The Lodge (14 - 18: The End)

 

Part 14: The Cowboy's Castration Anxiety

The GMC Yukon Denali ate up the final stretches of the mountain road, its powerful engine a loud, aggressive metaphor for the man driving it. Shawn, perched behind the wheel, was a study in taut, forced control, his whole persona—from the tight cobalt-blue polo to the muscular arm thrown possessively over Sabrina's shoulder—designed to project absolute dominance. The air in the cab was thick with his expensive cologne and the aggressive thump of Beyoncé's "Run The World (Girls)."

Sabrina, nestled against his chest, had to fight a visceral, electric hormonal surge. She knew this physical intimacy was a carefully calculated weapon, and for a terrifying second, she felt the pull. But her intellect was her shield. She reached up, her small hand deliberately tracing the tight denim of his thigh, then let it rest there.

“Wow, you’re different today,” Shawn purred, the sound rumbling in his chest. He dropped a heavy kiss onto her hair. “Your hand is naughty.”

Sabrina smiled, her fingers moving slowly, tantalizingly, higher toward his crotch. The response was immediate, predictable, and violently seismic: Shawn’s dick began to stiffen inside his jeans, forcing the denim into a straining, painful rigidity. She could feel the hard, unyielding mass pressing against her palm. She laughed—a low, satisfied, almost purring sound.

“We’re playing my song, by the way,” Sabrina said, pointing to the Spotify display. "This is my anthem, Shawn. Do you understand the delicious, perfect irony?"

Shawn squeezed her so tight her ribcage protested, his breath hot on her ear. “It’s a great beat, babe, but it’s pure, delusional fantasy. You think a song changes biology? After tonight, when you come home with me, you will realize that men run the world, not girls. This is just a detour before you come home—where you belong.”

Sabrina’s playful facade shattered. She leaned back, forcing him to look at her, her voice cutting like glass. “Well, you cheated on me, didn’t you?”

Shawn dismissed it with an annoyed grunt. “That was just a mistake. A moment of weakness after a party, that’s all.”

“Proof that you’re weak,” Sabrina countered, her voice dropping to a dangerous, surgical whisper. “You saw a girl, and you just begged her to suck your dick. That’s weakness. That’s a coward. You can’t control your dick. You can’t control your own erection because right now you have one, and I caused it just by touching you.” She pressed her fingers lightly, pointedly, against the straining denim. “See your dick stand up at my command? You have zero control of your own body, and you can’t control me. So, what exactly do you control, Shawn? Your bank account? Your size? That’s all external. But I control you.”

Shawn’s confident grin collapsed entirely. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The silence was thick with the shame of having his arrogance dismantled so surgically. He hated her, and in that moment, he wanted her more than ever.

 

They arrived at The Brass Spur, a rodeo bar carved out of an old barn. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, sawdust, and desperate masculinity.

“Well, I need to adjust my makeup,” Sabrina announced, easily sliding out. “And maybe you should wait a while, because you still have an erection right now, Shawnie. It would be a shame to injure yourself before the fun starts.” She winked and headed toward the dusty restroom.

“SHIT!” Shawn cursed, the massive, painful bulge undeniable. He walked with his head high, forcing a mask of arrogant confidence.

He swaggered inside and grabbed a seat next to a gaunt, older man nursing a whiskey.

“So many hotties, right, kiddo?” the older man rasped, nodding toward the pool table.

“Yeah, dude. So many hot ones. I could fuck them all if I weren't here with my girl,” Shawn bragged, sipping the beer the bartender slid him.

“That one is the best, though,” the older man said, pointing a gnarled finger toward the bartender, Carrie.

Shawn nodded in agreement. "Yeah, agree. Hey, hottie, c’mon here!" he whistled loudly—pure, entitled dismissiveness. Carrie glared at him with silent, professional hatred before turning her back. Shawn and the older man chuckled, bonding over their shared casual misogyny.

The older man then leaned in, looking meaningfully at the undeniable protrusion in Shawn’s jeans. “I used to have one like that, kiddo.”

Shawn froze. “What do you mean, used to? You lose weight or something? Is it a scar?”

The old man’s eyes were flat and cold, and he whispered his name. “I’m John Bobbitt.”

Shawn’s beer glass hovered, frozen inches from his lips. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly gray. “Holy shit... John Bobbitt? The—the John Bobbitt that… your wife cut your…?” He couldn't force the final word out.

John nodded slowly, taking a long drink. “Yeah. That’s what happens when women take control, kiddo. They don't want equality; they want castration.” His voice was a low, chilling rasp that cut through the bar noise. “You need to put the fear of God in your woman, or she can really take your manhood. They’re crazy, man. They’re all crazy, just waiting for a chance to strike. Don't let her near a knife. You gotta dominate. You gotta be the man before she decides you’re not.”

Shawn swallowed hard, the taste of fear overriding the beer. He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper, consumed by a desperate, morbid need for information. “But… but how do you… how do you live? I mean, without… without your whole thing? You were… you were reattached, right? You can still—you know—function? Doesn’t it just feel like you’re… half a man? You can’t fuck anymore, right? You can’t prove you’re the Alpha. What’s the point, man?”

John Bobbitt stared into his whiskey, then back at Shawn, a lifetime of regret etched on his face. “It’s the worst thing that can happen to a man. Losing the physical evidence of your manhood. You do feel less than. The surgeons fixed the equipment, but they couldn't fix the fear. That stays with you forever. But the survival instinct is strong. You learn to adjust. The trick is to never let them get that close, never let them see the weakness. The physical pain heals, but the loss of control? That’s what kills you. That’s why you gotta dominate. You gotta be the man before she takes your power.”

The words struck Shawn like a physical blow, validating every fear and toxic lesson his father had ever taught him. The man he thought was a drinking buddy was a walking, talking castration cautionary tale—the real-life embodiment of his deepest nightmare.

Sabrina emerged from the restroom, looking impossibly small and composed, a beautiful, lethal contrast to the trauma he’d just witnessed. Shawn slammed his shot glass down and grabbed two tequilas from the bar, avoiding John Bobbitt’s gaze.

“See ya later, Mr. Bobbitt,” Shawn mumbled, shoving the drinks toward Sabrina, desperately trying to purge the encounter from his mind.

Sabrina, oblivious to the terrifying confession, took a sip of her shot. She looked so small next to Shawn, yet she radiated an immense, controlled power.

