“Cheater and still can’t get soft, what a loser!” another girl shrieked with delighted disbelief.

“Bro’s dick is loyal to humiliation, damn!”

Lyla backed away, hands up, shaking her head. “I told him to stop—I didn’t know—”

Clara didn’t even glance at her. She stepped forward slowly, moving past the silent, filming crew, her arms crossed, her head tilted like she was studying something truly disgusting on the floor—a cockroach, a piece of trash. The overhead fluorescents caught the cold, absolute victory in her eyes. She was mesmerizing, terrifying, and utterly in control.

“Look at you, Nuno,” Clara said, her voice soft, almost tender, contrasting sharply with the brutality of her words. “On your knees begging the cheerleader to fix what I broke. And still hard. Pathetic.”

Nuno’s whole body was shaking now, the adrenaline of panic overriding the physical agony of his groin. He raised both palms like he could ward her off, trying to plead, his voice pitching high and broken.

“Clara, baby, wait— it’s not— I wasn’t—”

Clara cut him off, her voice sweet as poison, absolute in its command.

“Shh. You’re still hard, Nuno. After everything today. After I destroyed you on the pitch, and then in the cafeteria. You’re hard right now, right here, in front of my entire team while you cheat on me and beg another girl to call you ‘daddy.’ It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic.”

She took another slow, deliberate step forward.

Nuno instinctively took one back, his calves bumping the fallen table. His trapped erection throbbed painfully against the seam of his jeans, a raw, impossible betrayal. Sweat immediately beaded on his top lip. His breath came in short, shallow, panicked bursts. He was cornered, exposed, and defenseless.

“He’s gonna cry, watch!” a girl in the back shouted, zooming in with her phone.

“Film it vertical, this is going platinum on TikTok!”

Clara stopped a meter away, tilting her head, her eyes narrowed in clinical evaluation.

“You wanted to feel like a man again, right? You wanted someone to call you daddy?” she purred, her voice dripping with cruel, seductive promise. “You wanted to be adored? Fine. I’ll give you a moment you’ll never forget.”

She moved with the lightning-fast precision of an elite striker, no wind-up, no warning—just a brutal, precise knee straight up between his legs.

The impact was sickening: her kneecap smashed into his already swollen, brutally bruised testicles with the full, athletic weight of her thigh behind it. Because he was still erect, everything was tighter, more exposed, more vulnerable; the strike landed perfectly on both testicles and the root of his cock at once, a concentrated explosion of white-hot agony.

Nuno’s reaction was instant, catastrophic, and total.

A high, strangled scream ripped out of him—a sound that was half-squeal, half-gasp, an inhuman noise of pure physiological torment. His knees buckled immediately, but he didn’t fall yet; the pain was so bright and total that his body locked rigid for a split second, every muscle seizing. His hands clawed at his crotch, fingers scrabbling uselessly over the denim as if he could somehow tear the agony out of his body. His face went purple-red, eyes bulging so wide the whites showed all around, his handsome features utterly destroyed by the pain.

Then the second, black wave hit, the nausea and the total system shutdown, and his legs gave out completely.

He collapsed sideways, crashing into the heavy reading table, knocking it over with a deafening CRASH. Books and Lyla’s scattered papers flew everywhere. He curled instantly into a fetal ball on the carpet, both hands clamped between his thighs, rocking rhythmically, sobbing openly now. The sounds were wet, broken, animal noises that had no relation to speech. His erection was gone, violently and painfully shriveled inside the jeans that suddenly felt two sizes too small. He was nothing but pain and primal instinct.

The girls exploded in triumphant noise.

“OH MY GOD HE’S CRYING! HE’S FUCKING CRYING!”

“Two shots in one day, he’s finished! He’s never walking again!”

“Someone start a GoFundMe for his balls! They’re charcoal!”

Clara stood over him, her chest barely heaving, foot resting lightly, casually, on his hip like a hunter posing with a hard-earned kill.

“Next time you think about cheating, Nuno, and next time you think about calling a woman a side chick to fix your pathetic ego,” Clara said, her voice soft, almost tender, but laced with absolute, terrifying conviction. “Remember this feeling. Remember who owns you. And remember who is going to be standing on that stage taking The Gold. It’s not the one crying on the floor.”

She turned on her heel, the women’s team parting for her like she was royalty, phones still recording every shuddering sob and gasping breath as Nuno lay wrecked on the library floor, destroyed for the second time in six hours—this time with an audience that would make sure the whole world saw the Captain’s collapse.

