The Lodge (Part 8 - 13)

 

Part 8: The Return of The Beast

The agony of the paintball defeats—the crushing pendulum, the brutal fall, the double shots—had subsided only slightly, transforming from white-hot spikes of pain into a massive, heavy throb. The trio, soaked and smeared with neon paint, finally reached the massive cedar lodge. They didn't walk; they navigated the front deck like injured crabs, their movements stiff, jerky, and pathetic.

Shawn, the biggest and most prideful, led the pitiful procession, using the walls for support. Joshua and Daniel were locked together, a single, weeping unit of fraternal suffering. They ignored the majestic, rustic interior of the lobby, concentrating only on the immediate goal: the second-floor bedrooms. The ascent up the wide, carpeted staircase was agonizing, punctuated by soft, undignified whimpers. They were men reduced to basic biology.

Finally, they stumbled into the second-floor wing, collapsing onto their respective beds across the three connected bedrooms.

“I need a bath,” Shawn croaked, his voice raw from screaming, his hand still clamped to his groin as if checking to ensure his manhood hadn’t completely dissolved. “The sheer cold of that pond on the double-hit… fuck.”

“Me too!” Daniel groaned from the next room, peeling his paint-splattered denim away from his skin with painstaking care. “My nuts feel like they’ve been replaced by two bags of frozen, bruised peaches.”

Joshua just laid there, face-down, his voice muffled by the expensive comforter. “They said it will get better soon, right? That Lexie bitch said it would get better.” He didn’t sound hopeful; he sounded like a child begging for reassurance.

They waited in silence, the only sounds the rustle of clothes and the pained, ragged breathing. For forty-five agonizing minutes, the Lexie-potion and aspirin fought a slow war against the blunt trauma. The pain began to recede, settling into a dull, persistent ache—a reminder that while they weren’t crippled, their balls were still pathetically weak.

Shawn, however, was the first to rise. His ego was a massive, impenetrable force field that rejected weakness. He couldn't afford to look defeated for long. He stalked into his en-suite bathroom and returned a few minutes later, toweling off his muscular chest and arms. He slipped on a fresh, white tank top—what some derisively called a "wife-beater," but what Shawn wore as a uniform of casual dominance. He followed this with a new, clean pair of dark blue jeans, zipping up slowly this time.

Daniel, galvanized by his leader's forced recovery, emerged next, pulling on a black denim jacket over a fresh polo, paired with his own blue jeans. Joshua, mirroring his idol, donned a black tank top and a similar pair of dark jeans. They stood, three tall, handsome men in near-identical, tough-guy uniforms.

“Okay, we got cleaned up. We meet downstairs for dinner and the campfire,” Shawn dictated, his voice regaining some of its deep, commanding tone. He slapped his hands together, his eyes hard and vengeful. “Listen to me. We lost a battle, but we haven’t lost the war. They played a cheap trick. But we are smarter, we are stronger, and we are MEN.” He pounded his own chest. “They think a couple of shots to the balls means we quit? Fuck that. We will still fuck them and win this bet. Believe me.”

The guys nodded, their pride instantly re-inflating, desperate to believe their leader.

 

Meanwhile, the girls were executing the second phase of the plan in their plush, ground-floor room, the scent of the fire ant pheromone thick in the air.

“Okay, the plan is simple, quiet, and disgusting,” Sabrina instructed, her face alight with mischievous excitement. She uncorked the vial of thick, clear liquid purchased from the shop owner. “We need to rub this right onto the crotch area of their jeans. It has to mix with the natural scent of the testosterone in their denim to attract the female ants.” She dabbed the pheromone onto a cotton ball. “They’ll smell fine to us, but to those warrior ants, they’ll smell like a delicious, stationary male reproductive banquet.”

“Liv, you get Josh. Tate, you got Daniel. They’ll be in the showers for at least thirty minutes trying to wash off that trauma and the paint,” Sabrina said.

Tate nodded, her face grimly determined. There was no trace of the shy girl who had crushed on Daniel. “Consider it done. I won’t miss this time.”

Olivia, holding the cotton ball, looked mildly disgusted but ready. “I can’t believe I’m rubbing bug sex juice on a frat boy’s pants, but hey, it’s for the cause. Anything to wipe that smug ‘Alpha’ look off Joshua’s face.”

Daniel’s Injustice

Daniel, alone in the privacy of his shower stall, still clutched his groin as the hot water hammered down on his back. The pulsing ache was a constant, humiliating reminder of his weakness. It was so unfair.

His mind flashed back thirteen years, to a humid summer day when he was seventeen and his sister, Anna, was fifteen. He had loved to taunt her, mocking her lack of physical strength and calling her a "weak girl." Anna, in a fit of rage after watching Charlie’s Angels, approached him with a suspicious glint in her eye.

“Dan, is that true you boys are weak down there?” she’d asked, her head tilted innocently.

Daniel had laughed, arrogant and dismissive. “No, silly. Men are so strong we don’t have a weakness. That’s why we run the world.”

But Anna had been curious. She feigned a playful wrestle, then, with a sudden, sharp, upward motion, she kicked Daniel’s balls hard. It wasn’t a strong kick, but the pain was blinding—a silent, searing white heat that stole his breath and brought him to his knees, vomiting bile onto the freshly cut lawn. The pain was so complete, so total, that it rewrote his understanding of the universe.

He was reliving that agonizing moment now, the memory overlaying the pain of Tate’s double shot.

Is it really true? Are testicles men’s only weakness? he questioned, rubbing the soap too hard against his denim-bruised skin. He felt a profound, intellectual frustration. Why would nature design men, the supposedly dominant sex, with such a critical, delicate flaw hanging so stupidly outside the body? Why were the testicles not safely secured, making them not invincible, but at least protected? It felt like a cosmic joke, a massive engineering oversight that negated their size and strength.

He couldn't understand why his father, a man who taught him everything about ruthless business and suppressing emotion, never taught him about this profound, physical weakness. Meanwhile, his mother—who always seemed to silently suffer his father's infidelities—had explicitly taught Anna about male weakness. It was a secret weapon passed down through the matriarchy.

Too many fucking questions, Daniel thought, shaking his head to clear the internal noise. He denied the truth: he refused to believe he was pathetically weak because of a simple anatomical quirk. His focus couldn't be on biology; it had to be on ambition. He had to fuck Tate. He had to win the bet. He had to secure the future at John Mendes' firm. He scrubbed the paint off his skin, hardening his resolve to be the strategy expert who controlled the outcome, not the weak body that suffered it.

 

In the large master bedroom, Sabrina knew she had missed her window. Shawn had already showered, dried off, and was pulling on his clean white tank top and blue jeans. Shit. I was too late. I can't let him go unscented.

She watched him from the doorway, formulating a new, riskier plan. Shawn was pulling on his denim, his face still showing the deep lines of residual pain and anger. But then, she saw something that made her heart ache with confusing pity: a deep scar in the toxic armor.

Shawn opened an old, dusty cupboard set into the wall of the lodge and pulled out a battered acoustic guitar. It was a beautiful instrument, but the wood was darkened with age and disuse. Shawn looked at it, and for a fleeting moment, his face softened, erasing the hard lines of the Frat Prez.

