The Lodge (Part 1 - 7)

 

Part 1: The Sorority

The air in the Delta Zeta common room was thick with the scent of cheap hairspray, ambition, and the faint, sweet promise of summer hedonism. Boxes were stacked near the door, ready for the trip north. In front of a large, cracked mirror, Sabrina Carpenter, tiny but radiating absolute confidence in a white cotton mini-dress, applied a final, perfect layer of matte lipstick.

Olivia Rodrigo, curled up on the neighboring bed, looked like a gorgeous, very concerned owl. She was already packed, wearing comfortable track shorts and a vintage university hoodie—a stark contrast to Sabrina’s flirtatious attire.

“So, we’re really doing this? We’re going to Shawn Mendes’s lodge?” Olivia asked, her voice laced with skepticism that bordered on annoyance.

Sabrina snapped the lipstick case shut and studied her reflection. “Yup. I mean, the place is actually incredible. It’s on the lake, the lodge itself is like, a rustic palace, and it has so many insane activities nearby. Hiking, boating, that stupid little outdoor bar they set up. Plus, I’ve been so stale lately. Needs must, Liv. No harm, right?”

Olivia uncurled herself and sat up straight. She fixed Sabrina with a skeptical gaze. “No harm? Are you listening to yourself? The harm is Mendes boy would try to fuck you, and you, my feminist queen, will crawl back into him the second you remember his hot body, those massive biceps, and his famously giant dick.”

Sabrina flinched, but only slightly, tilting her chin up.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sabrina. That stupid manchild is like your only weakness, your kryptonite, your goddamn Achilles’ heel! You’re literally an ultra-feminist who hates men on a structural level—you called your own dad out as a small-dick cheater in front of his entire office staff! How the fuck can you still be dating a big-ass playboy giant like Shawn?” Olivia threw her hands up in exasperation, settling back against the pillows.

The silence that followed was heavy with Sabrina’s complex history. Olivia wasn’t wrong. Sabrina’s anti-male rhetoric wasn't just talk; it was a deeply held philosophy forged by observing the casual arrogance and entitlement of powerful men, starting with her own father, whose executive position never stopped her from publicly dressing him down. Most women wanted to call out their cheating or sexist fathers, but few had the sheer, chilling courage to tell their dad, in front of his CEO, that he was an emotionally stunted bastard who should be grateful her mother hadn't used scissors on his prized possession. For Sabrina, men, especially arrogant ones, were a joke—a constant source of comedic, predictable failure.

But then came Shawn Mendes, the devastatingly hot $6'3"$ mess with the curly hair, the frat presidency, and the distracting bulge. He was her poison. Sabrina really was intoxicated with him, with the sheer, unapologetic confidence of his “sex god” image. The illusion of being the woman who could tame or, at least, match the most desired man on campus, had gotten to her. She really thought she was in love.

Their height difference was a staggering visual declaration of his physical dominance and her smallness, a difference that only fueled her attraction and subsequent rage. Shawn, at 6'3", was a solid foot and four inches taller than Sabrina’s 4'11". When they stood face-to-face, Sabrina's head barely cleared his chest, resting at the level of his pectorals. For a kiss, he had to literally bend down, splaying his long legs slightly for balance, a posture that, to Sabrina, felt both possessive and subtly infantilizing. It was a power move that forced her to look up, physically and figuratively.

That was, until she found out he cheated on her with a sophomore girl during the Kappa Sigma mixer. That set Sabrina off. No man would get away with that level of casual disrespect from her. It was a moment of pure, blinding feminist rage.

Olivia still vividly remembered the day of the confrontation. Shawn had marched into the sorority house lounge, tracking mud on the pale carpet, and cornered Sabrina near the fireplace. Olivia and Tate had been there, lurking nervously in the hallway. Olivia wanted to interfere, but Sabrina gave her that tight, defiant look—the one that always said, I can handle this bastard alone.

Olivia always called it Sabrina's "Valerie Solanas Syndrome": she was so determined to prove she could take down any male ego single-handedly that she struggled to ask for or accept help.

They watched as Shawn, the slimy giant, opened his legs wide and bent his torso over her, bringing his massive, handsome face down to hers to try and gaslight her.

“Sabrina, babe, come on. It was nothing. Just a drunk mistake. You know how much I love you. Do you really want to throw away all this for some random—"

He paused, trying to maintain eye contact, the sheer size of his body invading her personal space like a physical barrier. His face was only inches from hers, but his hips were angled, and he was forced to splay his feet about three feet apart, leaning forward like a question mark over her petite, rigid frame. His dark blue polo strained over his chest muscles, and his jeans tightened precisely around his groin—the center of his masculinity, now perfectly positioned and unguarded between his wide-set legs.

Sabrina, pinned by his height and his bullshit, looked ready to cave. Olivia and Tate saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the familiar sign that the "Shawn Poison" was working. Shawn saw it too and started to smile, leaning in for what he thought would be an easy, forgiving kiss.

But then, Sabrina’s gaze flickered up, catching Olivia’s eye across the room. Olivia, desperate, subtly made a quick, short kicking motion with her foot. Do it. Just once.

Sabrina’s eyes hardened. She grabbed Shawn’s massive shoulders, which were already lowered near her head, and pulled his face down for a deep, desperate kiss. Shawn, victorious, closed his eyes, his guard completely dropped.

And then... BOOM.

The kick was fast, low, and brutal. Sabrina didn’t even need to wind up; the sheer, unguarded proximity was the key. Since Shawn was already hunched over with his legs spread for stability, his testicles were hanging perfectly exposed at her mid-thigh level. She drove her knee up, not with a soccer player’s force, but with a dancer’s precision, landing the blow exactly where his pride resided. It was a kick that could make any man feel it just by witnessing it.

The sound was a sickening, sharp thud followed by a wet, gurgling gasp that came straight from Shawn's soul.

He didn't scream. He didn't swear. He just released a sound that was pure, visceral agony—the sound of a man’s reproductive future being instantly and comically liquidated. His face, seconds ago full of self-satisfied charm, contorted into a mask of pure, white-hot, tear-inducing pain .

Shawn dropped his arms from her shoulders and clutched his groin as if trying to physically contain the explosion. He didn't fall immediately, but instead froze, legs shaking, before slowly collapsing onto his knees, still bent over in the same pathetic question-mark posture he had adopted to gaslight her. He was absolutely useless, a 6'3" statue of agony.

Sabrina smiled, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her face as she remembered. Olivia laughed, interrupting Sabrina's private reverie.

“I knew you were imagining Shawn’s reaction again,” Olivia teased, tossing a hair scrunchie at her. “God, next time you should record it. Put it on a loop for your pre-date prep.”

Sabrina giggled, applying a touch of lip gloss over the matte layer. “Oh, I didn’t have to. It’s burned into my memory, Liv. You know how he is when he’s trying to be ‘smooth’? He leans down and does that ridiculous, splayed-leg pose like he’s inviting you to a buffet? Yeah, I just remember him doing that, and then the sound. The sound! It was like a wet sock hitting a sack of walnuts.”

“A sack of walnuts!” Olivia wheezed, covering her face.

“And then the slump,” Sabrina continued, mocking his deep, rumbling voice with a pathetic whine. “‘Sabrina, babe, I— I don’t think I can—’ And then he tried to stand up, but his spine was locked, and he just sort of waddled away like a cartoon penguin before Daniel had to come running and cradle his big, cheating ass out the door.”

“It was beautiful,” Olivia sighed dramatically, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “The greatest power move in modern feminist history. That’s why you’re still a legend here.”

“It’s why I’m confident going back to the Lodge,” Sabrina said, turning serious but keeping the sharp edge in her voice. “If they try anything funny, I swear I’ll make him vomit his own balls, Liv. But look, this isn't just about Shawn. He has his two little sheep with him.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. Joshua, the captain of the male soccer team. The one who spent all last semester protesting the women’s team getting equal funding for our new turf. A true bastard.”

“Exactly,” Sabrina confirmed, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing Olivia. “You know he’ll try to get to you. He’s obsessed with the idea of ‘conquering’ the best athlete on campus, especially one he hates competing with. You’re better than him at every aspect of the game, and he absolutely knows it. Maybe you can put some trick into him.”

Olivia grinned, a predatory flash in her eyes that only fellow athletes recognized. “Oh, I have a few things planned for ‘Shawn Jr.’ A little surprise during a casual game of two-on-two. I’ll make sure he realizes his real weakness isn’t just his ego, but his sloppy footwork.”

“Perfect,” Sabrina said. “And then there’s Daniel—the ‘strategist’ Vice Prez. He’s the joker, always thinking he’s three steps ahead. He’s targeting Tate, the quietest one, because he thinks she’s the easiest.”

Both girls turned to look at Tate McRae, who had been sitting silently at her desk, carefully organizing a small duffel bag with surgical precision. She was tiny, only an inch or two taller than Sabrina, and always had a nervous, shy energy, which Daniel had clearly misinterpreted.