Lyla, standing frozen a few feet away, finally broke out of her shock. Her eyes darted from Nuno’s convulsing body to Clara’s retreating, triumphant figure. She saw the sheer, unadulterated ruthlessness in Clara’s back and, in that single instant, understood the full, terrifying power of the femininomenon movement. Clara wasn't a hero; she was an executioner, but she was an executioner who had just freed Lyla from a toxic cage.

A single, horrified word escaped Lyla's lips: "Clara..."

But Clara was gone. The girls' jeers faded into the distance.

Nuno lay alone, shivering uncontrollably, trapped in the fetal position.

A few moments later, the silence was shattered again, this time by the heavy, uneven pounding of running feet. Gavi, alerted by a panicked message, burst into the library. He skidded to a stop, his eyes taking in the disastrous scene: the overturned table, the scattered books, and Nuno, the mighty Hercules, curled up on the dirty carpet, making small, wretched, whimpering sounds.

“Dude… Nuno? Are you okay?” Gavi whispered, horrified.

Nuno didn’t look up. He was too deep inside the pain. He managed only a raw, desperate croak.

“Gavi… Gavi, help. Oh God, help me. It hurts. It hurts so bad. She finished me. She finally fucking finished me.”

Gavi dropped to his knees, his face pale, reaching out slowly. He knew better than to touch him.

“What happened? Who did this? Was it Clara again?”

Nuno sobbed, his handsome face crumpled, mucus and tears mixing on his skin. He clawed at Gavi’s shorts, his grip weak and frantic.

“The ER, Gavi. Take me to the ER. I think… I think she burst them. Please. Don’t leave me here. I can’t move. Please, Gavi. I’m begging you. You’re the only one I have left. Tell them it was a ball kick. Tell them… tell them she’s a slut who did this to me. Just take me out of here. Please. Before someone else films it. Please.”

Gavi looked down at his captain—the icon of strength, now a broken, sobbing mess on the library floor, his reputation and his masculinity shredded to oblivion. Gavi knew he couldn't help the scholarship, or the humiliation, but he could save his friend’s physical life. He gently helped Nuno shift, his fingers avoiding the tender, swollen disaster hidden in the jeans. He looped Nuno’s arm over his shoulder, ignoring Lyla’s silent, terrified presence in the corner, and began the slow, agonizing haul toward the emergency exit. The great Hercules was gone. All that remained was a broken man, dragged out of the silence, leaving the overturned table and the echoes of triumphant female laughter behind him.

 

Part 4

One week had crawled by since the library floor disaster. Seven days of whispered memes, public shaming, and agonizing physical therapy had transformed Nuno Gallego. He was no longer the confident Hercules; he was a walking, throbbing wound.

It was 11:47 p.m. The Olympo campus was almost deserted, bathed in the sickly amber glow of floodlights buzzing over the empty, dew-slicked training pitches. The main academic buildings were black silhouettes against the bruised night sky.

Clara walked alone along the narrow service path that ran behind the main gymnasium and the equipment sheds. She always did this after late practice: cool down in the biting cold air, enjoy the silence, savor the feeling that the whole damn world—this world of sweat, ambition, and prize money—finally belonged to her. Tomorrow, the committee would announce the single recipient of the prestigious Gold Scholarship. Everyone knew it was between her and Nuno, but the public humiliation Nuno had suffered, the viral videos of him sobbing in the library, had already made her victory inevitable. She was smiling to herself, replaying the highlights in her head, tasting the win already.

Her earbuds were resting on her shoulders, her hands deep in the pockets of her sweat-damp hoodie. She carried the casual relaxation of a person who knew she had already defeated her greatest obstacle.

She never heard him coming.

Nuno didn’t make a sound. He had been waiting, hiding in the deep, oily shadow of the main equipment shed, blending into the machinery and the darkness. He wore his black polo shirt and tight jeans, the uniform of the captain, but it hung on him differently now. He was leaner, haunted, a shadow of the man he was a week ago.

He still walked with that stiff, careful gait—the broken cowboy shuffle, legs too wide, each step deliberate and guarded—but the absolute, consuming hatred had made him terrifyingly fast. One second the service path was empty, silent, and safe; the next, Nuno exploded from the shadows like a compressed spring of toxic rage.