Flashback: The lodge, fifteen years ago. A small, earnest, ten-year-old Shawn sat by the fireplace, his small fingers carefully picking out a chord. He was humming a melody he’d written for a girl he had a crush on. “I know I can treat you better than he can…”

Suddenly, the air went cold. His father, John Mendes, a hulking shadow of dominance and expectation, loomed in the doorway. "ARE YOU SINGING ROMANTIC SONGS, BOY?"

Ten-year-old Shawn flinched, dropping the guitar pick. “Dad! I... I wanna be a musician! I wrote this song!”

John Mendes didn't yell; he screamed—a low, terrifying, controlled bellow. “NONSENSE! Singing sentimental shit is for the weak, Shawn. It makes you soft. You think men who run companies play love songs? You think men who conquer play that feeble nonsense? No. You are a Mendes. You are a natural weapon.” He shoved Shawn hard against the wall, the force of his hand making the boy’s head hit the wood paneling with a crack. “TOUGHEN UP, SON! You have the gift of the perfect body. I will not have you waste it on this girly garbage. You will be strong. You will be a man!”

That was the true reality about Shawn Mendes. Since childhood, he wasn't just guided; he was emotionally and physically abused and violently shaped into this perfect, dominant, toxic Mendes man. His father truly created a monster—a man with the gift of a magnificent body and a legendary dick, but whose soul was starved and fragile.

The flashback ended. Shawn’s eyes were glistening, a tiny tear tracing a path down his cheek before he violently wiped it away. He sat on the bed, pulled the guitar onto his lap, and sang a single, raw, beautiful line: "I know I can treat you better than he can... And a girl like you deserved a gentleman." His voice, usually a deep, arrogant baritone, was surprisingly melodic and achingly sensitive.

But then the pain, the residual throb in his balls, flared up like a sudden lightning bolt. It was a physical reminder of his weakness, his shame, and his failure in the paintball game.

"NO. I can't be weak," Shawn snarled, slamming the guitar back into the old cupboard with enough force to splinter the wood. The sadness vanished, replaced by a mask of furious self-denial. He flexed his biceps until the muscles corded under his white tank top. "I'M A MAN! THE MAN!" he roared into the empty room, looking into the mirror and truly believing he was the strongest man on earth, even if he was clinging to that toxic masculinity for dear life.

He stormed out of the room, regaining his confident stride. He found Sabrina sitting casually on the couch in the communal area. She had watched the whole painful display and knew exactly what she had to do next.

“Feel better, Shawnie?” Sabrina asked, patting the cushion beside her, making her voice soft and tempting.

Shawn stalked over, his eyes burning with renewed hatred. “Yeah. I feel great. You went out of line, bitch!”

Sabrina didn’t flinch. She laughed, a rich, genuine sound that infuriated him further. “Ah, the big man calls me a bitch. My mom always said when a man calls a woman a bitch, that woman must have done something precisely right to hurt his ego.” She looked him up and down, a full vial of the pheromone hidden in her left hand. She held his gaze, a challenge in her eyes. “Is this going to make you feel better?”

He sat down heavily beside her, intent on intimidating her. As he did, Sabrina swiftly placed her hand on his thigh, letting her fingers brush dangerously close to his crotch. The residual heat from his shower and the tight denim made her hand warm. She was already placing the vial there, uncorking it under the cover of her hand.

“Fucking right I’m going to feel better you’re screaming my name tonight,” Shawn growled, his attention fixed solely on her eyes and the intimidation game, completely oblivious to her left hand resting right over his nuts.

“We’ll see about that, babe,” Sabrina purred, a predatory smile stretching her lips. She gave his thigh a final, almost loving squeeze, simultaneously pouring the entire vial of fire ant pheromone right onto his commando-clad groin.

She pulled her hand away, leaving a dark, oily patch on the denim where the liquid had instantly soaked in. When the bonfire started, the boys would learn another, far more insidious lesson.

Part 9: The Wrath of the Female Swarm

Later that night, the backyard of the Lodge was bathed in the warm, flickering orange glow of a roaring bonfire. The air smelled of burnt sugar, pine, and cheap beer. The six students were clustered around the firepit, eating charred sausages and s’mores, an idyllic picture of a college weekend that belied the simmering sexual tension, psychological warfare, and acute testicular pain throbbing beneath the surface.

Tate shifted nervously on her log, her eyes darting between Daniel—who was sitting gingerly, legs slightly splayed—and Sabrina, who was casually performing an act of pure menace with a knife and a sausage. “Shit, I think I forgot my phone in the room,” Tate announced, pulling her shoulders up in a fake shiver. “I’ll be right back.”

She walked away from the firelight, her heightened dancer’s senses on full alert. She didn’t have a phone; she was the bait. Sure enough, a shadow peeled itself off the Lodge wall and moved fast, catching her just as she passed the treeline.

Daniel pressed his body against her back, his arms snaking around her waist. His whisper was ragged, a mix of genuine longing and forced frat-boy swagger. “I miss you, babe.”

Tate’s entire body went rigid. The betrayal she felt was still raw, and his possessive touch—coming just hours after he dismissed her as the "easy target" for a bet—was like sandpaper on a fresh wound. Betray me for fifty dollars, will you, bastard?

Her response was instantaneous and muscle memory-driven. Her high alert reflex, honed by months of listening to Sabrina’s lectures and driven by the deep burn of humiliation, took over. She dropped her center of gravity, spinning on her heel just slightly, and drove the sole of her boot backwards in a lightning-quick, defensive motion.

THWACK.

The sound was duller than a kick to the balls usually was, thanks to Daniel’s thick denim jeans, but the velocity and unexpected nature were enough. Daniel instantly buckled, releasing a strangled, high-pitched “Oof!” His arms shot down, clutching his aching groin as he collapsed to one knee in the shadow of a large spruce.

“Tate… it’s me…” his voice was a painful, reedy scratch, the sound of his ego deflating again. His eyes, wide with surprise and pain, peered up at her. “Careful, I’m still… recovering.”

Tate burst into mocking laughter, the sound brittle and slightly hysterical. She reached down, offering him a hand, and helped Daniel, who was literally recovering from her own surprise attack, get up from his knee.

“It’s your own damn fault, Dan. You know better than to surprise a girl like that,” Tate said, feigning innocence as she helped him walk back toward the light.

Daniel was moving like a cartoon penguin, taking short, wide, hesitant steps. His pain was immediately forgotten, replaced by his primary objective.

“Look, babe,” Daniel began, leaning in conspiratorially, his eyes avoiding the bonfire. “We’ve been dating for three months. I think it’s time we got to know each other on an intimate level.”

Tate felt a wave of cold disgust. Intimate level. This fuckboy couldn't even beg for sex like a normal person; he had to paraphrase his lust into something that sounded intellectual and elevated. He was using academic language to cover a grubby, primal urge. She knew exactly what he was doing: manipulating her by attempting to frame sex as a "deepening of the relationship."

“You know I want to keep my virginity, right, Daniel?” Tate said, her voice soft but firm.

Daniel winced, not from the pain in his groin, but from the sudden roadblock to his plan. The truth was, Daniel was deeply frustrated by Tate’s resistance. While the rational part of his brain (the part that needed the Mendes firm job) told him it was stupid to chase a challenge, the deeply insecure, competitive male part was obsessed. The thought of Tate being a virgin wasn't about respect; it created a twisted, addictive sensation in him—the idea that he would tame the ultimate challenge and get the virgin. He saw her purity as a treasure to be conquered, a final step in his masculine ascent.