Tate glanced up, noticing the attention, and gave them a small, tight smile.

“Tate, you good?” Olivia asked.

“Totally,” Tate said, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m packed. I’m ready. I even did my deep-stretches this morning. I’m thinking about the geometry of the situation. 5'11" is a good height. Good distance for the hip extension.”

Sabrina and Olivia exchanged a glance that said, Yes, the new Tate is terrifying.

“You know Shawn will have an instant hard-on just seeing you in that dress, right?” Olivia stated, referencing Sabrina’s short white cotton number.

“And you know Joshua will try to get you, the second we walk in the door?” Sabrina asked back, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Both girls dissolved into a fit of laughter, high and wicked. “The boys won’t know what hit them,” Olivia managed to gasp out. “The girl power move. They walk in expecting a conquest, and they'll leave needing crutches.”

Tate joined them, walking over to the bed with a lightness in her step only a seasoned dancer possessed. She didn’t look shy anymore; she looked focused, almost ruthless.

“I’m ready for the weekend,” Tate confirmed, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’ve heard all the stories. I know the mission.”

The truth was, Tate was ready for much more than a mission. She had a massive, potentially explosive secret that would make this weekend a nightmare for Daniel if it got out.

She had secretly… been dating Daniel Seavey for the last three months.

 

Part 2: The Zipper Incident

Shawn’s phone alarm went off, blasting a bass-heavy trap song that cut through the humid, post-coital air of his dorm room. He was still tangled in the sheets with Asha, a junior year sociology student with sleepy eyes and an impressive lack of attachment.

He kissed her neck, moving his hand possessively over her hip. Asha giggled, stretching languidly. “Easy, handsome. What a night.”

Yep, that was Shawn Mendes. The guy who sleeps around so much that if he were a girl, the whole campus would call him a slut, but since he was a 6'3" Frat Prez with a jawline that could cut glass, he was a "legend," a "Chad," a MAN. Shawn wasn't just physical; he was overtly dominant, using his massive body strength to pin her, kiss her neck, and touch her in a way that left no doubt who was in control. It was performative masculinity, and he loved it.

But the dominant reverie was broken by a buzzing message on his phone. It was Daniel, reminding him today was the day they were heading up to the lodge with the girls.

“Shit,” Shawn muttered, a real word finally cutting through the fog of ego. He kissed Asha hard one last time. “Babe, gotta go. I’m heading up north with Josh and Daniel. You know, Lodge weekend.”

Asha didn’t even look upset. She gave him a carefree smile while easily pulling on her bra. “Well, see you again, handsome. Text me when you’re back.” She quickly gathered her clothes, already moving on.

Shawn hopped out of bed. He was rushing, not wanting to keep the guys waiting. He grabbed his tight, familiar blue polo shirt and wrestled it over his broad shoulders, pausing only to admire the chest-to-waist ratio in the full-length mirror. He was built for this, literally. He grabbed his favorite pair of dark-wash jeans and pulled them up over his muscular legs, moving quickly and carelessly.

He was, of course, going commando.

That was part of the frat culture—a ridiculous, unofficial rule—but it was also Shawn’s personal, narcissistic choice. Why should he "jail" his huge treasure when he was about to embark on a conquest trip? Why put a textile barrier between his sex-god-image and the world? He was totally unfocused on the mechanics of his clothing; he was focused on his massive ego, his fading morning wood, and the triumphant feeling of knowing he was about to get Sabrina back.

He didn't even notice that his dick, still slightly engorged and proudly unsupported, was directly in the path of the zipper. He simply grabbed the metal pull tab and yanked the zipper up with the same clumsy, arrogant speed he applied to everything in his life.

And then: “ARGHHHHHH!”

The squeaky, undignified sound that escaped him was more akin to a puppy toy being brutally squashed than the cry of a 6'3" collegiate athlete. The sound was loud enough to startle a flock of birds outside his window. The zipper had caught the tip of his dick, pinching a sliver of highly sensitive skin in its cold, cruel teeth.

“SHIT! FUCK! ARGHHHHH AAAA!”

Shawn froze, a magnificent, muscular statue of pure agony. He started doing a frantic, tiny jig, hopping from one foot to the other as if the floor had turned into hot coals. His hands hovered uselessly near the zipper, paralyzed by the fear of making it worse. His face, seconds ago full of self-satisfied confidence, was now contorted into a horrifying, tear-streaked grimace .

Asha, who was halfway through pulling her sweatshirt over her head, paused. She looked at the giant, whimpering man in confusion. “What the hell happened, Shawn? Did you pull a hammy?”

Then she followed his eyes down to the focal point of his pain, and the realization hit her.

“Oh my god! Your dick is stuck in the zipper!”

Asha didn't rush to help. She didn't gasp in sympathy. She threw her head back and let loose a sound of unrestrained, hysterical laughter. She was wheezing, clutching her own sides.

“No, no, no, you are kidding me!” she choked out between bursts of laughter. The sight of the massive, handsome "prince" reduced to a high-pitched squeak and an impotent hop was just too much. Shawn was incredible in bed, yes, but this was pure comedic gold—the ultimate subversion of his image.

“Asha, please, please stop laughing! I need help! This is not funny!” Shawn whispered, his voice dangerously close to cracking.

“It is so funny, Shawn! It is hysterical!” she gasped, taking a deep breath to regain control. “You are 6'3", the Frat President, and you’re defeated by a little piece of metal! This is karma, babe.”

Shawn tried to slowly pull the zipper down, which only scraped the delicate skin further. He let out a sharp, unmanly yelp that sounded like a tiny dog being stepped on.

Asha finally felt a twinge of pity—or maybe just the realization that this spectacle needed to end.

“Okay, okay. Look, you won’t do anything about that. Men are too attached to their dicks to hurt them more. You’ll just stand here until you pass out. Okay? Let me do it.”

Shawn, sweating profusely, nodded meekly. “Do it slowly, please, Asha. Be gentle.”

She just smiled, a hint of genuine mischief in her eyes. “Sorry, I don’t know how it feels, and frankly, I don’t want to know. But I bet it sucks to be a man sometimes, huh?”

She didn't do it slowly. She grabbed the zipper tab, held the denim firm, and yanked it down hard with one quick, decisive motion, like pulling a lever on a cartoon machine.

Shawn didn't scream this time. His body simply folded in half, a massive slab of muscle instantly useless, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Asha burst into renewed laughter, throwing her head back again. “The frat commando culture is a joke, Shawn!” she managed to call out, grabbing her backpack and keys. She blew him a quick, mocking kiss and left the room, still shaking with laughter.

Shawn lay on the floor for a long, quiet minute, clutching his groin and attempting to breathe. The pain was still a searing wave, but the humiliation was worse. He, Shawn Mendes, the great conqueror, had been dismantled by a zipper and then mocked by a girl whose name he wasn't 100% sure how to spell. He felt smaller than 4'11". He felt like a complete bastard.

Unbeknownst to Shawn, Joshua Bassett had seen the entire humiliating aftermath. Daniel had told Josh to stop by Shawn’s room to remind him and to help load the Yukon Denali.

Joshua, dressed in a near-identical blue polo and slightly-too-new jeans—a perfect, desperate imitation of his idol—had pushed the door open to see if Shawn was awake. The door hadn't been fully closed, and he saw Asha, mid-laughter, yanking the zipper and delivering her ruthless verdict on his idol's anatomy before walking out.

Joshua winced violently, his own legs instinctively crossing as he watched the six-foot-three legend collapse like a cheap tent.

Shawn was like the older brother Joshua never had, and Shawn personally chose him as his successor. Joshua had a huge, terrifying pair of shoes to fill because Shawn was the campus Gigachad—the man whose conquest tales were so legendary they made girls whisper. Joshua, meanwhile, had a problem: he had a small dick. He was 6'1", athletic, and had a set of impressive big balls, but his penis was distinctly below average. His last sexual encounter ended with the girl laughing at him for finishing so quickly.

How the fuck can I live up to that legend? he thought, panicking.

That very morning, this insecurity had driven him to order a clandestine shipment of dubious penis enlargement pills from an online market shop in Indonesia, which he planned to bring on the trip.

Joshua snapped out of his daze and walked toward the prone figure. He carefully stepped around the puddle of Shawn's broken dignity.

“Dude, are you okay? What the hell was that?”

Shawn slowly pushed himself up, his face still pale. He straightened his shirt, his ego already beginning its rapid, desperate inflation.

“Yeah. Just a fuckin’ zipper. Snagged the… the head. Nothing, man. Happens when you don’t wear shorts under the uniform.”

Joshua nodded, though his expression was pitying. Shawn was trying to sound like a grizzled veteran of the sex wars, but his eyes were still tearing up. Joshua offered a hand, helping his leader stand the full 6'3" up.

While Shawn stumbled toward his duffel bag, still favoring his injury, Joshua started efficiently grabbing Shawn's personal items—his keys, his expensive sunglasses, his pre-packed cooler. He didn't realize that in trying to impress Shawn, he simply looked like his personal assistant rather than his successor, but Joshua would do anything to impress Shawn, the closest male authority figure he’d ever known since he’d never met his own father.