His huge, iron hand clamped over Clara’s mouth from behind, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks, cutting off any possibility of a scream. His other arm snaked instantly around her waist, locking tight, and lifted her clean off the ground as if she weighed nothing more than a gym bag.

She reacted instantly, but her training was useless against the surprise attack and his sheer mass. Her feet kicked uselessly at the cold air. She clawed frantically at the thick, corded muscle of his forearm, tearing at the fabric of his polo, but he didn’t even flinch. His grip was absolute, terrifying in its desperate strength.

His breath was hot and ragged against her ear, smelling faintly of cheap gum and raw, animal panic.

“Quiet,” Nuno hissed, his voice low, shaking with a violent mixture of physical pain and murderous fury. “You scream and I break something you actually need. You hear me?”

He half-carried, half-dragged her—his own limping body managing a grotesque speed—ten meters across the concrete path toward the small, prefabricated security hut beside the maintenance gate. It was a derelict, forgotten shack, invisible from the main campus. The lock on the flimsy door had been tampered with; he planned this.

He slammed the door shut behind them and kicked it closed, the sound a heavy, hollow thud that resonated with finality. He threw her inside.

Clara stumbled, catching herself against a cold metal desk. Her mind was racing, already calculating exit strategies, assessing his intent. The room was small, bare, and cheap: one rusty chair, a flickering fluorescent tube overhead casting an intermittent, sickly white light, and shelves piled with old, mold-edged clipboards. The door locked with a heavy, sickening click.

Nuno leaned back against the steel door, his chest heaving like a wounded bull’s. In the pulsing, uncertain light, Clara finally saw him properly.

He was ruined. His face was pale and drawn, hollowed out by a week of agony and sleepless nights. His eyes were bloodshot and feral, lips cracked and dry. He had clearly lost weight, the stress and pain burning off the fat. There was a faint, clean chemical smell clinging to his clothes and skin—hospital antiseptic, a stark reminder of where he’d spent the last seven days. He still walked with that tell-tale, stiff-legged gait, his thighs never quite closing, but the way he held himself was different now: shoulders rounded, head bowed, as if something vital had been scooped out of him, leaving only the shell of his rage behind.

The hatred pouring off him was a palpable thing, thick enough to choke on.

From the back pocket of his tight jeans, he pulled a compact, lethal arsenal: a roll of thick gray duct tape and a pair of practice-goal cables—plastic-coated steel cord used for tensioning the small, portable soccer goals.

Clara backed up until her spine hit the dusty metal of the wall. She was terrified, but her voice was steady, betraying none of the frantic hammering of her heart. This was her last, best weapon: her contempt.

“Nuno… whatever you think you’re doing right now is going to cost you everything,” Clara said, her voice low and dangerously even.

Nuno lunged.

He was on her before she could dodge, propelled by sheer, animalistic fury. One hand fisted in the front of her hoodie, yanking her violently forward, then slamming her down into the chair so hard the rusty metal legs screeched in protest across the concrete floor. His knee pinned her thigh, his weight crushing the air out of her lungs. He smelled intensely of sweat, pain, and the metallic tang of his contained rage.

He moved with a speed and efficiency born of desperation. He looped the steel cable around her wrists—fast, practiced loops, biting cruelly tight against her skin. He pulled it with savage force until her shoulders strained and she gasped in pain. Then, more cable around her ankles, binding them to the metal chair legs.

The duct tape came last: one brutal, deafening tear of the thick material, followed by a vicious SMACK across her mouth, sealing her lips, cutting off her protests.

The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. He was breathing like a wounded bull, every single sharp movement making him grimace in obvious pain, but the need for dominance was stronger than the agony in his groin tonight.

When he stepped back, he had to lean heavily against the desk for support, his entire body trembling. Sweat poured down his face. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, cracked, filled with a dangerous sense of righteous violation.

“Tomorrow they give you my scholarship. My future. Everything I worked for since I was a kid. You took it,” Nuno choked out, jabbing a finger at her chest. “Because you decided to play dirty and the world decided to film me crying while I bled.”

He limped closer, his massive frame towering over her bound body. His hand shot out, grabbed her jaw with bruising force, and twisted her face upward, forcing her to look into his bloodshot, manic eyes.

“You shattered me, Clara. I spent a week under the knife. The doctors don’t know if it’ll ever work right again. You took my kids before I even had them. You took my pride. My name is a fucking joke now because of you.” His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise the bone.