He had no idea Tate knew his entire playbook. He was desperately trying to play her, but Tate was now the puppet master, deliberately playing the role of the "elusive prize" to keep him guessing, off-balance, and most importantly, in range for further humiliation.

Meanwhile, at the bonfire, Shawn was seated beside Sabrina, who was meticulously preparing her dinner. She had a plump sausage skewered on a stick, and instead of eating it, she was using a small, sharp camping knife to slice it into geometrically perfect discs. Her method was slow, deliberate, and entirely vicious.

Shawn winched visibly with every calculated cut. “Hey! Eat like a lady, babe!” he snapped, his voice tight.

Sabrina stopped cutting and looked up, her platinum blonde hair catching the firelight. Her grin was predatory. “Why, Shawnie? Does this remind you of a certain part of your anatomy?” She chuckled darkly, then sliced the sausage again with a terrifying finality. “Are you afraid I’m going full Lorena Bobbitt on you?”

Shawn’s confident swagger evaporated. He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the knife. The sheer brutality of the joke was unnerving, far worse than a simple kick. “Jesus, Sabrina. That’s not funny, bitch.”

“Oh, darling. It’s just a joke. A very, very funny joke,” she murmured, touching his muscular face with a feigned affection that felt like a threat. “Don’t worry. I don't want to serve time in jail, sweetie. I’d miss my friends too much.” She squeezed his hand and leaned in, her eyes shining with triumph as she enjoyed every single minute of twisting the knife into his arrogant manhood.

Daniel and Tate ambled back to the fire, Daniel’s stride stiff and unnatural. Shawn noticed immediately.

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your walk? You look like a penguin who just lost his fish,” Shawn asked, his concern overriding his annoyance. Joshua also peered at Daniel with curiosity.

Daniel tried to play it off with a casual shrug that failed spectacularly. “Accident, man. Tripped on a root. Don’t worry, I’m good.”

But Tate, feeling the rush of adrenaline from their little power exchange, couldn't resist twisting the screw. “You know, Daniel tried to surprise me, but I think I gave him the surprise instead. Beware, boys. Don’t hug your girls surprisingly. Some of us react defensively.”

“Daniel’s girl?” Shawn started, utterly confused by the declaration and the obvious discomfort of his best friend. He was about to demand a full explanation of their relationship status, when a strange, prickling sensation started crawling up his feet, spreading rapidly.

What the fuck is that?

The feeling was exactly like countless small, sharp things were scaling his ankles and shins, moving with frantic, determined purpose. He instinctively brushed his hand along his tight denim, feeling the tiny, frantic bodies crawling just beneath the fabric.

Daniel gasped, his eyes wide. Joshua’s head snapped down. “Do you feel that? What is that? Are those… ants?”

Joshua scrambled for his phone, fumbling the flashlight app on. The powerful beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the terrifying scene unfolding on their jeans. Hundreds—no, thousands—of tiny, reddish-brown fire ants were streaming from the grass, having climbed their feet and now swarming their legs, focused entirely on a point right above their knees. The swarm was zeroing in on the crotch. The pheromones, activated by the warmth of the bonfire and the boys' natural sweat, had done their job.

“NO! NO! NO!” Joshua shrieked, instantly recognizing the creatures and the target.

Sabrina clapped her hand to her mouth, faking horror, but her eyes were glittering with malicious delight. “Boys, beware! It’s… FIRE ANTS!”

Panic erupted. The three towering athletes instantly forgot their dignity, their pride, and their friendship. They started frantically slapping their thighs and jumping—a chaotic, humiliating dance of agonizing, stinging terror.

Daniel was the first to feel the true impact. A searing hot pain exploded in his groin. He could feel the fire ants—the female species—biting through the thin fabric of his jeans. They were swarming his dick and balls. The pain was worse than the paintball shot, worse than his sister’s kick—it was a burning, sustained torment. He punched his own crotch repeatedly, trying to crush the swarm, succeeding only in bruising his already swollen nuts.

“NO! NO! NOT AGAIN! PLEASE! WHY? WHY? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Daniel screamed, dissolving into a puddle of tears and undignified yelps. He was sure his anatomy was swelling to the size of grapefruit.

Olivia looked at Joshua, who was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes wide with desperate terror. "Guess the ants really love you boys tonight, huh?" she teased, crossing her arms and pretending to watch with detached scientific interest.

Joshua, losing all sense of logic and spatial awareness, decided climbing was the solution. He scrambled toward a nearby oak tree, his movements jerky and panicked. He clawed his way up a few feet, legs shaking, only to realize the trunk was covered in the same ants. With a final, desperate whimper, he slipped, his body falling backward. He landed in a tangle of branches and rocks, his legs wide open, and his already battered balls slammed against a sharp granite rock. His body folded over the impact point, trapping his nuts between the rock and his own 6'1" body.

“HOLY SHIT! OH, MY GOD! NOOOO! I’M DEAD! I’M FUCKING DEAD!” His screams were a primal symphony of pain and defeat.

Daniel, seeing Joshua fall, turned desperately to the only person nearby who seemed calm. “BABE! PLEASE, BABE! Help me! Help me, please, please... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Tate’s face was stone. She looked at the panicked strategist, the boy who had gambled away their relationship for a job. The ants were biting his private parts mercilessly. She saw her chance—the final punishment, the ultimate act of betrayal turned defense. She grabbed a heavy, discarded wooden stick near the fire pit.

“Okay, Dan. I’ll save you,” she said calmly.

Before Daniel could thank her, she lifted the stick high and brought it down like a baseball bat, aiming perfectly at the source of his pain. CRACK! The sound of wood hitting his nuts was sickeningly loud, a percussive punctuation mark on the evening’s chaos. The force was enough to kill the swarming ants inside his jeans and momentarily paralyze him with shock.

Daniel’s scream was cut brutally short, replaced by a choking, wheezing sound that quickly morphed into the loudest, most agonized roar yet: “TATEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! NOOOOOOOOOO! YOU’RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!”

As Daniel collapsed to the ground next to the moaning Joshua, Shawn, the only one still standing, realized the gravity of the situation. He had to get to water. He was 6'3", the Alpha, and he could still win. He bolted toward the dark, unseen pond, running with the desperate, flailing movements of a man whose enormous, sensitive anatomy was under simultaneous attack by hundreds of tiny female soldiers.

He tripped over a tent stake he hadn't seen. His huge body launched forward in a clumsy, ballistic arc. He landed heavily, not in the water, but directly on top of a massive fire ant nest, his commando-clad crotch receiving the full, vengeful impact of the entire colony. The nest instantly erupted, and hundreds more ants swarmed the pheromone-soaked denim, biting with a savage, collective fury.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! MY DICK! MY FUCKING DIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!”

The final, piercing howl of the Frat President echoed across the mountains.

Part 10: The Trauma of the Father

Shawn screamed—a final, gut-wrenching, animalistic sound—as his massive 6'3" body slammed onto the ground. He landed directly on the mouth of the fire ant nest, and the entire colony, sensing the warm, pheromone-drenched denim of his commando jeans, launched a simultaneous, final assault. The pain was immediate, sustained, and absolute. It wasn't just a sting; it was a thousand tiny, burning, female mandibles attacking the most sensitive, vital, and exposed part of his anatomy.