“Well, there are two mechanical bulls,” Sabrina said, pointing to the back of the room where two beasts of foam and leather stood waiting. “Wanna bet who can stay on there longer? Come on, is the big boy afraid?”

After the ants, the crushing, and the Bobbitt encounter, Shawn was far from in the mood for riding anything that required pressing his crotch. But he wouldn't let Sabrina win the taunt. He forced a smile, seizing control.

“Well, if I win, you know you’ll need to give me what I want tonight, right, Sabrina?”

Sabrina nodded, a cold smirk playing on her lips. “What’s mine is yours, Shawnie. But you have to ride first.”

Shawn knew he had to assert dominance now. He pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, dominating her mouth, trying to infuse the kiss with all the power he felt draining away. He broke the kiss, his eyes wild. “You’re not going to forget that,” he promised.

He threw the cowboy hat onto his head and aggressively climbed onto the left mechanical bull.

“Ladies first, babe,” Shawn called over to Sabrina, ready to watch her fall instantly.

Too bad for Shawn, one thing he didn’t know was that the operator of the mechanical bull was Carrie, the same bartender he and John Bobbitt had just catcalled. Carrie looked at Shawn, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure, professional rage. “Oh, boy,” she muttered to herself, adjusting her joystick. “You’re gonna pay for that, you entitled bastard.”

Sabrina climbed onto the bull on the right, adjusting her grip on the rope.

“Riding this bull is for men, babe! Better watch your pretty little self!” Shawn shouted, full of cocky arrogance.

The music stopped. The lights dimmed slightly. Carrie nodded to Sabrina, who gripped her rope tight.

 

Then Carrie, with the practiced precision of a woman who has been insulted one too many times, pulled the main lever. The bull beneath Shawn snapped into a vicious, immediate 1800 spin while tilting 300 to the left, without any of the gentle warm-up rides Shawn expected.

Shawn’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, and the oversized belt buckle he wore—the one that signified his Alpha status—gouged painfully into his lower abs. His center of gravity lurched four inches ahead of where it should be, turning his confident grin into a horrifying grimace of shock. The platform rocketed upward at a 450 angle.

“WHOOAAA—WHAT THE FUCK?! GIRL, YOU BITCH! WARM IT UP!” Shawn bellowed, his voice losing its confident timbre.

His torso whipped backward like a ragdoll; his thighs clamped the saddle in pure panic. The rigid plastic horn—engineered precisely where no man wants it—now wedged directly between his scrotum and pelvic bone, compressing his already traumatized balls into a single, screaming point of pressure. The fact he was commando made the friction and pressure unbearable. He could feel the pressure ripping the skin.

Carrie didn't let up. She cranked the speed. Without warning, the bull reversed direction, dropping two full feet while spinning the opposite way. Shawn’s sweat-slick fingers slipped off the rope. He was trying to protect his groin, which only loosened his leg grip further.

Angular momentum violently slammed his body forward and upward: three feet of air vertically, six feet horizontally. He was airborne, legs splayed, arms windmilling like a broken helicopter. He wasn't falling—he was projected.

Shawn was fully off the bull, a $6'3"$ human projectile. His groin—still leading the charge—pointed straight at the heavy wooden gate surrounding the arena like a heat-seeking missile.

CRACK! THWOCK.

Shawn’s pelvis, and everything crucial within it, smashed the top rail of the gate. The sound was sickening, a sound of wood and bone colliding. He landed groin first with a catastrophic impact, followed by a glass-shattering “MAMA!” that cracked a nearby beer mug. He slid off the gate, landed on his knees, and then face-planted into the sawdust, hands welded to his crotch. The cowboy hat rolled pitifully away.

Sabrina, still on her motionless bull, was laughing so hard she had to grip the rope to avoid falling off. The crowd around the bull arena—mostly women—erupted in a mixture of gasps, cheers, and hysterical laughter.

“OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT? HE WENT BALLS-FIRST! HE’S FUCKING DEAD!” shouted one woman.

“He tried to catcall Carrie, that bastard! That’s karma, bitch!” yelled another, enjoying the show.

Carrie, the operator, gave Sabrina a sharp, triumphant nod.

Shawn (muffled, defeated, voice high-pitched and choked): “My eggs are broken.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 15: The Castration and the Cure

 

Shawn was on the floor, sawdust clinging to his sweat-slick skin, clutching his groin with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. The impact with the gate was a catastrophic, bone-jarring trauma. He rolled and convulsed, his vision reduced to a flashing strobe of black and red, sure this was the end of his manhood. “Please, no, no, not again, not again…” he whimpered, his $6'3"$ frame curled into a useless, fetal ball. The pain was immense, eclipsing even the fire ant attack.

The surrounding noise—the cheers, the laughter, the throbbing bass—receded as Carrie, the mechanical bull operator, stepped over the low wooden rail and stood right on top of him. Her boots, dusty but intimidating, filled his entire field of vision.

Shawn looked up, terrified, seeing only the embodiment of John’s warning—a woman who had taken control. “NO! NO! NO!” he pleaded, covering his face with his free arm.

Carrie looked down at the whimpering Frat President, her face a mask of cold satisfaction. “You think calling women bitches and bragging about your dick makes you a man, you spoiled bastard?” She leaned in, her voice low and menacing, entirely professional. “Catcall a girl again, or treat a woman like a prize, and you’re gonna lose your manhood for real, like Mr. Bobbitt over there.”

Then, with an unnerving calm, she lifted her foot, planted her boot heel squarely on Shawn’s balls, and pressed down.

The sound was a sickening, soft CRUNCH.

A raw, animalistic scream tore from Shawn’s throat—a high-pitched shriek of pure, terminal agony. His body spasmed violently, his back arching into a horrifying crescent before he instantly went slack. His tongue lolled out, a grotesque pink flag of surrender, and his eyes, wide and fixed, bulged before rolling back into his head. Shawn Mendes, the Alpha, had passed out cold.

Carrie gave a satisfied sigh, stepped off him, and calmly went to retrieve the cowboy hat.

 

Some time later, it was almost evening. The golden hour sun slanted through the lodge window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the massive, king-sized bed in Shawn's room. He woke up to the agonizing throbbing in his groin. His entire pelvic area felt like shattered glass packed with stinging wasps.