“So here’s how this goes. You’re going to call the committee tonight,” Nuno said, his voice dropping to a low, cold threat. “You’re going to forfeit. Tell them injury, tell them emotional distress, tell them whatever the fuck you want. You drop out, and I let you walk away with all your pretty parts still attached.”

He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his scent overwhelming. His voice dropped to something feral, barely a whisper of pure, cracked menace.

“Because if you don’t… I’ll make sure you feel even half of what I feel every time I take a step. I’m already broken, Clara. I’ve got nothing left to lose. But you do. You have a body that works. You have a chance at The Gold. I can take both away tonight.”

He straightened, wincing visibly as the movement pulled at whatever fresh stitches or deep swelling he was hiding under his polo. He reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her phone, dangling it just centimeters in front of her taped mouth.

“Unlock it with your face,” Nuno commanded. “Then we make the call. Or we start breaking fingers until you change your mind.”

The fluorescent light above flickered once, twice, bathing them both in cold, judgmental white.

Clara sat bound, the steel cable biting rawly into her wrists, the duct tape sealing her lips, but her eyes were blazing with something Nuno hadn't expected to see: absolute contempt and a dangerous, quiet amusement. There was no fear in her gaze, not a drop.

She started laughing, a muffled, ragged sound behind the tape, her shoulders shaking with the effort. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, she ripped her head side-to-side, grinding her jaw until the adhesive tape peeled away from one corner of her mouth. She spat it loose enough to speak, the sound of the tape peeling off her skin a brutal, sticky noise. Her voice, when it came, was dripping with venom and mocking amusement.

“Look at you,” Clara enunciated clearly, contempt lacing every syllable. “Big strong Nuno. The Hercules. Had to tie me up because you know, you know, you’d never beat me any other way. You had the whole week to recover, you had your whole toxic philosophy, and this is what you resort to? One kick shattered your sense of self and made you a kidnapper.”

She spat a small piece of loose tape onto the concrete floor.

“You’re a one-nut joke now, baby. The whole academy calls you ‘Lefty’ behind your back. You think this makes you a man again? Tying up your girlfriend because she took your toy scholarship? You’re not even a has-been. You’re a never-was.”

Nuno’s breath hitched, the casual cruelty of the nickname hitting him like a physical blow. He lunged forward again, his hands slamming down on the arms of the chair.

“Shut your mouth! You don’t know what they did to me! The pain—!”

Clara cut him off, leaning forward as far as the cables would allow, her eyes locking onto the panic in his. Her voice dropped to a mocking whisper, intimate and lethal.

“The pain? I caused the pain. I own it. You lost everything the second my foot connected, Nuno. And you’ll lose this too. Because even half-dead, even with one nut swinging like a sad little grape, you’re still weaker than me. Always were. You always will be.”

Nuno’s face twisted, something feral and utterly cracked erupting through his polished veneer. He wasn’t expecting defiance; he was expecting tears, begging, submission. Her laughter, her utter lack of fear, was a final, complete breakdown of his control.

His hand lashed out, a massive, open-palmed slap across her cheek. The impact was deafening in the tiny room, a sickening CRACK that snapped her head sideways and sent a sharp jolt of pain up her neck. A thin line of bright red blood appeared instantly at the corner of her mouth, stark against her pale skin.

“You asked for this, slut,” Nuno snarled, his voice a low, strangled sound, his control utterly gone. He reached for the cable around her wrists, ready to tighten it until bone groaned and snapped. “You want pain? I’ll give you pain.”

The Intervention

Before Nuno could put pressure on the cable, before he could inflict the next stage of his desperate revenge, the flimsy metal door of the security hut exploded inward.

It wasn't a cautious entry; it was a detonation.

Lyla stood framed in the wreckage of the door, white-faced and panting, clutching a broken wooden broom handle she must have snatched from the janitor’s cart outside. She hadn't been stalking Nuno; she had followed Clara to apologize for her passivity during the library scene, saw Nuno brutally drag Clara into the shed, and ran, her small, usually passive body suddenly fueled by pure, blinding, feminine rage.

Lyla screamed—a high, raw, furious sound that tore through the silence—and swung the wooden shaft like a baseball bat, full force, with all the coiled strength of an elite cheerleader, directly into Nuno’s unprotected ribs.

CRACK.