“NO! NO! NO! PLEASE, SABRINA! PLEASE, HELP ME!” Shawn shrieked, clawing desperately at the ground. The agony was so intense, so blinding, that his body lost all muscular control. A wet, warm sensation spread rapidly across his already-stained jeans. “I THINK SOME GOT INTO MY PEE HOLE! I PEED MYSELF! I PEED MY PANTS!” The great Frat President, the Gigachad, the future of the Mendes empire, had completely lost control of his bladder, wetting himself in front of the three women he had sworn to conquer.

Sabrina didn't just laugh; she cackled. The sound was pure, unadulterated triumph, cutting through the smoky air. It was the sound of her feminist ideology being completely, physically validated. “Did you hear that, girls? Shawn Mendes peed in his pants!” she called out, loud enough for Daniel and Joshua (who were convulsing nearby) to hear. “Josh! Look at your Alpha! He’s crying and he’s wet himself! This is your role model, baby!”

She watched the $6'3"$ mountain spasm violently, his body twitching as the swarm attacked. The irony was so thick it was intoxicating. He was so powerful, yet so pathetically vulnerable. She could see the thousands of ants concentrating their attack on the massive bulge inside his denim.

“PLEASE! PLEASE, PLEASE, Sabrina, help me!” Shawn begged, his voice now a pathetic, hoarse whine. He was reduced to the screaming, powerless boy his father had suppressed years ago.

Sabrina walked closer, the pheromone spray bottle still in her hand. She felt the complex, frustrating dual urge: the need to save him from permanent injury (because he was still, impossibly, hot) battling the urge to punish him until he learned his lesson. She chose a middle path. She sprayed a blast of her expensive, sweet perfume directly onto the swarming ants. The intense, synthetic scent shocked the fire ants, killing many instantly and confusing the rest.

But the pheromones were potent, and some of the most tenacious ants were already too deep. They were entrenched in the area of his greatest pride. “Oh, fuck,” Sabrina muttered, genuinely surprised by the persistence of the swarm. It truly seemed like nature itself had decided that Shawn was the biggest target and deserved the worst punishment.

Shawn was looking up at her, his eyes begging. Sabrina saw the remaining ants concentrated entirely on the largest, most painful part of his crotch. She had to end it fast. She felt a surge of cold, final determination. This wasn't about the ants anymore. This was about driving the final nail into the coffin of his toxic ego.

She raised her sneaker. She brought her small, 4'11" frame's full weight down, stomping once, hard, on the precise spot where the ants—and his precious balls—were concentrated.

THWACK.

The sound was a sickening, muted squish. Shawn’s scream was utterly impossible—a sound that shattered the sound barrier of pain, rising far beyond the high-pitched shriek into a realm of pure, wordless agony: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

He went stiff, his mouth wide open, his eyes rolling back in his head as he passed out cold, his huge body collapsing into the dirt with his tongue lolling out in a ridiculous, stupidly pathetic position.

Olivia immediately snapped into action, grabbing Joshua and Daniel, who were still twitching and moaning. “Okay! That’s enough! We’re done!” she declared, her voice rough with residual laughter and concern. “We’re getting you two bastards back to the lodge. We’ll find some potions or ice or something to help with the swelling, but you need to rest for tonight. The game is over.”

Tate, still holding the wooden stick, looked down at Daniel, who was crying silently while clawing at his jeans. She felt a deep, complicated relief. She had avenged her heart and defended her integrity. They helped the two conscious, moaning victims back toward the Lodge, leaving the defeated Alpha unconscious next to the decimated ant nest.

The girls’ secret plan was a resounding, spectacular success. They had exposed the boys’ fundamental weaknesses—ambition, insecurity, and toxic entitlement—using only intelligence and the inherent vulnerability of the male reproductive system.

Shawn’s Nightmare: The Trauma Loop

Later that night, Shawn woke up with a chilling gasp. His body was aching, his groin felt like it was on fire and swollen to the size of a lemon, and he was lying in his bed, shirtless, wearing only a pair of borrowed, gigantic mesh athletic shorts.

He was in the middle of a nightmare, but the fear was still suffocating. He thought he was in the dark woods. “Joshua! Daniel!” he croaked, but the silence was the worst kind of empty. He felt the cold terror that something was coming for him—not a monster, but a deeper, more primal threat.

In the dream, he saw vague, shadowy figures approaching—witches, or maybe the local legend of the predatory female spirits who preyed on young men. NO! NO! NOT ME! He tried to rush and run, but his legs felt like lead.

Then, a skeletal hand burst from the earth beneath him, cold and grasping. It shot straight up and caught him precisely in the balls. The phantom hand squeezed with deliberate, agonizing pressure, the pain feeling shockingly real even in his sleep. “NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

He stomped the hand, breaking free, and stumbled toward the Lodge door in his dream. He sighed, leaning against the cool wood, safe—or so he thought.

He turned, and the Lodge transformed into the silent set of his deepest, most buried childhood memory. He was 13 again, on a vacation at this very lodge with his father, John Mendes.

The environment was a hyper-realistic, chilling replay. John Mendes was everywhere, even in his absence, reflected in the expensive, masculine décor. Shawn noticed his father’s closet was open, revealing the same taste in clothing: rows of crisp polo shirts, identical dark-wash jeans.

Young Shawn was upstairs, playing an early-generation PlayStation, when he heard shouting and commotion from downstairs—not the shouting of anger, but the frantic, panicked sounds of a man losing control.

He crept down. He remembered the helper they had that summer, Tiara, an immigrant from Indonesia whom John Mendes frequently flirted with. Shawn knew his dad constantly chased women; he was a 'true Alpha' who wouldn't be satisfied with just one. His mother always looked sad but compliant. This was just the way of the world.

Young Shawn watched in silent horror. His father, John Mendes, pressed Tiara against the kitchen counter, trying to force a kiss. Tiara was small, but her eyes were iron.

“Lepaskan atau aku tendang bijimu, Mr. Mendes!” Tiara hissed in Indonesian. (Let go or I will kick your balls, Mr. Mendes!)

John, arrogant and clueless about the language, just laughed, thinking she was protesting playfully. “Aw, come on, sweetie, don’t be shy!”

Then, Tiara moved with the speed and precision of a cobra. Her knee shot up, not with a playful tap, but with the full force of a lifetime of suppressed anger. CRACK.

John Mendes didn't scream like a man; he screamed like a creature that had just been torn in half, collapsing instantly onto the pristine hardwood floor. He was a writhing monument to defeated masculinity. Tiara stood over him, her face cold and satisfied, and muttered a curse in her native tongue: “Suatu saat, kau dan keturunan laki-lakimu akan kehilangan kejantanan.” (Someday, you and your male descendants will lose your manhood.)

Young Shawn, hiding behind the bannister, felt the scene burn into his soul—the powerful man who built his life was suddenly pathetic, screaming, and humiliated by a small, angry woman. He tried to suppress the memory immediately; it was too contradictory to the alpha lessons his father drilled into him. He convinced himself the weakness was a fluke, a myth, and buried it deep under layers of toxic confidence and muscle.

Shawn woke up for real. He gasped, his eyes flying open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was drenched in cold sweat, his dream-induced erection instantly replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. He reached down; his shorts were wet with pee from the moment he passed out near the ant nest.

He recognized the Indonesian phrase instantly—the same language Tiara had used. It was the memory he had fought to forget, the single moment that proved his father, and therefore he himself, was fundamentally weak.