“Let’s go get Daniel and then the girls!” Shawn declared, immediately regaining his signature arrogant smirk, the zipper mishap already scrubbed from his memory. “It’s time to win a fuckin’ bet.”

 

Part 3: The First Blue Ball

Shawn Mendes slid the massive GMC Yukon Denali into drive. The car was a jet-black, top-of-the-line Denali—a machine that screamed trust fund and casual arrogance—and it ate up the miles heading north toward the mountains. The smooth leather interior was the perfect incubator for the weekend's escalating tension.

In the passenger seat, Sabrina, a tiny figure in her short dress, angled her body towards him, crossing her legs. Her hand rested on the leather console, dangerously close to his thigh. Shawn had a large, easy grin plastered on his face, feeling like the king of the road.

“So, what can we expect at the infamous Mendes Lodge?” Sabrina asked, her voice light, but her eyes sharp.

Shawn glanced over, flexing his bicep on the steering wheel, a move so practiced it was subconscious. “It’s not just a lodge. It’s an estate. My dad is an architect, so everything is over-the-top, even the wood paneling. We’ve got some sick sporting activities right there, obviously. Wall climbing, full-size tennis court, a range set up for paintball, I guess. Plus, massive campfire area for tonight. Honestly, two nights won’t be enough to explore, but we can always come back.”

He reached across and squeezed her knee, his hand swallowing her thigh. “And the lodge itself has everything. Pool table, hot water jacuzzi, and a crazy view from our room.”

Sabrina leaned slightly into the touch, letting the physical chemistry build. “Oh, our room? You mean the one you and I will definitely not be sharing?” She looked him straight in the eyes, a playful, yet firm challenge. “I think the girls will sleep separately from the boys, Shawn.”

He chuckled, a deep, confident rumble in his chest. “Come on, babe. We’re seniors, not freshmen. You think you’re going to resist this view?” He used his left arm to wrap around her shoulder, pulling her small, delicate frame across the console. It was a classic Shawn Mendes counter-strike. He knew she responded to the sheer physicality of his large, tattooed arm wrapped around her.

Sabrina allowed herself to be pulled close, her head resting just below his shoulder, against his powerful chest. “God, it’s so good,” she muttered to herself, the admission of physical pleasure quickly stifled before it could inflate his ego further.

For a terrifying, fleeting moment, it was like the last few months hadn't happened. She forgot the sophomore girl, the cheating, and the humiliation. She was back in the hot, passionate days of their relationship, feeling the comforting pressure of his 6'3"body, the clean scent of his skin, and the curly hair brushing against her temple. It was the heady cocktail of lust and physical happiness that was never real, because Shawn was just a fucking playboy who cheated on anyone, anytime.

 

In the middle row of the Denali, Olivia watched the front seat entanglement with a mix of concern and cynicism. There goes the wall, she thought. Sabrina's ultrafeminist armor was strong, but her hormones were an enemy even she couldn't completely defeat. Men knew how to use physical touch to be manipulative.

Beside her, Joshua was trying his absolute best to engage her. The frat boy was sweating slightly, adjusting the collar of his identical blue polo.

“So, Olivia, about the soccer team budget. Look, I get it, equity and all that. But honestly, your women’s team… you guys don’t even use the field the same way. Our guys, we’re training for tournaments. We need the better turf.”

Olivia didn't even turn her head. She kept her gaze fixed on the passing pine trees. “Right. Because the men’s team is so much more excellent,” she deadpanned.

Joshua missed the sarcasm entirely. “Exactly! We’re the standard. You know, I broke the school record for most goals in a season last fall.”

“In the men’s league, yeah,” Olivia corrected dismissively. “Which is great, Joshua. But I’m still running a faster 40-yard dash than you, and I can juggle the ball one-handed for longer than you can stand without needing to adjust your… posture. We’re training for Nationals, not intramurals.”

Joshua clenched his jaw, his insecurity immediately flaring. He hated that she was factually better than him. He hated that she looked at him with such open pity. He was an athletic Alpha, and she treated him like a clumsy puppy. He just wanted to win her, to prove that his male authority—the authority Shawn taught him—was superior.

He knew he was losing. Wait until the enlargement pills kick in, bitch, he thought, touching his jeans pocket.

 

In the back row, Daniel and Tate were pressed against each other, doing their absolute best not to touch or make eye contact, even though they were texting feverishly.

Tate: Babe, I can’t stop laughing. Josh is such a tool.

Daniel: Don’t call my friends tools. Also, stop talking to me! Shawn keeps looking back, I think he suspects something.

Tate had a genuine, pit-in-her-stomach worry. Soon, she would have to face the inevitable lecture from Sabrina and Olivia about her choice in men, and Daniel would get his own lecture from Shawn about how a VP needs to "discipline" his girl and stop letting her walk all over him.

They decided to stay calm, just text one another the three sacred words, and endure the drive in agonizing, forced silence.

After another hour of mountain roads, the Yukon Denali pulled up to the Mendes Lodge. It wasn't just a lodge; it was a sprawling, three-story timber and stone fortress, nestled against a wall of towering pine trees, looking out over a pristine, snow-dusted lake . The structure was a vulgar display of wealth—too big, too perfect, too expensive for its setting.

Shawn jumped out, flexing his arms, taking a deep, satisfied breath of the cold air. “Welcome to the epicenter of my greatness, people.”

The girls, without consulting the guys, immediately commandeered the entire ground floor, staking their claim on the massive master suite which featured a fireplace and a private terrace. The boys were relegated to the three smaller rooms upstairs.

Shawn, eager to stake his own claim, helped Sabrina carry her bag inside. As soon as the bags were dropped, Sabrina headed straight for the kitchen, desperate for a beer to cut through the hormonal fog Shawn’s arm had created.

She popped the tab on a Corona and glanced around the massive, rustic kitchen. Her eyes immediately snagged on a framed photo hanging on a stone pillar near the bar. It was Shawn and his father, both wearing tight, sleeveless Frat tanks, standing chest-to-chest, flexing their huge biceps. Like father, like son. The visual confirmation of the toxic, muscle-bound ego running through the Mendes lineage was a cold splash of water.

“Missing me already, babe?”

Shawn was suddenly right behind her, having moved with the deceptive silence of a large predator. His huge frame blocked out the light, enveloping her small body. His arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning her against the counter, and he pressed his lips to the back of her neck.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep with me? The master suite has a better fireplace, and I can guarantee a much hotter view than whatever trash Olivia and Tate are bringing.” His voice was a low, seductive whisper.

Sabrina could feel the hard muscle of his chest against her back. More importantly, because he was pressing tight against her, and because he was going commando, she could feel the undeniable, hard pressure of his dick against the small of her back.

She smiled and twisted her body to face him. She had to look all the way up into his arrogant, handsome face.

“So, you want to know my answer, Shawnie?” she purred, her eyes fixed on his.

His pupils were dilated, his smirk widening. He was too focused on the height difference, the sexual tension, and the thought that he was about to win.

“Miss my dick, babe? Then spend the night with me. I promise I’ll make you forget why you kicked me in the first place.”

The heat of his confidence, combined with the press of his commando-clad balls against her, was the final straw. She looked up into his eyes and gave him a smile that held no love, only surgical intent.

Her right hand darted down with lightning speed, catching him completely by surprise. She enclosed her small, delicate fingers around the center of his masculinity, not just his penis, but the sack itself, and gave it a short, sharp squeeze—just enough to be agonizing, not enough to be permanently damaging.

“AARGHH! SABRINA! FUCK! SABRINA!”

The 6'3" figure instantly bent in half, his breath leaving his lungs in a wheezing, desperate gasp. The beer bottle in her other hand never wavered. Shawn was reduced to a hunched, whimpering statue, clutching his own groin in a futile attempt to undo the pain.

Sabrina let go immediately, stepping back and watching the show with detached amusement.

“Easy, Champ. It was just a small squeeze, not the full knee. Are you the big, strong Frat Prez? Come on, Shawnie. But my answer is no.” She raised the bottle to her lips, took a long, slow sip of beer, and winked. “But thank you for the offer.”

She walked away, leaving Shawn frozen in the middle of the kitchen. He slowly straightened up, his face white, his eyes watering. He hobbled quickly to the freezer, grabbing a bag of frozen peas.

“Shit! She’s still a fucking ballbuster,” he hissed, carefully placing the icy bag against his injured pride.

Just as Shawn managed to get the peas situated, Daniel and Joshua walked in. Daniel was chuckling nervously, while Joshua was wide-eyed, his concern genuine.

“Dude, what the hell was that squeal? I thought a baby bear got into the pantry,” Daniel joked, trying to act casual.

Joshua ignored Daniel and rushed to Shawn’s side. “Shawn, man, you okay? Did she hit you again? Do you need a doctor?” His voice was riddled with true fear—an attack on Shawn felt like an attack on the foundational structure of his life.