He blinked, his vision still swimming in a dizzying kaleidoscope of pain and confusion.

Then he saw her.

Sabrina was laid beside him, propped up on one elbow, looking impossibly fresh and beautiful. She touched his curly hair with a gentle, almost loving gesture. “Wakey, wakey, handsome. I got something for you.”

Shawn's eyes, still trying to focus, fell on the object she held in her hand. It was a pair of gleaming, wickedly sharp kitchen scissors.

 

"WAIT! WAIT, SABRINA! SABRINA! WHAT WAS THAT! WHAT WHAT!" Shawn’s voice was a croak, trapped between a whisper and a scream.

Sabrina smiled, a picture of angelic malice. She slowly lifted the scissors and moved them to his crotch. The movement was deliberately slow, making the psychological horror stretch. “It’s time to take control, Shawnie. You said I needed to be a good girl, right?”

“WAIT! WAIT! DON'T! DON’T!” Shawn thrashed, trying to pull his knees up, but the agonizing pain in his testicles made his legs lock up uselessly. He was a prisoner in his own body.

Sabrina lowered the scissors, positioning the blades over the brown rod on his crotch. Snip. Snip.

And then, with a sharp, decisive CRACK, she severed the dick  in two.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Shawn screamed—a sound of primal, utter defeat, raw and high-pitched. He felt the phantom pain, the terrible confirmation of his deepest fear. He cried, his face contorted into an expression of abject horror, and in that instant, his bladder gave way again. A fresh wave of hot, humiliating urine soaked his pants.

Sabrina waited until the sound of the dribbling ceased. She held up the two pieces of raw sausage. “Why, why, Shawn? Why are you crying? I only cut the sausage.”

Shawn stared, his eyes wide, pupils darting between the meat in her hand and his own groin. He slowly, tentatively, clutched himself. The relief was a blinding, dizzying wave. Wait... I still have my dick.

Sabrina burst into cold, triumphant laughter. “It’s just a joke, babe! It’s a sausage! But see… you peed your pants. The big Frat President, the Gigachad, peed his jeans twice in front of me today. You’re pathetic. Shawn Mendes, you’re the most disgusting man I’ve ever seen, so full of yourself, and it’s so easy to prank you!”

Shawn lay back, defeated, his chest heaving. The humiliation was total.

Sabrina leaned in, her smile gone. “You’re so predictable, Shawnie. You and your daddy issues.”

 

Before Shawn could sputter a single, enraged threat, the connecting doors slid open. Olivia entered, practically dragging a limping, whimpering Joshua onto the bed. Behind them, Tate carefully steered a stiff-legged Daniel, whose face was pale and slick with dried tears. All three boys were clutching their crotches, groaning, and moving as if their hips were replaced by cinder blocks.

“Dude, those girls are fucking crazy,” Joshua managed to groan, collapsing onto the rug next to Shawn’s bed. His eyes were red from crying.

“Tate, fuck you!” Daniel snarled, leaning against the wall, unable to move further.

Shawn, despite the fresh pain, couldn't control his body. He tried to sit up violently, lost his balance, and pitched himself right over the edge of the bed. He collided with Joshua, who was trying to crawl to safety, knocking Daniel's shoulder hard on the way down. The three men collapsed onto the wooden floor in a tangled, groaning, three-man heap of masculine agony.

The girls stood over them, looking like a triumphant firing squad.

“So, boys. Just so you know. We’re the winners,” Sabrina said, her voice carrying the finality of a judge. “We bribed Lexie, the worker at the Paintball, to tell you the groin protector was run out, ouch. It’s so easy, Shawn, because she was really angry at you, by the way, because you ghosted her after a one-night stand. She was happy to help.”

Sabrina added, “And the fire ants? It’s all pheromone. We spray it on your jeans and on the bonfire wood.”

Tate stepped forward, her face a mask of cold satisfaction toward Daniel. “But Daniel, the ice skating incident? That spectacular crash into the pole and my accidental knee? That was all your own stupidity. You were so blinded by your misogyny you forgot how to skate.”

Olivia chimed in, pointing a satisfied finger at Joshua. “And the wall climbing? The crushing of your little balls? Purely caused by your own decision to loosen the harness so your erection wouldn't look awkward. That, and the final kick, was for every woman athlete whose budget you cut.”

Sabrina finished the summary with a flourish. “And the mechanical bull? That was sweet, sweet revenge from Carrie, the bartender you catcalled right after you met John Bobbitt.” She dissolved into cold laughter.

Shawn’s face turned scarlet with pure, uncontrollable rage. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, teeth grinding. “You bitch! You manipulative whore! You’re gonna pay! You’re gonna pay for what you did to us!”

The girls laughed—a unified sound of victory and mockery. “Well, we’re just gonna have a fancy dinner now. I’m gonna go open your fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Shawnie. You three should rest up. Bye.”

Sabrina walked over to Shawn’s prone body, bent down, and kissed him mockingly on the forehead. As she stood up, she paused, then brought the sole of her sneaker down and stomped on his crotch—a hard, intentional strike right on his already pulverized balls.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Shawn shrieked, the sound cracking the air as his body convulsed once more.

The three girls walked out of the room, their laughter trailing down the hall, leaving the three guys in agonizing silence.

 

The silence was broken only by the whimpering and the smell of Shawn's embarrassment.

Daniel, the first to recover his voice, groaned, “She said she was going to drink our wine. She said she was going to drink our $400 wine!”

Joshua, curled up in a fetal position, whined, “My balls feel like two water balloons full of acid. I think I need a hospital.”

Shawn, slowly pushing himself to his knees, his face a mask of terrifying fury, spoke in a voice that was low, guttural, and trembling with sheer hatred. “They think they’ve won. They think we’re defeated. They think they can take our wine, our dignity, and our manhood.” He spat blood onto the rug. “We’re getting revenge. Now.”

Daniel dragged himself over to Shawn. “How, Shawn? We can barely walk. They are smarter than us, and they are vicious. They know our weaknesses. They weaponized our dicks and balls! We can’t beat them physically.”

Shawn seized Daniel by the collar. “I don’t care! We are men! We fight back! They want a feminist world? We’ll give them a patriarchal hell!”

Joshua, still clutching his groin, suddenly raised his head. His eyes, though puffy, held a strange, desperate focus. “Wait. Wait a fuckin’ second. I might have the answer.”