He screamed again, a roar of pure, defeated anger, and slammed his fist into the mattress. He still felt the sore, stinging pain, but his emotional wounds were worse.

He dragged himself out of bed and staggered to the mirror, ignoring the stench of urine and the swelling in his groin. He looked at the shattered image of the Frat Prez in the glass, his curly hair matted with sweat.

“I will get Sabrina,” he vowed, his voice low and dangerous, the trauma fueling his rage instead of his retreat. “I will fucking get her. She will pay.”

It was morning. The girls’ final game was just beginning.

Part 11: The Cobalt-Blue Uniform

Shawn finished a rushed, scalding shower. The water helped, but the skin around his groin was angry, inflamed, and still stinging from the ant venom. The swelling had gone down slightly, but the throbbing ache was a constant, humiliating reminder. He chose another crisp, cobalt-blue polo shirt and a fresh pair of medium-washed blue jeans. The phantom pain was the last ghost of the nightmare about Tiara, the Indonesian helper, the memory of his father’s agonizing collapse and the curse of male vulnerability. He fought it off with the force of his newly reinforced ego. He had to suppress that weakness; it was a ghost of the past. The real pain from the ants also still there.

A timid knock came at the door connecting to Daniel’s room. “Dude, I ran out of clean shirts,” Daniel’s voice was muffled and still sounded slightly raw. “I went through three changes after that night disaster, and I think one of them is currently floating in the pool.”

Shawn looked at his closet, seeing two identical blue polos hanging neatly. He grabbed them. “Here, man. Take them. You know what? How about we all wear the uniform? The classic Alpha-Mendes look. We’re presenting a united front. We gotta look like a unit, not a bunch of injured refugees.”

Downstairs in the lodge’s sun-drenched, gourmet dining area, the girls were having breakfast. Sabrina had a stack of silver-dollar pancakes, but she was focused on a banana. She placed the fruit on her plate and slowly, deliberately, picked up a serrated banana cutter—a ludicrous novelty item she'd found in the lodge’s expensive gadget drawer—to slice it into precise, tiny pieces. The knife scraped against the porcelain, the sound grating and calculated.

“I bet the boys will be shocked seeing how we cut this banana,” Sabrina mused, her eyes distant and cold, fixed on the receiver resting next to her plate. “We cut the banana like this because cutting their dick is illegal, morons. If I could, I would say that to Shawn’s face.”

Olivia laughed, a short, sharp bark of pure delight. She loved this consistency in Sabrina, this relentless, intellectualized man-hating. She spooned yogurt into her mouth, leaning into the psychoanalysis.

“From an evolutionary standpoint, reproductive success was the ultimate currency of survival,” Olivia began, adopting a mocking, professorial tone. “For males, producing offspring required being sexually capable—having functioning genitalia, the drive to mate, and the ability to compete for partners. Over generations, that physical function became psychologically tied to self-esteem and dominance. Evolution favored males who not only could reproduce but also felt driven to assert or protect that capability, because confidence and competition improved mating chances. So, the biological importance of the penis gradually became an emotional and psychological investment too. They’re literally programmed to protect their tiny, dangly ego-center.”

As if on cue, the three men appeared, walking down the grand, rustic staircase. The aspirin, the Lexie-potion, and the sheer force of Shawn’s ego had worked their cosmetic magic. They walked with a renewed, if slightly stiff, swagger, deliberately matching their strides.

They were a sight: all three in the tight cobalt-blue polo shirts and medium-washed blue jeans, creating a ridiculous, synchronized frat tableau. The tight denim still accentuated the fact that all three were clearly going commando, a painful choice that was now an act of defiant machismo. Daniel, whose body wasn't as aggressively muscled as the other two, wore a denim jacket over his polo, a subtle attempt to refine the raw 'alpha' image.

“Hello, boys!” Sabrina greeted them, her voice sickeningly sweet, her eyes never leaving the banana cutter. Tate smiled, a genuine, complicated smile directed only at Daniel, who returned it, oblivious to the fact that she was actively rooting for his testicular pain.

Shawn walked straight over to the breakfast bar. His eyes immediately fell on Sabrina’s plate, the banana neatly quartered by the absurd cutter. He winced instantly, clutching his groin—the visual association was a nightmare to his traumatized anatomy.

“Let’s just have breakfast near the pool,” Shawn muttered, his tone clipped and tense. He couldn’t stand the sight of the girls’ smug faces or Sabrina’s kitchen-based threat. The three men turned and headed quickly out the sliding glass doors toward the sun-drenched deck, seeking a space of perceived male sanctuary.

Sabrina waited until the glass door slid shut before leaning in, a smirk playing on her lips. “Girls, quick. I put a small, high-sensitivity baby monitor near the pool deck yesterday, disguised as a pinecone. We can hear everything those stupid, ugly, pathetic boys say.” She reached under the table, pulling out the receiver.

Tate’s smile widened, but she corrected her. “You don’t mean it, calling those hot hunks ugly, right? My boyfriend isn't ugly on the outside, just in the inside, Sab.”

Olivia rolled her eyes, scoffing. “They’re all rotten to the core, Tate. Daniel is just slightly better packaged. The rot just looks different. Shh! Listen!”

 

The receiver crackled to life, picking up the muffled clink of three beer cans being placed roughly on the glass table near the outdoor pool. Shawn kicked a nearby teak lounge chair, the sound muffled but distinct, projecting his frustration.

“I can’t believe we got so much bad luck here,” Shawn growled, his voice thick with frustration. He was pacing the deck, the uniform making his movements stiff. “We missed the first night because those stupid ants, and now they think they’ve won! We can’t even have sex last night after all that shit.”

Joshua nervously popped the top on his beer, the sound sharp. “Yeah. I think it’s a string of bad luck, Shawn, but we’ll still have tonight, right? We can still win this bet. I need to win this bet, man. For the Frat.”

“Bad luck, Josh? No. This is calculated aggression,” Daniel’s voice, clear and slightly analytical, cut in. He was the only one thinking strategically. “I think they are working together. The ants, the paintball, the sudden lack of groin guards—it’s coordinated. They got us when we were dumb and together. We need to go separate ways during the day and come back tonight to execute our plan with ruthless efficiency. We can’t let this slide.”

Shawn high-fived Daniel hard, the slap echoing across the pool deck. “Great idea, Daniel. Divide and conquer. I want to see the rodeo attraction near this place.” Shawn grabbed an expensive, dark leather cowboy hat that had been left on a nearby chair. “This is my dad’s, and finally I get a chance to use that. There’s a dive bar down the road with a mechanical bull. I’m going to show Sabrina exactly how to ride a man—and that man is me. A woman needs to know who’s in control of the rhythm, right?”

Joshua chimed in, eager to assert his commitment, doing a quick, awkward bicep flex. “I think I want some physical activities. Maybe the wall climbing or the ropes course we saw on the map. Olivia is an athlete wanna-be, and I want to show her that men will always win physically when it counts. I’ll make her tap out, bro, on my superior strength.”

Daniel sighed, the sound loud and close to the microphone. He lowered his voice, the change in his tone signaling seriousness, pulling Shawn away from Joshua slightly. “Shawn, I have to admit something. And I need you to just listen.”

In the dining room, Tate gripped the table edge, her breath catching in her throat. Olivia and Sabrina leaned forward, their eyes wide and glittering with anticipation.