Shawn waved him off, leaning against the counter. “I’m fine, Josh. Just a warning shot. That bastard is still playing hard to get. She squeezed my nuts, plain and simple.”

Daniel slapped Shawn lightly on the back. “Sucks, bro, but she’s just turning up the heat. You knew this wouldn’t be easy. But you’ll win this bet, man. You’ve always been the closer.”

Shawn pushed the peas up for better contact. “I know. This just confirms it. She’s still hot for me, just pissed. Now look, we need to finalize the plan. Who’s winning the girls’ bet? .”

Daniel smirked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, Tate is locked down. She’s a sweet, shy girl. I’ll win the bet, get the $500, and then tell her it was a joke and we’ll go back to being… us. Easy target. Joshua, you’re stuck with Olivia. You need to crush her spirit—show her that all that athletic confidence is just a phase. You gotta be the alpha. That’s your play.”

Joshua, his face darkening with determination, nodded firmly. “I know. I'll make her drop her attitude. I’m going to conquer the little bitch.”

They continued to discuss the details of their bet, their plans, and the strategy for the weekend, completely oblivious to the small figure hidden just around the corner.

Tate, having followed Daniel downstairs to quietly slip him a kiss and a bag of his favorite candy, was frozen in the hallway leading to the girls' room. She hadn't heard the "joke" part, only the raw, dismissive truth: Daniel had called her the "easy target" and was only interested in winning the "bet."

Tate didn't scream. She didn't cry in a dramatic fit. Her face, usually so nervous and shy, went instantly still and cold. Her hands balled into fists, and the small bag of candy dropped silently to the floor. The betrayal was complete.

With a dancer’s silent, swift footwork, she bolted, rushing toward the girls’ room, the tears finally starting to stream down her face. She slammed the door shut and collapsed against it, desperate to tell Sabrina and Olivia that the fun and games were over.

Part 4: Vagina Monologue

Tate burst into the master suite, sobbing, her small body shaking against the door after she slammed it shut.

“Tate! What the fuck happened?” Olivia immediately jumped off the bed, her face shifting from casual relaxation to instant concern. Sabrina, who had been setting up her speaker on the nightstand, dropped the device and rushed over.

Both girls hugged Tate tight, Sabrina’s tiny frame surprisingly solid, Olivia’s athletic arms providing the necessary support. Tate was nearly hysterical, clutching them both. Her confession finally tumbled out, laced with pain.

“I’m sorry, Sab, Liv. I… I need to admit something. I… I was secretly dating Daniel the last three months. I know, I know he’s a frat boy, but he was… nice. He made me feel special.”

Sabrina and Olivia looked at each other over Tate’s head. Neither was surprised, but both were incredibly sympathetic, seeing the raw devastation on their friend’s face.

“We know, Tater-Tot. We’re not blind. We’re your best friends, honey,” Sabrina said softly, rubbing Tate’s back. “I wanted to stop you, I really did, but I know how it feels to fall for a man who doesn’t deserve our love. God, do I know it. I tried not to be pushy, you know.” Sabrina helped her sit down on the plush rug by the fireplace. “I admit, I can be controlling, and I didn’t want to do that to you because I know how men can be so manipulative. They make you think they’re vulnerable so you’ll pity them.”

“That’s exactly what Daniel does,” Olivia cut in, her voice low and furious. “He plays the 'sensitive lost soul' who just needs to be rescued from Shawn’s influence. But, Tate, honey, Daniel is the Vice President. He is the frat system. He’s just as shallow and self-serving as Shawn, only he wraps his ego in poetry and French candies.”

Tate choked out a sound that was half-sob, half-protest. “No! He’s not! He’s different! He wrote me songs! He said he loved me! He was scared of Shawn, that’s all! You don’t understand, I was finally happy.”

“We understand, Tate,” Sabrina said, putting a hand firmly on her knee. “But tell us what you heard. What were they talking about?”

Tate took a shaky breath, her face twisting in renewed fury. “They have a bet. A $500 bet to see who can… who can fuck us first. And Daniel called me the ‘easy target.’ He said he’d win the bet, get the money, and then he’d go back to ‘being us.’ He was just using me to boost his status!”

The air in the room went cold. The fun was definitively over. Shawn’s cheating was a crime against Sabrina; Daniel’s betrayal was a calculated, devastating crime against female solidarity.

Olivia shot up off the floor, ready for violence. “Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m going downstairs right now. I swear to God, I’ll take a poker from the fireplace and shove it up Joshua’s ass! Should we confront them? We need to ruin their weekend, now!”

Sabrina stood up, her mind calculating. “I don’t think so, Liv. Confrontation is their game. Logic and screaming is not going to hurt them. Let them keep playing their stupid game, but we’re three steps ahead. We let them think we’re still clueless and available. They’ll try their absolute best to sweet-talk their way into our pants, to ‘conquer’ us, but every single attempt is going to be a humiliating, painful failure.”

“How, though? They’re three huge guys, Sab. They’re expecting… charm and a desperate hook-up,” Tate asked, the curiosity finally cutting through her heartbreak.

Sabrina grinned, a slow, cold, predatory expression. “Well, charm is out. We attack their fucking balls.”

 

For a moment, the girls were silent, then the full, vulgar reality of the plan hit them, and they burst into harsh, triumphant laughter—a sound of collective female fury and bonding.

“You are unbelievable, Sabrina, but you’re absolutely right!” Olivia wheezed, collapsing back onto the bed and clutching a pillow. “It’s brilliant in its simplicity!”

Tate was still confused. “You mean… I should kick Daniel in the balls like you kicked Shawn?”

“Not yet! Not yet!” Sabrina said, pacing, her voice vibrating with energy. “We attack them slowly and make it look like an accident. Like when we play paintball, we know where to strike. We’ll also prank them more using their stupid size and weakness, but we’ll think of that afterward. For now, one step at a time.”

Sabrina sat back down between them, pulling them close. “Okay, listen up, Tater-Tot. This is your crash course in male biology and feminist payback.” She adopted a mock-academic tone. “Men seem strong—they’re bigger, they’re muscled, thanks to all that testosterone. But nature hates them so much she played a cruel, cosmic joke on them. Evolution decided that the reproductive function was more important than protection, so Mother Nature put their highly specialized, temperature-sensitive organs outside the body! The most valuable thing they have is hanging exposed, right there for any stray elbow or misplaced step to destroy.”

She gestured dramatically, like a professor pointing at a diagram.

. “I’m a Bio major, remember? The testes have the highest concentration of nerve endings of any organ, making them excruciatingly sensitive. That’s why the pain shoots through the whole abdomen, causing nausea and paralyzing them completely. It’s almost a joke how vulnerable men are down there, and defeating them by exploiting their balls is like defeating them using their own center of masculinity. It’s perfect! We don’t have those external organs, so we can’t feel that pain. Women’s anatomy is flawless—all the sensitive bits are safely tucked away inside.”

“Men act like kicking there is illegal,” Olivia chimed in, nodding fiercely. “They pretend it’s some sacrosanct 'unwritten rule' in a fight. But why should we always play by their rules? They’re just dumb creatures who’ve used their physical strength to oppress us for centuries. It’s time for the payback. We use the only weakness Mother Nature gave us to bring them down!”

“Now, let’s walk to the paintball place nearby. I have an idea that needs a quick setup,” Sabrina declared.

 

The three girls slipped out the back door silently. Through the window, they could see the three guys—Shawn, Daniel, and Joshua—clinking Corona bottles in the kitchen, already bragging about the bet, completely oblivious to the coming storm.

As they walked down the forested path toward the activities center, Tate was still processing. “When did you two realize men’s balls are so weak?” she asked, genuinely curious, as if she was late to a life-changing trend.

Olivia answered first, adjusting her stride. “When I accidentally kicked a guy in intramural soccer last year because he screamed that women couldn’t play real football. I meant to hit the ball, but I kicked his groin instead. He went down screaming, and I just stood there, thinking, ‘Wow. That’s all it takes?’ He tried to kick the ball back at me, but I have nothing there, so it didn’t hurt me. Women’s anatomy is flawless," Olivia repeated, laughing easily. “So yeah, when I see clips of famous soccer players like Martin Ødegaard or Gavi getting hit there, I just laugh because I would never feel that pain. Poor, delicate men.”

Sabrina added, her voice dropping slightly. “My mom taught me.”

The other two stopped dead. “Really?”

“Yup. I’m 100\% serious. My mom taught me that lesson when I was a teenager. She believes women should teach their daughters that secret of men so we can teach the men a lesson.” Sabrina sighed, a deep breath of inherited trauma. “Personally, I believe all 18-year-old men should be thrown into a jail for a year and learn decency before they’re allowed to enter society. But since we can’t do that, we need to teach them, and the only thing we could do is kick them down there to show them we know their weakness, and we will exploit it. It’s the only language they speak.”