He reached inside his jeans pocket and pulled out the small, amber glass vial. The Mak Erot Potion.

“This stuff… it worked before. It made me bigger. The lady said it enhances masculinity. Maybe… maybe if all three of us take it. It’s a magical traditional Indonesian potion. Maybe it can heal us, too. Maybe it can make us impervious to the pain.” Joshua pleaded, holding the vial out like a religious relic. “We take the potion. We restore our manhood. We show them what real Alpha power looks like. We challenge them to a fight where size and brute force actually win.”

Shawn stared at the vial, then at his two defeated friends. He saw a chance to reclaim everything. He snatched the vial.

“We’re doing it. We’re proving to those misandrist bitches that a woman can never defeat a man when we use our full power. Joshua, you’re in. Daniel, you’re in. We take this shit, we heal, and we challenge them to a final, physical fight where we break every feminst rule they ever taught us.”

They quickly split the remaining liquid—a thick, slightly shimmering brown sludge—and choked it down. The taste was bitter, earthy, and metallic.

After a few minutes, the pain in their balls—the sharp, paralyzing agony—started to dull, replaced by a throbbing, aggressive heat. They felt a dizzying rush, a sudden, explosive surge of testosterone and primal rage.

Shawn slowly rose to his feet, a triumphant, wicked smirk spreading across his face. Daniel and Joshua followed, their legs still stiff, but standing.

“I’m going to end this,” Shawn snarled.

Joshua looked at Shawn’s crotch. “Dude, wait. You better change jeans first. You… you still have a massive pee stain.”

Shawn looked down at the humiliating, dark, wet mark of his failure. He grabbed a fresh pair of jeans.

The three men—the traumatized Alpha, the shamed follower, and the compromised strategist—stood in the middle of the room, ready for the final, most reckless revenge plot of the weekend.

Part 16: The Electrocution of the Alpha-Aspirant

The living room of the lodge, moments after the girls' return, was thick with tension, heavy with the scent of pine and repressed rage. Sabrina, Tate, and Olivia were settled on the massive sofa, sipping sparkling cider, engaging in their deadly casual gossip while the boys stood listening.

“...It’s like nature gave them testicles not for them, but for us—for us to kick and give them a lesson,” Sabrina was musing, slicing a lime wedge with surgical concentration. “Those nutsacks are a cosmic joke. Nature hates them so much. I truly believe there will be a revolution where women will dominate men and those men can’t do anything about that because we rule them and we’ll grab them by the balls, crying.”

Olivia smirked, swirling her drink. “I’m signing up to be the General of the Nutsack Patrol.”

“ENOUGH!”

Shawn’s voice was a bellow of pure, unfiltered rage, a sound that cracked the comfortable silence. The girls looked up, their expressions shifting from faux-calm to genuine amusement.

Shawn, Daniel, and Joshua stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a rigid wall of blue polo shirts and flexing muscle. They had achieved a terrifying, synchronized look—the Alpha Trio united. The Mak Erot potion had temporarily burned away their pain, replacing it with a toxic, hyper-masculine conviction. Sweat was beading on Shawn’s temples, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with the memory of the mechanical bull and the trauma of Tiara.

Shawn pointed a thick, accusatory finger at the women, his whole body trembling. “I am enough of your bullshit, you fuckin’ whores! You’re gonna pay for every humiliating moment, every high-pitched squeak you forced out of us! You’re gonna see the power of MAN!” His voice strained against the rage. “BOYS! ATTACK! We’re gonna challenge you into a fight—three versus three! Right here, right now!”

Daniel and Joshua needed no further command. They charged. Daniel threw a desperate, clumsy right hook at Tate, who easily dipped under it with a dancer's grace. “Shit!” Daniel snarled. Joshua, channeling his fury, tried a low, aggressive tackle on Olivia, but she simply hopped back, her movements clean and efficient.

The guys, blinded by Mak Erot confidence and pain-driven fury, rushed again. Tate and Olivia smoothly moved back to back, forming an impenetrable, smiling defense. “You think what I think?” Olivia whispered, her eyes dancing with wicked triumph. Tate’s sharp nod was her only reply.

Daniel tried to flank Tate, while Joshua attempted to charge Olivia. The girls waited until the final, impossible second, then simultaneously executed a perfect, synchronized, tight side-step. Daniel, aiming for Tate’s flank, smashed his shoulder directly into the bridge of Joshua’s nose.

BAM! THWUMP! The sound of impact was like two slabs of raw meat colliding. Joshua roared, clutching his face, stumbling backward. Daniel staggered, shaking his head.

“What the fuck, Daniel! You hit me! You broke my nose, you dense bastard!” Joshua yelled, his voice muffled by his hand.

“You ran into my damn lane! We said left and right! You’re supposed to flank, not charge head-on like a rhino!” Daniel shot back, his strategy completely undone by Joshua's ineptitude.

At the same instant, Shawn rushed Sabrina—the ultimate confrontation. He lunged, trying to seize her in a dominant bear hug and pin her to the floor. Sabrina, however, was already in motion. She had retrieved the banana peel from the morning's taunt and placed it strategically near the corner of the wall. Shawn, with his $6'3"$ momentum and eyes locked on her small figure, hit the slippery film.

His large, booted feet flew out from under him in a cartoonish, physics-defying skid. The 220 pounds of muscular, toxic fury launched sideways, striking the ornate, antique wall cabinet with a devastating crack. The cabinet exploded inward, sending glass shards and delicate porcelain scattering around his body. He landed amid the debris in a fetal tuck, groaning, his massive body curled around his already pulverized groin.

Sabrina walked over, surveying the wreckage of his father’s antique furniture with an insouciant shrug. She burst into high, ringing laughter. “Girls, divide and conquer!”

Tate and Olivia, seeing their leader's success, separated instantly. Sabrina dashed toward Shawn’s room upstairs, baiting him with the threat of finding his wallet or destroying his last clean polo. Tate sprinted toward the recreation room, leaving Daniel to chase her. Olivia, her target focused, bolted into the kitchen—Joshua’s final arena.

“GUYS! GET THEM! DON'T LET THEM GET AWAY! GET THEM!” Shawn screamed, struggling to stand up from the floor, his cowboy hat still missing.