“I dated Tate for the last three months, secretly,” Daniel confessed, the words strained and heavy with self-pity. “I just didn't want you to know because I thought I had a genuine chance for real love with her. I thought maybe... maybe I could have that, without all the Frat politics.” He paused, and Shawn could be heard taking a long pull of his beer. “But after this weekend, and everything I saw her do in the paintball game... I saw the darkness, man. I now realize women will take our power when they have the chance, and they think they run the world if we show weakness. She was trying to put a leash on me, dude.” Daniel’s voice hardened, purging the last vestiges of his guilt and replacing it with manufactured conviction. “All you preach are true, Shawn. I choose loyalty over this weakness. The patriarchy is the answer, and I’ll take Tate’s virginity tonight, just to prove I own her.”

Shawn slowly processed this. He didn’t yell. He didn't express anger. He expressed a chilling, satisfied certainty. He grabbed Daniel’s shoulder and squeezed it, a sign of brutal approval.

“Dude. I can’t believe you kept that from me. But it’s okay. You saw the light. Now, listen to me, and you too, Joshua. Listen close.” Shawn’s voice deepened, taking on the authoritative cadence of his father, amplified by the microphone.

“Women go all and all about destroying the patriarchy because they hate the fact that their nature is to submit to men,” Shawn declared, his voice ringing with conviction, louder now. “They want to destroy male power because they can’t help themselves but submit to us. They fight so hard to be those ‘girl bosses,’ while deep inside, they want to be a 1950s tradwife who just cooks dinner and worships our dicks.”

He slammed his beer can down on the table, the sound a sharp metallic echo. “Now, we need to bring the patriarchy to full force. Show them that in fact, and in biology, men are all superior to women. Daniel, Tate tried to put you on a leash to label you a ‘good guy.’ You haven’t had sex yet?”

Daniel admitted stiffly, “No, haven’t.”

“That’s because she wants to control you! She wants to own that last bit of 'feminine virtue' that she thinks will keep you dependent on her! She wants to hold the key to your self-worth! And Joshua, you’re the next generation of this Frat, and I choose you. You need to assert your dominance to Olivia. Because women are a bunch of misandrists. They hate men because they don’t have our strength, our size, or our courage. They blame us in every possible way and say things like ‘men are trash,’ but when we call them golddiggers or unstable, they scream misogyny.”

Shawn stepped up to the edge of the pool, his voice reaching a crescendo, his shadow huge on the deck. He spread his arms wide, the movement straining the seams of his polo shirt.

“So, we take back the narrative. We remind them who’s in charge. We show them our dominance. We show them our strength. We show them the pain they caused us! This isn't about the bet anymore; this is about teaching them a lesson in submission. WE ARE MEN! AND MEN WIN AGAIN!”

The three guys roared, the sound echoing through the receiver, a savage, primal sound of toxic affirmation. They high-fived each other hard across the pool table. “We’ll meet again at night and be ready to get them!”

Back in the dining room, the girls slowly lowered the receiver. Sabrina’s face was unreadable, her eyes dark, but a cold, final smirk appeared. Olivia was shaking with a mixture of fury and hilarity.

“Did you hear that misogynistic bullshit?” Olivia hissed. “He thinks we want to be tradwives?”

Tate's expression was frozen—the confession about her virginity and the plan to "own her" had finally broken her. “He called me a leash. He thinks I’m a leash for his integrity,” she whispered, her voice dangerously flat.

Sabrina leaned in, her eyes shining with manic glee. “Those boys are so pathetic and stupid. They have no idea what they just walked into. They’ve just handed us the script for their own utter destruction. They will regret every single word.”

Part 12: Daniel’s Collapse

Daniel and Tate walked the short distance to the ice skating rink, Daniel still wearing the cobalt-blue polo shirt and his denim jacket, projecting the mandated Frat uniformity. Tate wore a tight, fitted sweater and leggings—clothing perfect for a dancer. As they walked, Daniel leaned in, his cologne and the lingering masculine scent of his pheromone-doused jeans mixing in her nostrils. Tate had to admit, she still loved the smell. It was a primal, potent aroma that reminded her of the three months of secret, exciting passion.

“You sure you can deal with ice skating, babe?” Daniel asked, reaching out to steady her as they approached the gate, his voice dripping with condescending reassurance. “It’s a little slick. Don’t want you to fall.”

That condescension was the core of her problem with him. He was constantly treating her like a literal, incapable girl who needed protection, making her nauseated because she was an independent woman whose competence he simply couldn’t wrap his mind around. Maybe it's not just the bet, she thought, suddenly cold. Maybe this is why I can’t truly be with Daniel. The temptation of his boyishly handsome face and the familiar pull of attraction was a temporary weakness she was determined to overcome.

Daniel had always treated her passion for dancing—her art—like a trivial pastime. He constantly thought Tate was dancing to get attention from men, subtly connecting her creative expression with sexual performance. Tate was tired of Daniel connecting her physical art with sexualization while he hypocritically dismissed her valid concerns about the frat activity as "baseless" female hysterics. Now that she knew his plan was to take her virginity as a strategic win—a power move to "own her"—it all clicked into sickening place. Daniel didn't see her as a person; he saw her as a sexual object defined by her virtue status. His entire perception of women was warped by his internal need for dominance.

“Anyway, I miss your mom. How’s she?” Tate asked, deliberately changing the subject as they laced up their skates.

Daniel grunted, struggling with the laces. “Same old, same old. She’s probably writing some manifesto about how men should have curfews.” He genuinely hated his mother. She was an outspoken, successful ultra-feminist professor who always preferred his prodigious, super-smart sister, Anna, over him. It was a dynamic that had deeply wounded his male ego, making him feel that he and his father couldn't even compete with the superior women in his house. Becoming the Vice President of the fraternity was his desperate attempt to create a space where he held the undeniable, unquestioned power over women.

They stepped onto the ice. For the first few minutes, the pretense held. They skated hand-in-hand, carving smooth, gliding loops around the rink. Daniel was actually graceful, a confident skater, and he pulled her close. The physical closeness, the easy rhythm of their bodies moving together, and the nostalgic sound of cheesy pop music created a bubble of happiness. Tate genuinely smiled, remembering the boy she had fallen for—the sensitive, intelligent architect who seemed capable of seeing beyond the frat noise. They laughed as Daniel dipped her, their bodies twisting in a practiced, intimate dance.

Then, the true Daniel emerged.

Tate pulled away, effortlessly executing a difficult triple loop jump, landing with a clean, satisfying scrape of the blade. It was flawless. The small crowd around the rink applauded.

Daniel just stared, his smile melting into a thin line. He skated toward her slowly.

“Show-off,” he mumbled, kicking the ice, the word barely audible. His immediate reaction wasn't pride, but offense.

Tate stopped, her skates spraying a fine mist of ice. The happy bubble burst, replaced by a cold, sharp certainty. “You’re unbelievable, Daniel.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “That’s not showing off; that’s just me. I’m a dancer, and that move is entirely possible on ice. Why is competence an insult to you?”

He pulled his collar up defensively. “Because it was unnecessary, Tate! We were having a moment, and you turned it into a competition.”

“No. You turned it into an assertion of your superiority when you asked if I could ‘deal’ with the rink,” Tate snapped, her voice rising, the anger finally cracking her controlled facade. “I really thought you could keep your ego in check, but no. Shawn and the frat got to your mind really deep. Why can’t you just admit that a woman can do something better than you? You know what it is? It’s your mommy issue, huh?”