Sabrina's voice cracked slightly as she continued, the pain of her childhood briefly resurfacing. “And yeah, my mom literally kicked my dad’s balls when he cheated, and I told that story to his whole office. I heard a secretary he harassed later kicked him, too. I think my dad can’t get an erection now. That’s why he’s so obsessed with me finding a husband—because he doesn’t have a son, and he lives through his projection of Shawn: the perfect, towering, hyper-masculine son he never had. He wants that legacy of conquest to continue. Well, I know I’m kinda messed up in the head, but try having a cheating father who thinks he’s untouchable. You’re gonna end up exactly like me: a ball-kicking, man-hating biology major.”

The three girls shared a renewed burst of laughter, but this time, it was laced with genuine warmth. Olivia and Tate stopped and hugged Sabrina tightly, acknowledging her pain and her brilliance.

They finally arrived at the small, prefabricated building for the Paintball and Ropes Course area. To Sabrina’s immense joy, the worker sitting behind the desk was a girl.

Sabrina walked up and smoothly slid a folded $50 bill onto the counter. “Hey, girl.”

The worker, who introduced herself as Lexie, eyed the money and then the tiny blonde woman.

“Can we have a request, girl-to-girl?” Sabrina asked, leaning in. “We want some girl power revenge here. If three guys named Mendes, Bassett, and Seavey come to book a paintball session, can you tell them you’re mysteriously out of groin protectors? They’re arrogant; they’ll play anyway. But we need a clean shot.”

Lexie’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Shawn Mendes? The 6'3" Frat Prez?”

“The very one.”

A slow, vicious grin spread across Lexie’s face. “He’s a jerk. He flirted with me last summer, promised he’d text, and then vanished after convincing me to sleep with him. You know what? Keep your fifty. I’ll do it for free. Just please, please shoot his balls twice. Once for you, and once for me.”

Sabrina and Lexie locked eyes in a silent bond of sisterhood forged in shared male betrayal. “You can count on me, girl. We’ll aim for the bullseye. He won’t even know what hit him.”

With the Paintball setup secured, the three women silently slipped back into the Lodge, their mission now fully operational and endorsed by a growing network of Shawn's victims. They were no longer three individuals; they were a united front ready to exploit the biological weakness of men.

Part 5:Mak Erot and Pendulum

The six of them finally walked together toward the paintball range after a tense, awkward lunch. The mountain breeze was sharp and invigorating, whipping the hair of the girls and making the boys feel aggressively manly.

Shawn was striding ahead, radiating confidence. His  figure, encased in tight denim, made him look like a moving Greek statue. His left arm was draped possessively around Sabrina, pulling her slight 4'11" frame into his side. He loved the contrast. He loved that she was wearing hot, short athletic shorts that made his hand itch to wander. He loved that he was, of course, going commando.

As they rounded a bend in the path, Shawn felt an undeniable, embarrassing shift in his pants. The friction from the tight denim against the fabric of her shorts, combined with the lingering hormonal buzz from their kitchen encounter, had given him a significant, inconvenient hard-on. That was the thing people didn't understand about having such an enormous anatomy; it had a mind of its own and required constant, delicate maintenance.

“Wait a moment,” Shawn mumbled, releasing Sabrina’s shoulder and quickly stepping a few yards off the path behind a thick pine tree, pretending to check his phone. He turned his back to the group and unzipped his jeans just enough to allow him to reach in and adjust his enormous dick. He gave it a firm, authoritative flick to remind it who was in charge, hoping to bring the erection back to a manageable level.

The Mak Erot Potion

Joshua, already stressed about the looming challenge with Olivia was walking beside Daniel. He happened to glance over just as Shawn was completing his adjustment. He saw the sheer, arrogant size of Shawn’s exposed anatomy and felt a familiar, crushing wave of inadequacy.

That’s the difference, Joshua thought, his chest tightening. He can whip his out in public just to adjust it. Mine wouldn’t even fill up that space.

How could he possibly match Shawn’s legend and earn his "daddy's" pride when he was so obviously deficient? He reached into the deep pocket of his perfectly ironed jeans, his fingers brushing against the small bottle he’d smuggled from his duffel bag: the "Mak Erot Potion," a dubious, pungent liquid he’d bought online, claiming to be a traditional Indonesian preparation to enhance dick size.

Driven by desperation, Joshua quickly unscrewed the cap and, with a subtle, jerky motion that made him look like he was fumbling with his phone, he downed a large, oily sip of the potion. The taste was bitter and earthy, like old tree bark and regret. He didn't realize that Olivia was walking right beside him and caught the odd, furtive movement—though she didn't realize he was taking a sketchy, traditional Indonesian penis enlargement drug. She just filed the bizarre, rushed consumption under "Joshua’s Weird Tics."

Shawn quickly zipped up, his pride now safely (if still heavily) contained, and tapped Joshua on the shoulder, pulling him forward into a hurried, hushed conversation.

“Dude, how’s Olivia?” Shawn asked, his voice low and conspiratorial, his eyes scanning to make sure the girls were out of earshot.

Joshua’s chest swelled with the attention. “She’s playing hard to get. The competitive bitch. But I’ll fuck her, Shawn! I'm going to win the bet.”

Shawn slowed his pace to lay down the Men-to-Men Lecture. “Damn right you are. Look, in this paintball game, you go straight at her. You show her you’re better, stronger, more aggressive. You defeat her, okay? I'll let you hunt her, and then you show her you’re the alpha. When she’s down, she’ll be feeling the sexual tension and begging for your dick. Listen to me, Josh. You’re THE MAN. I personally choose you to succeed me, and you can do this. I would not mind if you win the bet by fuckin' Olivia. That's a legend I’d tell for years.”

Hearing Shawn—Gigachad—say those words, claiming personal investment in his success, gave Joshua a powerful, dizzying high. It was the approval he had craved since his father walked out. His father had made him feel like a nerd, like a disappointment. Shawn, despite his flaws, had built his confidence, taken him under his wing, and placed him at the top of the social hierarchy. That moment, standing beside the Yukon Denali, hearing his mentor’s proud words, felt like the culmination of all that fatherless struggle.

“Dude, let’s take a selfie,” Joshua blurted out, pulling his phone out.

Shawn, the self-proclaimed King of Content, immediately agreed. “Well, let’s fuckin’ do it!” Both in the same blue polo shirt, they stopped, flexed their biceps, and posed for a quick photo, their faces full of pumped-up, toxic confidence.

“Good job, dude! Now go get Olivia!” Shawn said, clapping him hard on the shoulder before rushing back to Sabrina, who was waiting with a deceptively sweet smile.

That moment—the selfie, the praise, the assigned target—was the highlight of Joshua's life, paying off years of feeling abandoned. He had Shawn's approval. He was ready for war.

 

Meanwhile, Daniel and Tate walked together, a charged, miserable silence between them. Daniel, completely oblivious to Tate overhearing the betrayal, kept trying to salvage the situation without tipping off Shawn.

Daniel slowly reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Tate’s. “You know I’m glad you came, Tate. This place is going to be fun.”

Tate really had to fight the overwhelming urge to spin around and deliver a perfectly aimed dancer’s kick right into his betraying balls. The thought of making him lose his manhood was almost overpowering, but she knew she needed to play the role. She knew the power of the double-cross. She let her hand touch his for a brief moment. She gave him a tiny, reserved smile—the smile of a shy girl whose crush was finally paying attention.

 

They finally arrived at the activities center. Shawn strode up to the counter, radiating the kind of confidence that makes service workers despise you.

“Six people, girl. Team boys versus team girls. Put it on the Mendes card.”

Lexie, the worker, smiled, a sweet, deadly smile that Shawn didn’t even recognize. He didn't remember sleeping with her, much less ditching her the next morning.

“Before I charge the card, sir,” Lexie said, her voice dripping with false professionalism. “I’m obliged to inform you that due to a malfunction, we are completely out of groin protectors. And I don’t think men should be playing without them.”

Joshua recoiled instantly, his mind flashing back to Shawn’s morning squeal. “What? Without groin protector?” His voice was thin and shaky.

Olivia, hearing Joshua’s fear, leaned in and whispered loud enough for the whole group to hear. “Chicken.”

Sabrina laughed, a melodic, mocking sound. “Oh, my prince! You hear that? They’re too fragile to compete without the groin protector! I made the tallest man on campus cry this morning, didn't I, my prince? You don’t want to compete without protection, do you, Shawnie?”

Sabrina reached out, her tiny hand moving with surgical precision toward Shawn’s crotch. She didn't squeeze this time; she simply brushed his bulge, lingering for a deliberate second. She could feel the immediate erection that arose despite the recent pain and the current warning. Shawn didn't care about the pain; he was too proud of the reaction.

His eyes darkened with lust, and he leaned down to whisper a counter-threat. “I’m not fuckin’ afraid of women, babe. If I win this, we are sleeping together tonight in the master suite. You owe me.”

Sabrina leaned up and kissed his ear, her voice dripping with false surrender. “I can’t wait, babe.”