The sound was terrible—a sickening crunch of wood against bone, amplified in the small metal shed. Breath exploded from Nuno’s lungs in a violent, choked gust. The sheer impact lifted his heavy body sideways. He staggered, eyes wide with incomprehension and fresh pain, stumbling off Clara and the chair.

He recovered faster than he should have, the pain merely feeding the adrenaline and the panic. He roared—a truly animal sound, a blend of fury and agony—and lunged at Lyla, who was still reeling from the successful strike. One huge hand clamped instantly around Lyla’s throat, massive fingers digging in, cutting off her air supply. He slammed her back against the nearest wall so hard her teeth clicked, the cheap metal rattling around her. The broken broom handle clattered uselessly to the floor.

“You stupid fucking bitch!” Nuno roared, his face contorted into a mask of pure violence, the veins bulging in his neck.

The Final Strike

But Nuno had made a fatal mistake: he had left Clara unbound from the waist up, and he had forgotten what she was capable of.

Clara was already moving. The slap had jarred her body and loosened the cable around her left wrist just enough. With a fierce, explosive wrench, she pulled her arm free, the raw skin shrieking against the steel cord. She surged up out of the chair, her movement compact and brutally efficient, and drove her fist straight up into Nuno’s crotch from below, knuckles first, aiming like a piston for the heart of his injury.

The punch landed dead-center.

His scrotum was already a pulpy, swollen disaster, his stitches fresh and screaming under the skin. The impact—a concentrated, explosive trauma delivered with the full, core-driven power of an elite athlete—flattened whatever was left in there against his pelvic bone. It felt like a fragmentation grenade had detonated in his pelvis.

Nuno’s roar cut off instantly into a high, wet screech. His grip on Lyla’s throat convulsed and finally spasmed open. He shoved Lyla aside like a rag doll, his entire body folding, both hands flying to cup himself, doubling over with the immediacy of the agony.

Lyla, gasping for air, snatched the wooden broom handle from the concrete floor. She saw Nuno's head bowed, his back exposed, his attention absolutely dedicated to the screaming devastation in his stupid balls. With a wordless yell that was half terror and half retribution, she swung the wooden shaft downward in a vicious, short-range golf-swing arc, aiming right between his legs from behind.

Wood met flesh with a sickening, meaty THUD.

This was the final blow. The impact shattered the wood and pulverized the already ruined tissue. Nuno’s eyes bulged, his mouth opened in a perfect O of silent, absolute suffering. No sound came out at first, just a strangled wheeze, as if his throat had seized completely. Then the total, blinding pain detonated, and his body gave up.

He collapsed straight down, his knees hitting the concrete first, then his forehead. His body jackknifed, curling into the tightest fetal ball possible. Both hands clawed frantically between his legs, trying to cradle what was left, but there was only burning, tearing agony now. A raw, broken sob tore out of him, then another, and another. He was completely defeated, utterly broken, sobbing openly, snot and tears mixing with the dust and grease on the filthy floor. His strength, his rage, his entitlement—all of it was gone, vanished in the blinding agony of the two final strikes.

Lyla dropped the shattered broom handle, shaking violently, and rushed to Clara.

“I’m so sorry, Clara, I’m so sorry I ever—” Lyla cried, tears streaming down her face, frantically unwrapping the steel cables from Clara’s wrists and ankles.

Clara, her cheek burning from the slap and a thin line of blood drying near her mouth, stepped free. She flexed her bruised wrists once, then looked down at Nuno, writhing and bawling at her feet.

“Shut up, Lyla,” Clara said, her voice unnervingly cold and measured. “Help me finish this.”

They stood over him. Nuno was too lost in agony to fight anymore, just sobbing, trying to protect the last, ruined shred of his manhood. He was entirely at their mercy.

Clara lifted her foot—her soccer cleat still caked with dry field mud—and brought it down, heel first, grinding slowly, deliberately onto the strained bulge in his sweatpants. Lyla hesitated for half a second, staring at the sheer cruelty of the final act, then, with a sharp intake of breath, she mirrored her. Lyla brought her own cheer sneaker down on the other side. Two sets of studs and rubber sole pressed down in perfect unison on the ruined, pulsing injury.

Nuno’s scream was inhuman, thin, keening, cut off only when his breath ran out. His whole body convulsed in an electric spasm. Fresh tears flooded his eyes as the pressure increased, a deliberate, slow, crushing act of final vengeance.