Joshua vs. Olivia: The Kitchen Electric Boogaloo

Joshua, fueled by the shame agonizing throb in his nose and groin, roared and pursued Olivia into the sterile, unforgiving kitchen.

“You’re gonna pay for that paintball and antas incident! And for digging into my past!” Joshua snarled, rushing her. He shoved Olivia hard. She went down, sliding across the slick tile floor.

Olivia laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed off the stainless steel appliances. She lay on her back, looking up at his towering figure. “What, small dick? Wanna try to intimidate me from that height? Just so you know, you’re pathetic, Joshua. You really want to be Shawn, but just so you know, Sabrina owns your loser idol. See? Sabrina can make him into a whimpering mess, and you worship that loser! He’s a loser! UNDERSTAND! LOSER!”

Joshua lost all control. He spat at her—a disgusting, desperate gesture of masculine defeat. “NO ONE MAKES FUN OF DADDY!” he screamed, the word, the truth, exploding out of him.

Olivia’s eyes widened with mocking delight. “WHAT? YOU CALL HIM DADDY?!” She wheezed with laughter, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Oh my god, I knew it! You actually said it out loud! Well, Daddy Shawn will hate how I wreck his best boy! Good boy!” she teased him mercilessly, adopting a sing-song voice.

The shame was paralyzing. Joshua tried to lunge, but Olivia went serious. Her eyes became focused and predatory.

“Time for the final lesson, Daddy’s Boy.”

Joshua, driven by pure, incoherent fury, lunged with a clumsy, wide-armed grab. Olivia, the 5'2" soccer captain, moved with the precision of a predator. She didn't block or grapple; she used feints and footwork, the very skills Joshua dismissed as "girly."

Joshua, driven by pure, incoherent fury, lunged with a clumsy, wide-armed grab. Olivia moved with the precision of a predator. She didn't block or grapple; she used feints and footwork, the very skills Joshua dismissed as "girly." As Joshua's hands shot out, Olivia executed a lightning-fast Cruyff Turn, planting one foot and using her body to make him commit to grabbing her left side, then pulling back and slipped behind his outstretched arm, pivoting on the tile.

Joshua, too large and too clumsy to correct his momentum, crashed directly into the open air where she had been. Before he could fully regain his footing, he spun back, his face a mask of sweating rage, attempting to lock his massive hands around her waist. Olivia dropped her center of gravity instantly, executing a fast, low shuffle.

She used her compact size to her advantage, ducking under his armpit and driving her shoulder hard into his solar plexus. "Oof!" Joshua wheezed, the air rushing out of him, momentarily paralyzing his diaphragm and stumbling back against the stainless steel refrigerator. His eyes darted around the kitchen—a cold, hard, confusing landscape.

Olivia exploited the chaos, sprinting around the large central granite island. "Get back here, you little slut!" he roared, hoisting his tall frame up onto the granite counter, attempting to cut her off. Olivia was faster, leaping effortlessly over the sink basin to the other side.

Joshua, slowed by his size and the awkward, throbbing bulge of his erection, landed heavily on the slick countertop. He tried to sprint across the granite, but Olivia, seeing her chance, grabbed a forgotten bottle of olive oil and squeezed a generous, slick amount right onto the counter in front of his path. Joshua hit the oil; his footing vanished instantly.

He slipped with a comical yell, his large legs flying out wide. He managed to catch himself just before sliding off the edge, but the awkward, sudden tension in his groin—already sore and unsupported—was agonizing. "AAAAHHH! FUCK! My groin!"

 

Joshua’s face was pure defeat, slick with sweat and oil. He knew he couldn't win the chase. He launched himself off the counter in a final, desperate leap, trying to execute a grappling tackle.

Olivia went serious. Her eyes became focused and predatory.

“Time for the final lesson, Daddy’s Boy.”

She launched herself up from the floor with the compact, coiled power of an Olympian gymnast. She didn't rely on grappling; she used her specialized soccer training. She lowered her center of gravity and delivered a low, powerful, focused uppercut with her right fist. Her knuckles struck the soft underside of Joshua’s scrotum, directly hitting his crushed, exposed balls with the focused force of a drill.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Joshua’s body went instantly rigid. His scream was a high, gargling blast that seemed to tear from his very soul, echoing the pure, undignified agony of his paintball defeat. The Mak Erot potion’s power dissolved into nothingness. He felt the most intense pain yet—a searing, total white light that overwhelmed his brain.

He stumbled forward, his massive body useless. His torso slammed against the cold, hard edge of a granite countertop, knocking the remaining wind out of his lungs. His left arm flailed out, knocking a toaster—left carelessly plugged into a nearby outlet—to the floor. The old, frayed power cable stripped itself bare on the tile.

At that exact moment, Olivia saw Joshua’s body spasming and the sparking electrical cable. Acting with the cold, scientific purpose of Sabrina’s student, she grabbed a pair of rubber-handled tongs from a nearby utensil block. With two precise, unhesitating steps, she thrust the sparking end of the cable onto Joshua’s crotch, aiming for the wet patch of pee stain.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

A blinding flash of blue light illuminated the kitchen. Joshua’s $6'1"$ body went rigid again, his muscles seizing up in a violent, chaotic spasm. His bladder completely failed; a second, massive dark stain instantly spread across his jeans as he screamed a final, desperate howl of total, electric defeat. The smell of ozone and burnt fabric filled the air. The shock, combined with the extreme pain, caused him to collapse backward, hitting the hard tile floor.

Joshua was out cold, twitching slightly amid the ruins of his confidence and his father's dreams. One man down. 

Part 17: The Final Confrontations

Tate vs. Daniel: The Recreation Room Massacre

Daniel pursued Tate into the lodge’s recreation room, a space filled with pool tables, a dartboard, a massive flat-screen TV, and shelves lined with board games. Daniel moved less like the controlled strategist and more like a bull in a ceramic shop—fueled entirely by the burning shame of his betrayal

He launched the first, frantic attack, throwing a wide, clumsy punch aimed at Tate’s face. Tate, whose small stature concealed the explosive power of a professional dancer, easily ducked under the swing. She didn't retreat; she executed a lightning-fast chaîné turn (a quick, continuous series of turns traveling across the floor), creating distance while Daniel’s momentum carried him into the dartboard, sending a shower of brass darts clattering to the floor.