Lexie handed them the guns, her eyes lingering on Shawn's oblivious, handsome face. “No one will have a permanent injury because of this, we value safety, but paintball welts will still hurt. That's what makes it challenging,” she explained, her eyes meeting Sabrina's. “The game is simple: three flags. The team with the most flags wins. There are some physical obstacles inside, so it’s girls versus boys. Good luck.” She paused, then, looking directly at Shawn, added, "The game begins!"

Shawn immediately took charge, his competitive frat-prez instincts taking over. “Alright, gentlemen, easy money. Daniel, you’re the most agile, take the left flank, hit the first flag. Joshua, you’re the strongest, take the right. I'll take the central path. Go for the quick strike. Ignore the girls for the first minute. Then we hunt.”

The six players darted toward the starting areas from opposing sides.

 

Daniel immediately proved Shawn’s assessment correct. He was lean and focused, efficiently traversing the left side of the gauntlet. The course was a mix of wooden barriers, dense brush, and an adult jungle gym of obstacles. He moved strategically, shooting a few barriers to check sightlines.

He was fast, lighter on his feet than Shawn, and he easily got through a large, swinging log pendulum by timing his movement. “Easy!” he muttered to himself.

And then he saw her. Tate, perfectly framed in the doorway of a wooden shack. He lifted his paintball gun and fired a quick, deliberate shot. It hit her upper arm.

“Got you, babe! It’s still a competition!” he called out, satisfied with the hit. But Tate was already out of sight, disappearing behind a bunker.

“You’re fast!” Daniel dodged another pendulum swing, adrenaline pumping. This was fun, and he was winning.

He saw the first flag mounted on a tire stack straight ahead. He was closer. He heard rustling from Tate’s position and aimed his gun.

“Shawn would want a win, so I’ll get the flag before you, babe! Come on, come here, don’t hide!” Daniel teased, feeling the high of the victory.

Tate felt the betrayal boiling in her blood. He could choose her, leave the glory and the $500, and live like a decent man, but Daniel was playing the long game. His major was Architecture, and Shawn’s dad owned a powerful firm. Daniel needed Shawn’s dad’s approval, and being Shawn’s right-hand man was his insurance policy for the future. He was selling his integrity for a guaranteed career. He expected Daniel to have more character than that. And the bet? The bet was just the disgusting cherry on top.

Tate was ready. She lifted her paintball gun and shot the heavy wooden wall right next to Daniel’s head. The loud THWACK! was immediate and sharp. Daniel’s eyes darted instantly to the wall, his focus breaking completely, a natural reaction of the "strategist" checking his surroundings.

It was all the misdirection Tate needed.

As Daniel’s focus shifted, he failed to notice the massive, swinging log pendulum that was completing its arc. The heavy wood swung low and fast, connecting with a brutal, sickening thwump right into Daniel’s groin.

“ARGHHHHHH! FFFFFF-UUUUCK!”

The scream was immediate, loud, and high-pitched, echoing Shawn’s earlier cry but filled with the distinct pain of a direct, blunt-force trauma. Daniel’s frame instantly jackknifed, his hands flying to his ruined center.

And before his hands could fully clutch his testes, Tate fired her paintball gun. The shot was precise, deliberate, and delivered a perfect, painful sting directly onto his swollen nuts.

Daniel didn't scream again; he just made a desperate, choking sound and collapsed to his knees.

Tate walked out of the shadow, her face a mask of false concern, lifting the flag off the stack.

“Aww, babe, I am so sorry! I meant to shoot your abs, but it totally missed. My bad!” she said, her voice chirpy. She clipped the flag to her vest. “So sorry, but I got the flag!”

Daniel was curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, clutching his balls, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was completely out of the game, rolling around on the rough ground, the twin pain of the log and the paintball rendering him entirely helpless.

 

 

Part 6: Daddy and Defeat

Joshua heard the screaming, but the pitch was so agonizingly high and undignified he immediately dismissed it. He didn't recognize that sound—it was the sound of a man's pride being shredded. No way Daniel or Shawn got defeated like that. That's a girl's scream. Probably Tate or Sabrina trying to psyche us out. The sheer, primal volume of the yell couldn't possibly be associated with the fraternity's elite. He was breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, completely focused on his task: locating and capturing the flag before Olivia could beat him to it.

The moments he had shared with Shawn earlier—the frat president's booming words of approval, the forced, muscular selfie—were the highest points of his insecure life. They played on an endless, affirming loop in his mind. Joshua had spent the last three years trying to bury the reality of his past. He had searched for his biological father only to find a broke, petty loser, confirming the "loser gene" he believed he had inherited, along with the humiliatingly small size of his penis. But Shawn’s pronouncements—"You’re THE MAN, Josh. I personally choose you”—had served as a powerful, instant antidote. Shawn had built a new foundation for Joshua, brick by Gigachad brick. He had successfully erased the memory of the high school loser who got stuffed into lockers and laughed at by girls. Now he was an Alpha, the soccer captain, and he believed this illusion with the zealous fervor of a convert. He promised himself, through the intense pain of his fatherless past, that no girl would ever laugh at him again.

He was jogging past a dense thicket of pines, pushing toward the central obstacle course, when a searing jolt shot through his penis. It wasn't just pain; it was a deep, burning sensation that made him gasp and nearly stumble into a muddy ditch. The Mak Erot Potion was working, alright—but the "violent internal spasms" the Indonesian shaman had warned him about felt less like growth and more like internal torture. He gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively clamping down on his crotch through the tight denim. "SHIT! SHIT! Not now, Mak Erot! Not now!" he whispered, his body language turning frantic and protective.

He glanced up and saw Olivia. She was running along a high ledge, moving with the effortless power of a true athlete. She was lean, compact, and completely focused on the obstacle ahead.

Olivia spotted his sudden, awkward freeze. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips, and grinned—a predatory, knowing smirk. "What, Josh? Gotta stop for a pee break? You trying to win, or are you just trying to make Daddy Shawn happy?" she taunted him, her voice carrying a cynical sweetness that hit harder than any paintball shot.

The jolt faded just enough for the rage to ignite. Joshua’s vision narrowed to a point of pure fury. He stomped toward her. “What the fuck did you just say to me, you miserable bitch? Say that again!”

Olivia, seeing the raw emotion in his face, didn't flinch. She stepped closer, using her smaller size to seem simultaneously non-threatening and utterly dominating. She knew her mark.

“Oh, look! The little boy is angry! It's so transparent, Joshua. You know you're always going to be inferior to me. Your dribbling is sloppy, your footwork is clumsy, and you only rely on that generic athletic body you built over the summer," she spat, landing on the truths he fought hardest to hide. "But deep inside, I can feel that I see that scared little boy wanting to snuggle up under Daddy Shawn’s power. It's obvious you've got daddy issues. I can guess: maybe your dad abandoned you, or he's such a complete loser you had to find a new, strong male influence. And that's Shawn, isn't it? The man who literally gets off on calling you his project. The man who needs your validation as much as you need his."

Her words were psychological warfare, stripping away the six-pack and the polo shirt to expose the vulnerable kid beneath. "Imagine his face when you fail to get this flag. He will disown you, Josh. You’re replacable. You’re just a pawn in his power play. I had a few friends dig up some dirt on your high school track record. You were a nerd, weren't you? What if I told Shawn you were a loser who couldn't even score a decent date? He won’t like that. He’ll ditch you and choose what? Felix, maybe?" The rival's name—Felix, Joshua’s primary competition for the Frat Presidency—was the final trigger.

Joshua roared, a sound less like a man and more like a wounded, furious animal. His body lunged, powered by a blind, existential terror of being exposed. He sprinted after her. He raised his paintball gun and blindly fired a burst of paint. It missed Olivia by a yard, hitting a harmless pine tree.

Olivia burst into mocking laughter, her eyes alight with victory. "Daddy Shawn, are you proud? Am I tough enough for you to handle, Josh?" She turned and sprinted toward the final obstacle: a series of narrow wooden platforms connected by worn ropes, requiring precise jumps and perfect balance.

Despite Olivia’s agile speed, Joshua was taller and stronger, and his long strides ate up the distance. He cleared two platforms in a single, desperate leap, fueled by a terrifying cocktail of pure rage and the Mak Erot Potion. They hit the wooden platforms simultaneously, leaping from plank to plank, the tension palpable.

They were neck-and-neck, both airborne, mere feet from the second flag. Olivia, sensing the finish line, executed a low, graceful cut—a move perfected on the soccer field—landing softly on the penultimate plank. Joshua, trying to match her sudden deceleration, relied on brute force rather than technique.

Then, the Mak Erot Potion delivered its final, most violent spasm. It wasn't just a jolt; it was a crippling, paralyzing wave of white-hot pain that radiated from his groin up into his stomach. His muscles seized, and his scream was trapped in his throat.

Joshua's body twisted mid-air like a poorly controlled marionette. He landed heavily, not on the next plank, but on a narrow wooden railing bracing the structure. His weight forced him down. The railing hit perfectly, excruciatingly, between his legs. His unprotected balls slammed into the unyielding wood with a terrible, sickening thwack that was loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“WOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! MOTHERFUCKER! OH GOD, THE PAIN!” Joshua's howl was the sound of total, humiliating male agony. He folded over the wooden beam, his arms dangling uselessly, his massive 6'1" body reduced to a pathetic, shivering mass.