Clara leaned down, her voice soft, almost loving in its cold finality.

“Tomorrow they announce my name, Nuno. And every time you hear it for the rest of your life, you’ll remember exactly how this felt.”

She increased the pressure. Lyla, now complicit, increased her pressure too.

Nuno’s sobs turned to broken, shallow whimpers, then to a broken, defeated silence, just the occasional twitch and shuddering breath as the two girls stood over what was left of him. The great Hercules was finally, fully destroyed, lying powerless in the dust of a forgotten utility shed, crushed by the combined strength and solidarity of the women he had tried to dominate. They stood together over his broken body, making absolutely sure the lesson—and the physical damage—would stick forever.

Nuno Gallego lay on the floor of the maintenance shed, his world reduced to a throbbing, searing hell between his legs. Lyla and Clara had departed quickly, leaving the door ajar but the steel cables and duct tape scattered on the concrete as evidence of his capture. He couldn't move. The double-tap strike—Clara's brutal punch followed by Lyla's shattering broom handle swing—had done more than just inflict pain; it had caused absolute, total incapacitation. His groin was a massive, screaming knot of ruined tissue, and the thought of testicular rupture, of being permanently sterile, beat a frantic, terrifying rhythm in his mind.

He was still tied to the metal chair, though his upper body had crumpled sideways onto the floor during the final assault. His wrists were raw and weeping beneath the tight, steel cables, and the remaining strip of duct tape, peeling but still clinging to the corner of his jaw, was stuffed into his mouth, serving as a bitter, symbolic gag.

He couldn't sit up. He could only lie on his side, his body involuntarily convulsing with residual pain. But Clara had left him one final, exquisite torment. She had dropped his phone—now unlocked with her face—right in front of his eyes.

The screen was streaming the live feed of the Gold Scholarship announcement ceremony, broadcast from the Olympo auditorium.

He watched the stage—gleaming, sterile, and bathed in golden light—the very stage that was supposed to bear his triumphant presence. He watched as the Academy Dean, a portly man whose hand Nuno had shaken countless times, stepped to the podium, delivering platitudes about merit and the future of Olympo. Nuno couldn’t hear the crowd, only the frantic, internal ringing in his ears, but the captions scrolled across the screen, sharp and merciless.

—AND THE RECIPIENT OF THIS YEAR’S PRESTIGIOUS GOLD SCHOLARSHIP IS… CLARA, CAPTAIN OF THE WOMEN’S SOCCER TEAM!

The room erupted. Nuno watched Clara step onto the stage, flawless in a white, tailored suit that emphasized her power. She accepted the plaque, her expression one of cool, unyielding triumph, the exact look she had worn while mocking him hours earlier.

She walked to the microphone.

“Thank you,” Clara began, her voice crisp, amplified, and dripping with controlled confidence. “I know this is a departure from tradition. For the last two decades, this award has been given to the men’s captain, often because of an outdated, singular belief in male-centric metrics. But Olympo is changing, and athletic excellence is no longer about brute force or toxic entitlement. It is about precision, strategy, and mental fortitude.”

Nuno’s tears, which had briefly subsided, returned in a hot, silent flood. He tried to scream, but the tape choked the sound in his throat, forcing a wretched, gagged whine from his chest. He could only watch the tiny, mocking figure on the screen.

Clara continued, turning the ceremony into his public execution.

“This scholarship isn’t just for me. It is for the femininomenon—the undeniable reality that female athletes are here to challenge, to dominate, and to rewrite the rules. We don't need charity. We need a level playing field, and when we find a weakness in the structure, we exploit it ruthlessly.”

She paused, looking directly into the camera, her eyes cold and mesmerizing.

“Take, for instance, fragility,” she purred. “You can train strength, speed, and endurance, but you cannot train away a fundamental biological flaw. The old guard, the one who expected to win this simply because he was born male and played a high-profile sport, suffered from that flaw. He underestimated us. He confused his entitlement for talent. And when he tried to take his humiliation out on the women who defeated him—both me, and Lyla, who was kind enough to show him what true solidarity looks like—he proved exactly why his time is over.”

Nuno convulsed, a painful, silent retch. He could hear the stadium roar with approval, a collective affirmation of his downfall. His name wasn't mentioned, but his title, his gender, and his very recent, highly visible weakness were dissected, mocked, and dismissed as a historical footnote.