Daniel spun, his eyes wild. He spotted the shelf containing his last refuge: his beloved PlayStation 5. Shawn had told him to bring it to keep the boys entertained. The console represented the last symbol of his "normal" life before the pressure of the frat and the architecture firm consumed him.

"Well, Daniel," Tate began, her voice cold and surgical, "I know Shawn told you to bring your PlayStation so you could pretend to be a normal boy all weekend." She approached the console, picked up a heavy, steel-toe boot forgotten near the door, and brought it down hard on the sleek, white chassis. The sound of crushing plastic and circuit boards was a sickening, grinding crack.

Daniel let out a horrifying, strangled sound—a cry of personal violation that drowned out the earlier yells of pain. "FUCK YOU!" he roared, abandoning the fight and charging her with pure, unadulterated fury. He slammed her against the wall, his hands locking around her throat. He wasn't choking her, but pinning her with his full weight.

"SEE. You can't do a thing," Daniel spat, his breath hot and ragged on her face. "You're just a girl, and I'm a man. I love you, Tate. I really love you, but you make me do this. You're pushing me away!"

Tate didn't struggle against the pin. She looked him dead in the eye, her expression one of devastating clarity. "SHUT UP, DANIEL! We’re done. You still play your game because of what? You want Shawn’s approval because Shawn’s approval means his dad’s approval, and it means you can secure your path to the architecture firm." Her voice cracked with genuine sorrow. "You let him hurt women and you share his misogynistic jokes. You’re not a good guy. You’re not the sensitive soft boy. You’re a motherfucker that manipulated me. I thought it was love. But it was never love, right, Daniel? IT WAS YOUR EGO! OUR LOVE WAS DEFEATED BY YOUR AMBITION!"

Daniel's strength dissolved. His arms fell away from her neck as he stumbled back, her words a more effective weapon than any kick. He was stunned, his face pale, his ambition suddenly tasting like ash.

Tate seized the tactical window. With the fluid grace of a martial artist, she executed a lightning-fast crescent kick that rose swiftly and slammed directly into his groin.

THWACK! The sound was wet and sharp.

Daniel's entire body seized, locking into a state of suspended agony. His eyes rolled back, and he emitted a choked, high-pitched noise. Tate pushed him violently. Daniel fell, landing awkwardly on his stomach atop the edge of the billiard table. The hard wooden edge pressed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs.

"SHIT! MY BALLS! ARGH, TATE! MY FUCKING BALLS!" he wheezed, paralyzed over the green felt.

Tate moved with terrifying efficiency. She grabbed a pool cue from the rack and, holding it like a bat, ruthlessly shoved the blunt end between his legs, aiming directly for his already pulverized testicles. The wooden tip ground painfully against his sensitive anatomy.

Daniel’s eyes bulged like peeled grapes, and he unleashed a deafening, sustained shriek of agony: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Tears streamed down his face. "Your strength lies in your testicles, Daniel," Tate sneered, quoting Sabrina's lesson.

She yanked Daniel’s hair, dragging his weak body off the table and pulling him toward the service bathroom door. Daniel’s body hit the door frame hard, then slid across the cold tile floor, leaving a faint trail of blood and vomit.

"NO! NO, TATE! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!" he pleaded, his voice thin and desperate. "Forgive me... please forgive me... I will be a good boyfriend. I will leave the frat! Please stop!" He wretched, vomiting more bile onto the tile.

Daniel curled up, feebly trying to shield his crotch. "I love you! Please! I’m wrong! Let’s move and leave them"

Tate laughed, a cold, hard sound devoid of mirth. She snatched a thick, clean hand towel and used it to quickly secure his flailing hands around a pipe, tying his wrists so he couldn't protect his groin.

"Like hell I’m gonna leave my girlfriends for a backstabbing frat rat," Tate said. She grabbed the hot water service sprayer and cranked the temperature to the maximum setting. The water immediately turned scalding, billowing steam around her small, dominant figure. "Bye to your dick and balls, Daniel," she said, spraying the searing jet directly onto his crotch.

"HOAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAA!" Daniel's shriek was a horrifying, sustained wail of agony. As his body spasmed violently against the pipe, Tate delivered the final, non-negotiable blow: she brought her heel down, stomping his balls one final, hard time. Daniel went utterly silent, his body slumping forward, his consciousness thankfully leaving him.

"I'll find love," Tate whispered, dropping the nozzle. "But I’ll be fine by myself."

Shawn vs. Sabrina: The Last Dance

At the same moment, Shawn burst through the threshold of his lavish second-floor master suite, his cobalt-blue polo stretched tight across his chest. He saw Sabrina standing calmly by his open cedar closet.

"Get out of my room, you crazy whore!" Shawn roared, his voice laced with the anger of his lifetime of suppressed emotion.

Sabrina ignored him. She was holding his childhood guitar, the one with the cracked lacquer that held the memory of the ten-year-old boy who wanted to be a sensitive musician. She met his gaze with a look of pitiless pity.

"See, this guitar? I saw you playing it earlier. Is that the sensitive Shawn down there?" Sabrina taunted, her voice low. "Can I make a guess? I think you’re a sensitive soul, Shawn, but then your dad made you this way: ultra-masculine frat president, tall, brooding, handsome, but weak, pathetic... too bad."

Then, with a casual, shocking motion, she slammed the neck of the guitar against the stone fireplace mantel. The wood splintered with a sharp crack, the instrument of his hidden past destroyed.

Shawn’s massive body crumpled, not from a kick, but from pure psychological trauma. "Sabrina! Why?!" he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper.

"Because you broke my heart, Shawnie," Sabrina said, her eyes cold. "And now I'm breaking the lie your father forced you to live."

The final barrier of control snapped. Shawn screamed—a full, feral roar of pure, unleashed fury—and lunged.

Sabrina met his rush. The initial exchange was a brutal, frantic chaos. Shawn, blinded by rage, tried to use his size to crush her in a bear hug. Sabrina, tiny and quick, darted, using the massive oak bed as her anchor.

Shawn tried to seize her waist, but Sabrina slipped out of his grasp, leveraging the bed frame. She drove her elbow hard into his floating rib. Shawn grunted, stumbling back, his hands momentarily dropping from her body.

Sabrina delivered a lighting-fast series of karate chops to the side of his neck and throat, disorienting him. Shawn stumbled against the antique dresser, sending a lamp crashing to the floor.