The accusation hit him like a physical blow, stripping away his veneer of intellectual superiority. Daniel’s face went scarlet.

“Your mom is so powerful that it’s emasculating your dad, and your sister is a super-smart prodigy, and you’re just mediocre next to them. You know you’re no better than a woman, and you project that inferiority and anger onto me! You are terrified of any woman who isn’t dependent on you. But okay, let’s say I CAN DO BETTER SKATING THAN YOU. I’M SMARTER THAN YOU!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the glass barriers.

Daniel exploded, the calculated façade of the strategist dissolving into pure, frat-boy rage. He skated forward quickly, stopping inches from her face, his fists clenched. “FUCK YOU, TATE! You don't know shit about my family! And stop calling me mediocre!” he roared, his spit flying.

Tate felt a cold wash of clarity. “You shout in front of my face? You think you can intimidate me with volume and size? Oh God. I really thought you were the sweet boy who sent me flowers, but no, Daniel. You’re all the same. Sabrina is right, men are all trash!”

She remembered when she scored higher than him on a practice architecture test, and he joked she must have "used her feminine charm" on the professor. She remembered him calling her dress "distracting" to his fraternity brothers. She remembered him laughing when Shawn boasted about cheating on Sabrina, calling it "alpha behavior." Every subtle misogynistic slight was now crystal clear.

“You still don’t see it, huh?” Daniel retaliated, his eyes wild. “Sabrina blinded you! Fuck her and her misandrist bullshit! She’s mad Shawn cheated on her and she brainwashed you and Olivia that men are like spawn of demons! She’s projecting her Daddy issues onto us all! You’re just a pawn!”

Tate’s entire body went rigid. He’s just as same as Shawn. “You know what, Daniel?” Tate pulled off her skate guard and threw it at the ice. “I’m done. Your loyalty to that misogynistic rhetoric is more important than our relationship, and you proved it with that goddamn bet. Go find your tradwife!” She scrambled off the ice, discarding her skates and running toward the parking lot.

Daniel rushed to follow, his rage overcoming his reason. He rushed onto the ice in his skates, completely uncoordinated now, desperate to stop her and save his bet. He was moving at high speed, building a terrifying momentum, but his skates weren't pointing forward; they were rushing in parallel as he lost all control. He slipped violently—a catastrophic, high-velocity wipeout.

The momentum sent him sliding across the ice like a black-and-blue projectile. His legs flung wide apart as he attempted to slow himself, but the speed was too much. He slid directly into the thick, steel support pole that held up the rink barrier.

THUGHHHHHHHHH! The sound was wet, dense, and sickening, like a watermelon being slammed into a metal drum. The pole hit perfectly, directly on his exposed groin.

The immediate reaction was pure, cinematic agony. The air instantly evacuated his lungs, leaving a vacuum where his soul used to be. His eyes bulged so far they looked like cartoon ping-pong balls attempting to pop out of his head, and his mouth opened in a silent scream that morphed into a high-pitched, almost operatic wail: “YEEEEOWWW!” The sound echoed across the rink, startling a flock of birds from nearby trees and making a kid in the crowd drop his hot cocoa. The mother of the kid immediately clamped a hand over her son’s ear and loudly hissed, “That’s what happens to bad boys when they argue with women, honey!”

Daniel crumpled, his body folding around the pole like a piece of dough. He clutched his groin and curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth like a wounded, broken animal. he moaned, “My boys! My poor, poor boys! Why, God, why are you doing this to me?”

Trying to salvage his dignity, Daniel attempted to stand, gripping the barrier for support, but the upward pressure immediately pressed against his horribly tender groin again, prompting another pathetic yelp: “Nope, nope, bad idea! NO!” He slid back down, one hand protectively cupping himself, earning further laughs from the growing crowd.

Tate, still near the barrier, stopped. Despite her justifiable rage, she felt a flicker of the old protective instinct. “Why are you so dumb, Daniel?” she said, laced with fury and pity. She skated toward him, ready to help him off the ice before someone called the paramedics.

But then, the final, cruel twist of fate. Tate was moving too fast toward him and stumbled slightly across a patch of thin ice. She fell, hard, the motion sending her body pitching forward with the momentum of a dancer’s powerful fall.

She fell with a sickening force, her extended knee landing squarely on the tight ball of agony that was Daniel’s already pulverized nuts. The sound was a sharp, final CRUNCH-THWACK.

“TATEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Daniel’s voice shattered completely, becoming a thin, frantic siren that peaked in inhuman terror, a sound so high-pitched it was painful to hear. His body went rigid, then slack, collapsing into a heap of limbs and pain.

Tate couldn't even stand up immediately because she was laughing so hard. She lay on the ice next to her broken ex-boyfriend, her body shaking with hysterical, triumphant laughter, the sheer, absurd horror of the accident—the high-speed pole smash immediately followed by a direct, accidental knee-drop—being the ultimate, final, exquisite joke.

.

Part 13: The Vice-Grip of the Vain

Joshua and Olivia followed a dirt path winding through the pines toward the wall climbing area. The air was cool and crisp, but Joshua felt a fever of frantic anxiety beneath his cobalt-blue polo shirt. He was determined to erase the memory of his pathetic showing in the paintball game.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Joshua asked with a cocky grin, pulling his shoulders back to maximize his 6'1" frame. He was wearing one of Shawn’s spare polos—he could practically feel the residue of his idol's Gigachad essence clinging to the fabric.

“Yes, I’m an athlete, Joshua,” Olivia retorted flatly. “I’m not a frat boy who only trains his biceps.”

As they stepped off the path, Joshua discreetly pulled a tiny vial from his jeans pocket—the Mak Erot Potion. He knew he should stop, but the thought of Olivia's scathing mockery and his own humiliating reality was too much. He quickly downed the oily, pungent liquid.

Olivia noticed the swift, furtive gesture, but offered no comment. She simply observed the sudden, pronounced growth of Joshua’s bulge beneath his denim. Her silence was a weapon, allowing him to stew in his own desperate vanity.

“You know what?” Joshua started, emboldened by the rush of the potion. He attempted a smooth, dominating conversational pivot. “You could quit all this bullshit soccer if you became my girlfriend, you know. I know you only play soccer because of your dad, right?”

Olivia stopped dead in the middle of the trail, her gaze fixed on him. “Fuck you, Joshua. What did you just say?”

Joshua laughed, the potion giving him a false bravado—a thick-headed, bulletproof confidence that mirrored Shawn’s worst traits. “Well, you brought up my dad first, and I did a little digging. Your dad, Sebastian Rodrigo, is a professional soccer player. Too bad he didn’t have a son, right? He wanted a boy to play soccer with. He never truly supported you and the women’s team. You spent your whole life trying to prove him wrong, and you won’t reach that level. You have boobs, that’s a huge drawback. You’re small. And, well, I don’t think you could make it.”

He closed the distance between them, pushing her slowly, condescendingly against a rough-barked tree. He leaned in to kiss her neck, his breath hot, his growing erection pressing against the denim. The Mak Erot Potion wasn't just working on his size; it was pumping toxic bravado and aggression directly into his system.

Olivia smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. The air between them tasted like pine needles and imminent violence. “Just so you know, I always carry a pocket knife in my sports bra, and if you ever get close to me again like this, I swear I’m gonna cut your dick off, Joshua. Of course, if I can even find that tiny dick of yours.” She laughed—a cold, sharp, mocking sound that instantly evaporated his confidence.