Clara finished with a confident, victorious flourish. “To all the women who were told they couldn’t compete: Find the weakness. Exploit the flaw. And take what is rightfully yours. Thank you.”

The screen cut to Dean shaking her hand, smiling broadly. Nuno’s phone went dark, the battery finally dying. The silence in the shed returned, thick and choking.

He lay there for what felt like hours, the only sign of life the shallow, shuddering breaths that barely expanded his bruised ribs and the cold, sticky tracks of tears running down his temples. He was defeated. Utterly, irrevocably defeated.

The sound of the door creaking open finally penetrated his pain-fogged mind.

Clara stood in the doorway, framed by the cold, buzzing floodlights. She was still in the white suit, the scholarship plaque tucked casually under her arm like a handbag. She didn't look triumphant; she looked utterly, clinically satisfied.

She walked over to him, her shadow falling over his ruined body. She nudged his foot gently with the toe of her pristine white heel.

Nuno gave a broken sob behind the gag. His eyes, wide and pleading, looked up at her, begging for relief.

Clara knelt, her perfect suit utterly clean against the filthy concrete. She didn’t remove the gag. She didn’t touch him. She just spoke, her voice low and direct.

“You’ve had a bad night, Captain,” she said. “But you needed this. You needed to understand that there is no amount of strength that protects you from pure, concentrated contempt.”

Nuno tried to shake his head, begging for help. He managed only a small, frantic motion.

“Are you wondering if you’re sterile?” Clara asked, her voice laced with chilling empathy. “Are you terrified that your genetics, your legacy, is dead on this floor?”

Nuno whined, the terror absolute in his eyes.

Clara reached out and, with surgical precision, tore the tape from his mouth. The sudden sound of the adhesive ripping from his skin was followed by a gasp of clean, cold air.

“Please, Clara,” Nuno choked out, his voice weak and pathetic. “Please, just let me go. I’ll leave the academy. I’ll say it was injury. I won’t tell anyone. Just… please, end this. Finish it.”

“End your manhood? Give you closure? Let you be the tragic hero who lost it all but survived?” Clara scoffed, the sound devoid of humor. “No, Nuno. That’s too easy. That gives you a story. A sacrifice.”

She leaned in close, her eyes glittering with cold, hard logic. “The doctors successfully treated the torsion, Nuno. They fixed you up. You have two testicles. They’re swollen, bruised, and you’ll be walking like an injured cowboy for weeks, but they are there.”

A wave of dizzying relief washed over Nuno, so strong it almost made him faint. He was alive. He was still whole.

But Clara wasn't finished.

“And that is your punishment,” she stated, her tone shifting from explanation to final decree. “You will spend the rest of your life knowing that I—the woman you cheated on, the woman you humiliated, the woman who took your scholarship—could have finished you forever, but chose not to. You will live in fear of me, knowing that I can take your entire physical identity away anytime I want. That power is mine now. You will never be secure again.”

She stood up, brushing the imaginary dust from her suit. She walked over to the door and kicked the broken steel cable and duct tape aside.

“Get up, Nuno,” she commanded.

Nuno looked at her, confused and broken. “I… I can’t. I can’t walk.”

Clara didn’t argue. She simply pulled the scholarship plaque from under her arm and held it up, letting the faint light catch the polished gold.

“You are coming with me to the after-party. You are going to be photographed standing next to your champion. I need my perfect, handsome boyfriend accessory.”

She walked toward him, the crisp white of her suit a stark contrast to his dust and sweat. She nudged his shoulder with her foot.

“Now, get up on all fours. That’s how dogs walk when they obey their master. You are the hunk on my arm, Nuno. You walk where I tell you to walk. Go on. Move.”

Nuno stared at the cold, hard certainty in her eyes. He was ruined, defeated, but he was physically terrified of her finishing move. He had no pride left, only the instinct for survival and obedience.

With a broken, shuddering gasp that was almost a sob, the once-mighty Hercules got down on his hands and knees. He maneuvered his massive, broken body, crawling slowly across the filthy concrete toward the open door, his head bowed, the shadow of his champion falling over him.

Clara walked out first, tossing the empty energy drink bottle toward the nearest trash can. She didn't look back. She simply waited for her newly acquired accessory—the handsome, broken hunk who would smile for her photos—to follow.

The Gold was hers. And Nuno Gallego, the Captain, the King, the Hercules, was finally, absolutely, hers too.