Shawn recovered, fueled by pure adrenaline, and managed to seize her ankle. He spun her around, sending her flying, and she landed hard on the plush master bed.

"Got you, you little bitch!" Shawn roared, his eyes wide and victorious. He leapt onto the bed after her, his huge body a dark silhouette of fury, finally achieving the dominant position he had been planning for the entire weekend. He stood over her, his hands reaching, his voice filled with terrifying dominance.

"You lose, Sabrina. YOU LOSE!"

Sabrina didn't panic. She maintained eye contact, a cold, challenging smirk fixed on her lips, her body completely relaxed on the expensive duvet. This only fueled Shawn's rage. He lunged onto the bed, his massive body intending to pin her completely.

Sabrina moved first. As Shawn's bulk descended, she executed a rapid back tuck and roll, moving backward and using the momentum of his body to boost her. Her tiny frame slipped under his reaching arms. Shawn crashed onto the mattress, his sheer weight causing the springs to groan loudly.

Before Shawn could regain his footing on the soft surface, Sabrina was up and circling the bed. "You think winning is about size, Shawn? You think it's about being on top?" she taunted.

Shawn scrambled up onto his knees, his face contorted. "It is about size! It's about taking what I want!" He launched himself again.

This time, Sabrina waited. As his massive hand shot out to grab her, she drove her sharp elbow straight into his diaphragm. The blow was non-lethal but instantly sickening. Shawn wheezed, his stomach clenching. He stumbled back a step.

Sabrina exploited the opening. She used his own body as leverage. She leaped onto his broad back, locking her small hands around his neck. She was anchored to the $6'3"$ giant like a small, furious backpack.

"You can't even stand up straight when a tiny girl gets on your back!" Sabrina screamed into his ear. She squeezed his neck with a tight sleeper hold, cutting off his air supply.

Shawn roared, struggling to reach her. He frantically slammed his back against the cedar wardrobe doors. CRASH! The wardrobe doors splintered, but Sabrina held tight, leveraging her $4'11"$ weight perfectly.

"Get off me, you crazy bitch!" Shawn choked, his face turning a deep, alarming red.

He stumbled away from the wardrobe, blindly swiping for a solution. He grabbed a heavy brass bedside lamp and, in a moment of panic, swung it wildly. Sabrina saw the danger, quickly released the choke, and dropped to the floor, executing a perfectly controlled dancer's drop.

Part 18: The Ultimate Surrender (Final Climax)

The air in the bedroom was thick with ozone, sweat, and the electric, primal rage of shattered male privilege. Shawn had successfully used his brute wrestling training, fueled by the residual power of the Mak Erot potion and pure, unadulterated fury, to pin Sabrina to the floor near the foot of the bed. His massive 6'3" body, a solid wall of angry muscle, was draped over her petite 4'11" frame.

“See, I’m the fuckin’ man!” Shawn roared, his breath hot and ragged, smelling of old beer and the cologne his father bought him. His chest heaved above her, his eyes wild with toxic, triumphant certainty. “I’m THE MAN, the dominant creature! And you’re just a helpless little girl who thought she could pull some stupid powerplay on me!” He squeezed his grip on her wrists, pinning her arms above her head against the floorboards. “But you can’t move... you cannot move, sweetheart. Now you’re on my mercy. I just need you to beg for my mercy. Say it! Say I win!”

His face was inches from hers, contorted in a triumphant, toxic sneer. The raw reality of his dominance, fueled by the drug and rage, had the intended effect: it sent a terrifying, yet complex, jolt through Sabrina’s body. She was pinned, but she was not broken. She felt his body weight, his heat, and the undeniable, rock-hard erection—swollen to a grotesque degree—that pressed aggressively into her thigh.

One thing Shawn did not calculate, however, was the fatal flaw of his own arousal, a biological consequence that Sabrina’s biologist brain instantly understood. The erection, the biggest of his life, wasn't just a sign of sexual dominance; it was a lethal flaw, the ultimate setup. One of the body’s mechanisms for an erection is the contraction of muscles that normally lower the testicles away from the body for protection. Now, these contracted muscles drew the testes tight against the pubic bone, completely eliminating their natural shock absorber space. A relaxed scrotum might recoil from a kick, but his erection meant the slightest blow would slam his testicles directly into his own hard bone. The nerve endings, already on high alert from the Mak Erot potion and arousal, would experience pain amplified exponentially. He was fully commando, and he was ready for a catastrophic internal collision.

“I said, BEG!!!!” Shawn screamed, spittle flying, his face crimson with the effort of holding her down.

Instead of pleading, Sabrina flashed a defiant smirk, a tiny, lethal sliver of white in the darkness of his rage. "Oh, I'll beg? How about you do the begging, Shawnie? I think that uniform looks better when it's wrinkled on the floor."

With Shawn's massive legs spread wide for balance—the classic, overconfident wrestler’s stance—Sabrina shifted her tiny weight subtly beneath him. Using the element of surprise and the perfect leverage of his wide stance, she drove her knee up from below, perfectly positioned and sharp.

The knee connected with a sickening, wet THWUMP right into Shawn’s testicles, which were clamped taut between Sabrina’s knee and his own pubic bone. There was literally nowhere for his balls to run.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Shawn's roar started as a sonic boom and ended in a lost, choked noise. The pain was so intense it overloaded his system, silencing his vocal cords. He couldn't scream; he could only gasp—a frantic, high-pitched Eeeee! that sounded less like a man and more like a steam whistle failing.

But Sabrina wasn't done. As Shawn's body instinctively curled inward, his grip on her wrists went slack. Sabrina's small, quick hand shot out, reaching through the zipper gap—already stressed from the massive erection—and she clamped her fingers around the soft, exposed bulge of his balls before he could react.

At first contact—her fingers clamping around the soft, swollen, exposed organs—his smug expression instantly froze. The subsequent squeeze compressed the testicles against his pelvic bone, sending a searing, nauseating jolt of white-hot pain shooting through his nerves. His erection, which had offered no give, only amplified the pressure like squeezing an overripe tomato.

Shawn's eyes bulged like cartoon saucers, and he let out a high-pitched, desperate yelp—"YIIIKES!"—that echoed faintly from the walls. His grip on Sabrina released completely as his body instinctively curled inward, hands flying to his groin in protective panic. He staggers back, trying to stand but fails, and he doubles over. "Ow-ow-ow! Mercy! MERCY!" he squealed, his voice cracking into high soprano territory. He was hyperventilating, his body convulsing in pure agony.