Olivia, using the distraction, easily secured the flag. She hopped down to the ground below him, a look of shocked elation on her face.

“OLIVIA! OLIVIA! HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!” Joshua begged, the pain overriding his shame and his ego. He was completely trapped, draped over the wooden beam.

Olivia looked up at the desperate image of her rival. She couldn't stop the laughter bubbling up. “Let me help you, Joshua!” she called out, her voice shaky with mirth.

She grabbed the ankle that usually delivered powerful soccer kicks and yanked. Joshua plummeted the two feet to the ground. “OUCHHHH NO MY BALLS! ARGHH! MY NUTS ARE DEAD!” he shrieked, rolling into a fetal position.

Olivia was laughing so hard she forgot to check the safety on her paintball gun. As she staggered back, trying to control her wheezing laughter, the momentum of her movement caused the gun to jerk sharply against the mechanism, triggering a single, final, explosive shot. The neon yellow paintball hit Joshua directly on his screaming, exposed groin, right on the spot where the board had just landed.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The scream was a shattering blast of sound that echoed across the grounds, announcing the total defeat of Shawn’s protégé. Joshua wept uncontrollably, clutching his manhood. "OLIVIA! WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK! I SWEAR I’M DEAD!"

Olivia was genuinely shocked by the double-tap. “JOSHUA! I SWEAR THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT! I SWEAR! I DIDN'T MEAN TO FIRE!” she protested, though her tears of hysterical laughter betrayed her. She held the final flag, her victory complete.

Shawn, meanwhile, was experiencing a rapidly escalating breakdown of his reality. He heard the successive screams—Daniel’s strangled yelp, followed by Joshua’s apocalyptic bellow. It can’t be. They’re just faking it. Those girls won't defeat him. His ingrained belief in his own superiority, drilled into him by his father, refused to accept defeat.

For his whole life, Shawn Mendes was synonymous with power. His father, a titan in the architectural world, saw emotion as a debilitating weakness. He had actively and mercilessly suppressed Shawn’s early love for singing and playing guitar, calling love songs "for the weak." Instead, he channeled Shawn into brute wrestling, weightlifting, and competitive sports, ensuring his son would possess the athletic body and the financial privilege needed to succeed. Shawn grew up observing how his beautiful, passive mother always catered to his father's needs, never questioning him. He learned from a young age that men held all the power, and he truly believed he was impervious, never having the chance to show the sensitive, artistic side that still lingered beneath the muscle and bravado. He inherited the money, the athletic body, and the "legendary big dick"—a trinity of privilege he thought made him untouchable.

Shawn easily dispatched the rest of the obstacles, relying purely on his brute strength and long limbs. He saw Sabrina, his focus now solely on winning the bet and claiming his prize.

Sabrina, still recovering from the last swing of a cargo net, was visibly struggling with a low wall. She was smaller, and the ropes were designed for taller people. Shawn laughed, a sound of arrogant contempt.

“What, baby? Having trouble? See, women are always be out-muscled by men, and that’s just the law of life. That’s just the way it is, babe. Why don't you stick to the cheerleader uniform?" Shawn mocked, basking in his perceived physical dominance. He decided to have some fun, to rub in his power before the final kill.

Shawn walked over, placed the butt of his gun on the ground, and scooped up Sabrina’s tiny body. “HEY SHAWN! LET ME DOWN, YOU BASTARD!” Sabrina yelled, punching his shoulder ineffectually. Shawn ignored her, pulling her close to his massive chest, then up, showing off his strength by holding Sabrina in a single, muscular arm. His shirt stretched, emphasizing his bicep and shoulder mass.

Sabrina felt another dangerous, confusing jolt. For a terrifying second, her feminist resolve dissolved into pure, primal, hormonal lust. Shawn’s strength was overwhelming; he was so huge, so massive, the very epitome of strength in men. The sight of his crotch, straining against the denim inches from her face, and the pressure of his massive erection inside the commando jeans, short-circuited her brain. Should I give myself to him? The image of her and Shawn back in love again, submitting to his physical dominance, the sheer, hot pleasure he gave her—it flooded her mind. She couldn’t focus. She was under Shawn’s spell!

Don’t you dare, Sabrina. Don’t you dare. Remember the sophomore who got his dick.

Shawn took her down, setting her gently on the ground, his voice dripping with triumphant cockiness. “See, you love that, right? You love how I dominate you. You love the strength, the size.” It was like Shawn could read her private thoughts. He stood over her, pinning her with his shadow, legs spread wide in an aggressive stance of victory.

He flexed his arms one last time. “There’s MEN in MENDES,” he roared, then dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “Tonight we’ll be together, babe.” He shot her chest with the paintball gun. The paint hit her protected armor with a thunk, but it was a calculated move—a small, final injury before victory. “Sorry, darling. I’ll get the flag now. You can watch me win.”

“ARGH!” Sabrina shouted, the impact smarting, but she knew the pain was just superficial—a fleeting sting. She didn't have the super weak, stupidly dangling organ men did. She rose up, the hormonal spell finally broken by the physical sting and the memory of his cheating arrogance. She remembered her mother's strength, how Shawn was a carbon copy of her cheating father, and how he had humiliated her with a sophomore girl. The lust was gone, replaced by a cold, surgical fury.

She rushed toward Shawn, feigning desperation, taking advantage of his wide stance. She performed slide below Shawn’s waist, shooting through the space between his wide-open legs. His 6'3" legs, which made him so dominant, now provided the perfect, vulnerable gateway.

Shawn almost had his hand on the final flag, his back completely to his small attacker. He didn't even register her tiny body sliding beneath him until he heard the pop-pop of the paintball gun, followed by the wet, sickening impact of the paint.

Sabrina had kept her promise to Lexie. She shot, two times: one to the left nut, one to the right nut. The shots were delivered from mere inches away.

Shawn’s eyes went comically wide, like saucers, and his mouth formed a perfect “O” as he froze mid-step, his body refusing to obey gravity. The massive $6'3"$ figure stood paralyzed, as if his brain was buffering the catastrophic data input from his groin. His knees slowly buckle, but in a cartoonish, over-the-top way. He wobbled like a Jell-O mold, hands instinctively clutching his groin as the neon pink paint splattered across his jeans, making it look like a Jackson Pollock painting gone wrong. His legs crossed awkwardly, and he did a little hop-skip, almost like a clumsy ballet dancer, before dropping to one knee in a dramatic, slow-motion collapse. The twin pink splatters were a reminder that a girl had hit him there TWICE.

“SABRINA! MY BALLS! MY BALLS!” As Shawn crumpled to the ground, he squeaked out a high-pitched, pathetic “Sabrinaaa!” in a voice that cracked like a preteen’s, his face a mask of total disbelief and agony.

Sabrina secured the final flag and stood over him, looking down at the fallen titan. "I win, babe," she said, her voice cool and victorious. "Not so strong, big boy. Seems like there's more pain than MEN in Mendes. Go grab a bag of frozen peas, sweetheart, you're gonna need it." She spat the last word out like a curse.

A final, triumphant horn blared, signaling the end of the game. Olivia, still wiping tears of laughter and genuine shock, limped over, holding her flag. Tate, looking surprisingly calm despite the trauma she had just inflicted on her secret boyfriend, followed soon after, holding hers.

The girls rushed to the finish point, colliding in a three-way, screaming hug, raising their flags to the sky.

"WE DID IT!" Olivia shrieked. "WE FUCKING DID IT!"

Sabrina nodded, catching her breath. "The score is three to zero, girls. And the only thing these bastards proved is that their biggest strength is their biggest, most sensitive weakness."

Part 7: Scars and Victory

The celebratory shrieks of Sabrina, Olivia, and Tate echoed across the paintball field, sharp and victorious. They were huddled under a small, sun-dappled awning near Lexie’s station, sipping ice tea and waiting for their targets to recover enough to accept their humiliating defeat.

“You should have seen the look on his face! The sheer confusion,” Tate giggled, taking a delicate sip of tea before collapsing into a fit of laughter. “Daniel really had no idea I got him purposefully. I lied to him about aiming for his abs, but damn, I felt so powerful seeing that neon pink paint blossom right on his crotch. It was like bingo! A direct hit on the source of all his stupid ambition!” Tate wiped a tear of joyful vindication from her eye. The emotional pain of his betrayal was still sharp, but this physical punishment—delivered with the precision of a dancer—was already a satisfying balm.

Olivia, still limping slightly from her own intense maneuvers but glowing with victory, chimed in. “And Joshua, oh Joshua. I kinda almost pity him, but only for a second. He wanted to impress Shawn so bad, he was twitching with Daddy-approval anxiety. And I swear the final hit was an accident! I didn’t even put the gun on safe mode, and when I pulled his leg and he fell, the gun just snapped and fired. It was like the gun knew itself where male weakness is located. It just pointed right at his nuts and did its job.”