The mention of the knife (a bluff, but effective) was enough for Joshua to recoil. The insult to his size, however, was worse than the threat of castration. He stepped back, clutching his hands into fists.

“Okay, bitch! Let’s compete, then! If I win the wall climbing—if I get to the top first—you need to surrender. You’re my property for the night. No excuses.”

“And if I win?” Olivia asked, her eyes glittering.

“What do you want?” Joshua said, wiping sweat from his brow, his confidence visibly deflating.

Olivia moved close, her tiny body intimidating his large one. She whispered, her voice low and dangerous: “I get to kick you in the balls.” She laughed, loud and victorious. “Oh God. This is going to be interesting.”

Joshua clamped his hands over his groin, an instinctive, terrified reaction. “Shit. I can’t lose, and I won’t lose.”

 

They arrived at the wall climbing facility. Two identical, brightly colored artificial walls stood side-by-side. A cluster of high school girls, clearly visiting the Lodge on a field trip, immediately gathered, their phones out.

The girls immediately began whispering and admiring Joshua's athletic build—his perfect Frat uniform and strong arms. But then they saw Olivia.

“Is she competing against him?” one high school girl asked Olivia.

Olivia smiled, addressing the girls directly. “Yes, we are competing. And you know what? Girls can do anything. Those boys are stupid because they rely on brute force and height, which is easily defeated by strategy, flexibility, and a healthy dose of rage. Look at them: they think their testicles are invincible, but they are the most obvious weakness in the human anatomy. You girls can be stronger than any man as long as you use your brains. Never let a boy tell you what you can’t do.” The high school girls cheered, instantly rooting for her.

Joshua, meanwhile, was experiencing a profound and disastrous side effect from the Mak Erot Potion. First, the sight of Olivia in her tight climbing outfit and the cheer from the high school girls caused a powerful erection. Second, the potion magnified this effect. His dick was rock-hard and expanding, pressing uncomfortably against the seams of his commando jeans.

In a fit of desperate, newbie anxiety, Joshua discreetly loosened his harness leg loops slightly at the base, thinking it would relieve pressure without anyone noticing. This was a critical mistake: the leg loops are meant to be snug.

The worker gave the signal. “Start!”

Olivia, with the natural grace of a soccer player, began her ascent. Her movements were economical, controlled, and fluid. She moved up the wall like a dancer, relying on her balance and footwork.

Joshua began his climb with raw power, hauling himself up on the ropes and holds. He was faster than Olivia initially, his superior reach giving him an advantage. But his erection was becoming a catastrophic distraction. The bulge pressed against his jeans, bunching the fabric and positioning his anatomy right in the path of the loose leg loops.

Olivia spotted his struggle and grinned. “Catch me if you can, Daddy’s Boy!” she called down, knowing the phrase would inject psychological chaos into his focus.

The taunt and the physical throbbing were too much. He desperately tried to adjust his groin mid-climb, letting go with his left hand to subtly ease the pressure. This single, panicked gesture caused him to miss a crucial foothold. His foot slipped off a tiny, tricky hold, and he lost his grip completely.

“WHOA! WHOA! WHOA! NOT NOW! NOT FUCKING NOW!” Joshua screamed, his voice thick with terror and pain, as he plummeted downward in a sudden rush of terror.

The belayer quickly locked the rope, catching Joshua's fall. The sudden drop and the resulting deceleration were instant disaster. Because he had loosened the leg loops, they allowed the harness to shift upward on his body due to the momentum of the fall. When the rope yanked him to a stop, the harness cinched tight automatically.

But because the loops were loose and shifted, they rode up directly into his groin area. The erection had created extra, unyielding bulk in his jeans, and the leg loop straps clamped down on his balls like a steel vise—pinching them violently between the harness material and his rigid body.

“EWWWOOOO! MY NUGGETS! OH MY GOD, MY NUGGETS! THEY’RE STUCK!” Joshua screamed, a thin, high-pitched, comically undignified wail that sounded like a tea kettle screaming for release. It echoed through the entire hall.

He dangled helplessly fifteen feet above the ground, his 6'1" body swinging slightly like a grotesque, blue Christmas ornament. His face was a violent purple-red. His hands instinctively shot to his groin, pressing against the nylon strap, but he couldn't adjust without risking another catastrophic slip. He was suspended in agonizing, humiliating pain, yelling things like, “Ow! Ow! My nuggets! Get me down, you bastard! My future children are being crushed!” all while desperately trying, and failing, to adopt a cool, stoic expression for the high school girls watching below.

Below, Olivia reached the top and expertly rang the victory bell. She descended with practiced ease, sliding down the rope, her landing graceful and confident. She was immediately surrounded by the high school girls who were staring up at the pathetic spectacle of Joshua's dangling body.

Olivia spoke to the high schoolers, her voice clear, powerful, and thick with smug victory: “See that, girls? He relied on his size, he cheated with his gear because of his desperation, and he let his ego and his hormones rule his body. He failed at the most basic safety step because he was too focused on his dick. We rely on skill, focus, and smarts. You are stronger than them. You can beat any boy at any sport, any time. Don’t ever let them tell you otherwise.” The high school girls cheered wildly, now fully converted to Olivia's victorious feminist gospel.

The belayer slowly lowered Joshua. Each inch was a new, white-hot wave of agony as the harness shifted and the rigid straps compressed his testes. The sounds he made were a pathetic symphony of whimpers and gasps. Once his feet touched the ground, the relief was momentary. He collapsed in a heap, groin first, the pressure easing only slightly, but the throbbing was seismic.

“NO!!! MY BALLS!!!!” Joshua screamed, clutching his crotch, his eyes bulging like marbles. The humiliation was so profound, he thought he might actually vomit.

Olivia and the climbing worker rushed to him. The worker efficiently began to unclip the equipment, but Olivia had the final, planned move. She leaned in to unbuckle the front strap of the vice-grip.

“Liv! It hurts! Get it off! I'm going to pass out!” Joshua whined, genuine tears welling up in his eyes.

Olivia whispered into his ear, her voice cold, hard, and utterly merciless. “Good for you, Daddy’s Boy. I won.”

As she helped the worker free the last, agonizingly tight leg loop, the sudden release of pressure caused Joshua to make a move to stand up, his legs shaking violently. Before he could regain his balance and stand straight, Olivia delivered the final, non-accidental blow—the victory kick.

She brought her knee up from below, directly connecting with his already crushed, exposed balls. The sound was a loud, wet THWACK that silenced the cheering crowd.

“ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The second Olivia’s knee connected, Joshua’s bravado vanished completely, replaced by a pure, animalistic fear. His eyes popped wide, like he’d seen a vengeful ghost, and he emitted a high-pitched, cartoonish squeak—“EEEP!”—that echoed through the hall. His 6'1"body buckled, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, hands clamping down on his groin as if guarding a national treasure he had just failed to protect. On the ground, Joshua rolled side to side, curled into a fetal position, moaning melodramatically: “My jewels! My future children! My tiny dick is going to get even tinier!” His over-the-top writhing made it look like he was auditioning for a silent film, drawing renewed gasps and triumphant giggles from the high school girls watching the spectacle. Joshua was utterly defeated, humiliated, and reduced to a pathetic, sobbing mess.