 

Sabrina felt a rush she hadn't felt before—a profound, dizzying sense of power that went beyond simple revenge. The power of a woman who had finally seized the unearned leverage of a man. She felt the tears welling up in her own eyes—not of physical pain, but of cathartic release. She cried because she realized she was so often powerless, and lots of women are still powerless, but at this moment, she had completely and utterly emasculated the most dominant man she knew.

She looked down at the whimpering giant, tears of her own streaming down her face, and spoke slowly, her voice thick with emotion and triumph: “Men are powerless.”

She tightened her grip for one last, agonizing second, the pressure a definitive period to her sentence. Then she released him.

Now fully consumed by agony, Shawn dropped to his knees, clutching himself with both hands, his face turning an alarming beet red. Tears of shame and pain mixed as the referred pain shot violently to his abdomen, making him gag dramatically, the sound echoing hollowly in the big room. "Please, Sabrina! I beg you—stop! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I’ll do anything, I swear!" he whimpered, rolling onto his side in the fetal position, his massive legs drawn up like a wounded puppy.

Sabrina stood tall, dusting off her hands with a triumphant grin. "See? Told you you'd beg, you bastard. Say it louder."

Shawn buried his face into the carpet. "I BEG YOU!"

 

The sound of his desperate whimpers triggered a terrifying vision in Shawn’s mind, pulling him into his deepest, most suppressed memory. The agony wasn't just physical; it was a psychological replay of his greatest trauma.

He saw his imposing father, John Mendes, years ago, down on the floor of this very lodge, clutching his groin and whimpering just like he was. His big, strong dad, the ultimate alpha, reduced to an infantile mess by the Indonesian housekeeper, Tiara. Shawn finally realized this wasn't bad luck; this was a curse, a vulnerability that flowed through the blood of cocky men—the blood of Mendeses—who were destined to be brought down by the hands of women. The realization shattered his identity. He couldn't move; his mind was broken.

Tate and Olivia rushed into the room, seeing Sabrina standing over the sobbing, defeated Shawn. They immediately hugged Sabrina. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you, Sab?” Olivia demanded, checking her friend over frantically.

Sabrina leaned into their embrace, a cold, final smile settling on her lips. “I’m okay, but this man is not okay.” She laughed, pulling back as Shawn started to whimper and gag again.

She walked over to the defeated alpha, using her tiny $4'11"$ frame to tower over his crumpled $6'3"$ form.

“Kiss my feet,” Sabrina commanded, her voice suddenly void of emotion, just pure authority. She tapped her sneaker against his bruised cheek.

Shawn, still rocking, opened one eye. He could not believe the words. “N-no… please, Sabrina. I’m injured. Don’t do this.”

Sabrina’s smile vanished. Her voice dropped to a lethal whisper, echoing the threat of John Bobbitt and the power of women scorned. “Kiss my feet, or I fuckin’ cut your dick off right here and now. Don’t test me, Shawn. You saw what happened to your buddy, John. Do you think I’m bluffing? We’re sending you to the hospital in minutes. I can call an ambulance now and just tell them I found you like this. Your father will see the headline.”

Shawn gasped, the ultimate fear overriding his last shred of ego. "O...okay... Sabrina, please don’t…”

With a defeated groan that sounded like a dying beast, the $6'3"$ Frat President reached out, trembling, and kissed the tip of Sabrina’s worn sneaker.

Sabrina pulled her foot back quickly and stared down at the broken man. “You’re garbage, Shawn, but you’re hot. So, for now on, you’ll be my boytoy. You’re my property. You obey, you flex when I tell you to, you stay quiet, and you never, ever cheat again. Understood?”

Shawn could only whimper, "Y-yes... understood."

The Finale: Powerpuff Girl Hit

The three girls—Sabrina, Tate, and Olivia—hugged fiercely, their laughter blending with Shawn's pathetic sobs. It was the sound of complete, final victory.

“Let’s finish the job, girls,” Sabrina said, her eyes alight with a vengeful fire.

They rushed to the bed. Sabrina grabbed a silk scarf from the bedside table and efficiently tied Shawn’s massive, trembling hands to the ornate headboard.

The girls gathered, looking down at the defeated, pathetic figure. The air was charged with feminist vengeance. They moved in close, side-by-side, the three tiny figures—$4'11"$, $5'1"$, and $5'2"$.

In perfect, devastating synchronization, they executed the “POWERPUFF GIRL HIT”:

Tate (The Dancer—delivered a precise, lightning-fast knuckle-punch to Shawn’s already crushed left testicle (the one hit by the bull). The sound was a sharp, focused CRACK.

Olivia The Athlete—delivered an upward, focused jab to the right testicle (the one hit by the paintball ). The impact was heavy and loud: THWACK.

Sabrina The Mastermind—delivered a final, powerful, open-handed smack to the sensitive shaft of his penis (the dick that had caused the erection and the arrogance). The slap resonated with a high-pitched WHAAP!

The triple impact was an overload. Shawn’s body arched violently off the bed. His face turned a deep, alarming purple. He let out one final, high-pitched, guttural scream—“NNNNOOOOO—A-A-A-G-G-G-H!”—before his head slammed back onto the pillow. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes rolled backward into his head, and the Gigachad Frat President lost consciousness completely.

The three girls stepped back, dusting their hands off with satisfaction. They looked at the still-whimpering figures of Daniel and Joshua, who were still cradling themselves on the floor nearby, paralyzed by fear and pain.

Sabrina smiled, grabbing Shawn’s keys and wallet. “We’re gonna take your Yukon Denali to go home, but don’t worry, we’re gonna send a doctor. We’re calling Dr. Silla Kinanti, the feminist urologist from hell.”

Olivia laughed. “We earned this, girls. Let’s clean up and leave these bastards to their fate.”

The three girls hugged one last time, their laughter ringing through the massive lodge. They walked toward the indoor hot tub. “Let’s hit the sauna and have a few of Shawn’s expensive champagnes,” Tate suggested.

They left Shawn and the other boys defeated, humiliated, and broken on the battlefield of sex.

Women will always win. The revolution is coming. Are you ready, boys?