But it was Sabrina who was laughing hardest, clutching her sides and leaning against a wooden post. “Oh God. You don’t know how satisfying it is shooting Shawn in the nuts twice,” she crowed, her small body shaking with wicked pleasure. Lexie, the paintball attendant, was nodding enthusiastically. “He’s going commando, remember? So when I slid between his long legs, I could actually see the clear outline of his nuts through the tight denim. I shot one in the left nut, and one in the right nut. Two perfect splatters! Just like I promised you, Lexie.”

Lexie grinned, a vengeful glint in her eyes. "Thank you, Sabrina. You are fantastic. That double-tap was beautiful. The bastard deserves it." Lexie pulled Sabrina into a true, solid, high-five girl power moment.

“Shawn’s big body wasn’t a match when we target his nuts,” Sabrina recalled, a look of pure, cold triumph settling on her face. "That look on his face, right before he squeaked? That moment where 6'3” of pure, toxic confidence realized he was utterly helpless? Priceless."

The girls paused their celebration, their laughter slowly dissolving into knowing smirks as the sound of pathetic groaning drifted toward them from the shadows of the course. The triumvirate of male failure was approaching.

They watched the three guys emerge from different directions, attempting to crawl and walk simultaneously. Daniel, the VP and the strategist, had the least damage but looked utterly defeated. He was half-walking, half-crawling, one hand perpetually clamped to his groin as he winced with every forward movement. Joshua was on all fours, making the slowest progress, occasionally letting out a miserable, whimpering scream of “NO, NO, MY BALLS!” But Shawn—oh, Shawn—was the most pathetic spectacle. His immense frame was bent and broken. He was crawling using only his elbows, dragging his lower body. The double hit had caused visible swelling that strained the already tight denim of his jeans, making him look like a crippled, arrogant caterpillar.

Lexie, now fully in the role of the compassionate medical expert, approached them with a neutral expression, though her eyes danced with humor. “Boys, don’t worry. We have aspirin and even traditional potions for this exact kind of injury,” she said, pulling a satchel of supplies. “You wouldn’t believe how often these specific injuries happen, right? Especially when the protector is missing.” She handed a small vial of thick, murky liquid to Daniel, the one with the least severe initial injury. Lexie explained that it was a traditional healing balm.

Daniel accepted it meekly, his usual cutting wit completely absent. Shawn and Joshua drank the bitter, earthy liquid without question. Lexie explained that they would feel better in about three hours, but until then, the pain would be bad—a steady, agonizing throb that would keep their pride in check.

Sabrina walked directly toward Shawn, her heels clicking on the wooden deck. She leaned over the crumpled titan and pressed a kiss lightly on his cheek, just above his stubble. "Aww, poor Shawnie. Sorry about that double shot, but we win, babe," she whispered, her voice laced with mocking sweetness. She straightened up, placing her hands on her hips.

Olivia joined in, looking down at Joshua. "Three to zero, Josh. Maybe you should stick to intramurals where the girls don't show up. And next time, don't ask about  daddy. It's a low blow—literally, for you guys."

Sabrina didn't let up. "You know, Shawnie, since you lost the bet, you owe us a shopping spree in town. You promised I could have anything if you won. Now that you lost, it’s going to be twice as much, darling." She reached into the back pocket of his jeans and smoothly lifted his wallet. It was a practiced move. She pulled out a thick wad of cash and his platinum credit card. As she tucked the card into her own tiny short-shorts, a foil packet slipped out of the wallet and onto the deck.

It was a condom. A very expensive, very premium condom.

Sabrina picked it up, dangling it between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at Shawn, whose face was still a picture of pained humiliation. "A condom, Shawnie? You won't be needing this. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Maybe not even for the whole trip. Your boys are off the market for a long, long time." She chuckled and tossed the condom dismissively into a nearby waste bin.

The Next Phase

With their loot and their victory secured, the three girls turned and walked away toward the main road leading to the local mountain town. They laughed, the sound bright and musical, thoroughly enjoying the cool, fresh mountain breeze.

"God, that felt like cleansing my soul," Olivia sighed, stretching her arms.

The subject of men, however, was still unavoidable.

"Have you ever seriously wanted to get married?" Sabrina asked, a flicker of genuine curiosity in her eyes.

Olivia shrugged, her hands in her shorts pockets. "Honestly? Never thought of it. It feels like signing a contract you don't fully understand, and I hate being tied down. I’m too busy trying to get my soccer league sponsored."

Tate, still processing the raw emotions of Daniel's betrayal, answered with more conviction. "Well, I used to think I did. When I met the right man... but now? It's just so hard, because men are all just varying degrees of trash, even the ones who pretend to be soft. They prioritize their male peer group and their ambition over everything."

Sabrina nodded thoughtfully, looking out at the distant, rolling peaks. "For me, personally, I will always be happy if you two eventually marry the right people. I'm not against the idea of marriage, but I personally would think countless times, because marriage is fundamentally a patriarchal institution that was built to benefit the man and exploit women mentally and financially." She paused, her voice softening slightly. "We're born with our father's last name, and then society expects us to take our husband's last name. When do we get to just be our own person? When is our identity, our legacy, defined by us alone? It's a cycle of ownership I just can't stomach."

Their conversation was cut short when they saw an interesting shop: a small, rustic wooden building with colorful flags and strange herbs hanging in the window. "Well, a traditional shop. I'm curious," said Sabrina.

They entered the dimly lit store, which smelled strongly of cedar, sage, and something anciently sweet. The shop owner was a stout, older woman with a kind but knowing face and dark eyes, speaking with a melodic, indigenous accent.

“What do you search for, my beautiful ladies?” she asked, smiling.

Olivia, still buzzing from the victory, grinned impishly. "Miss, do you have anything to make men suffer, perhaps? We're taking down the patriarchy, one nut at a time."

The shop owner's eyes twinkled. “In fact, I have one that is very old and very effective! You have chosen the right path, daughters.” She reached under the counter and produced a small, corked vial filled with a clear, oily liquid. “This is made from fire ant pheromones. Very potent, very specific. If you spray it into men’s jeans—especially if they are wearing no underwear, which they often do, these foolish young ones—it will mix with their natural testosterone scent. Only animals can smell it, but the smell, to the ants, will be irresistible. The majority of ants are female, you know. And these female warrior ants will be attracted to this concentrated scent and will find those men’s stick and balls—that stupid, weak organ—and then they will bite them.”

The girls’ eyes went wide, a slow, wicked grin spreading across Sabrina's face. They all imagined the scene: the frantic, silent dance of three arrogant men suddenly attacked by a swarm of angry, female fire ants.

“We’ll take it,” Sabrina said, pulling Shawn's platinum card from her shorts. "We've got a very deserving target."

 

Meanwhile, back at the paintball station, the three boys were finally mobile. The anti-inflammatory potion provided a dull, throbbing relief, but walking was still an exercise in agonizing, exaggerated choreography.

“We walk together. No man left behind,” Shawn grunted, his voice still reedy and high-pitched. He was trying to regain his leadership, even while crippled.

They formed a pathetic, six-legged chain of male suffering. Joshua (was in the front, leaning heavily on Daniel. He was the most physically distressed, taking tiny, tentative steps, occasionally whimpering, "I think I broke my balls, Danny." Daniel, the "strategist," gritted his teeth, supporting Joshua while his other hand clamped to his own groin. He was the middle anchor, absorbing the pain with cynical resignation. Shawn ($6'3"$), the leader, brought up the rear, one hand on Daniel’s shoulder, using Daniel’s body as a crutch. He was trying to stride, but the combination of his height and the swelling made his gait an impossibly clumsy waddle.

They shuffled, a pitiful, three-man train of agony. They passed a small, decorative pond near the lodge's entrance, designed with smooth stones and a low, curved border. Joshua, distracted by a renewed surge of pain, failed to lift his foot high enough.

He stumbled on the low stone border.

"Woah! Shit!" Joshua yelled, losing his balance.

He pulled Daniel's shoulder. Daniel, unable to resist the sudden, shifting weight and incapable of moving his feet quickly, let out a strangled cry.

Daniel's sudden lurch pulled Shawn, who was using Daniel as a stabilizer, off his feet. The chain of damaged masculinity broke down completely, and all three men tumbled forward, landing with a huge, agonizing splash into the cold, shallow pond.

The shock of the cold water on their battered, swollen groins was immediate and excruciating. They thrashed wildly, their moans lost in the ridiculous sound of their splashing. Shawn, the tallest, hit the cold water last, but the effect was the same.

Shawn scrambled to his feet, dripping wet, pink paintball marks dripping water and blending with the denim. His jaw was set, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pain and pure, unadulterated hatred.

“SHIT! THOSE FUCKING GIRLS WILL PAY! THEY WILL FUCKING PAY FOR THIS!” Shawn screamed, his voice once again cracking, completely undermining his powerful, soaked image.