Spanish Playboy (Part 2)

 

The morning sun was cutting sharply through the high windows of the NYU athletic complex, but Pablo Gavira Páez felt like he owned every single square foot of the building.

He strutted through the double glass doors of the varsity gym alongside Ana, walking with that insufferable, wide-legged stance that rich guys who lift heavily always seem to have. He was wearing his signature, battle-tested outfit: a tight electric-blue polo shirt that hugged his sculpted chest like cling wrap, fitted  blue jeans held up by a heavy brown leather belt, and clean white designer sneakers. His wavy brown hair was styled to messy perfection, and he had his black American Express card tucked safely in his back pocket.

He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a high-end luxury commercial, totally ready to be the hero of the day.

"So, chica," Gavi hummed, looking around the spacious indoor basketball court that had been temporarily transformed into a photo studio. "Where is the director? Where are the other male models?"

Ana slid her oversized sunglasses down her nose, her dark eyes flashing with a hidden, razor-sharp malice that Gavi was completely blind to. She stroked his bicep affectionately, letting her manicured nails dig into his hard muscle.

"Oh, there are no other male models, papi," Ana lied smoothly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I told you, you’re the only guy special enough for this campaign. You’re our main star."

Gavi took a slow walk around the perimeter, his eyes scanning the setup. Softbox lights were positioned around a large black wrestling mat, camera tripods were being adjusted, and racks of high-end athletic wear were lined up against the wall.

Then, Gavi noticed something peculiar.

The primary photographer adjusting the digital camera was a woman. The lighting technician taping down cables was a woman. The brand representatives holding clipboards were women. And the five other models stretching near the mirror wall—wearing sleek, high-compression black leggings and matching sports bras—were all young, incredibly toned women.

There was literally not a single other man in the entire venue.

A loud, arrogant snort burst straight out of Gavi’s nose. He put his hands on his hips, leaning over to whisper into Ana’s ear, turning up his thick Spanish accent.

"Wait, por favor... is this a joke?" Gavi chuckled, shaking his head with utter condescension. "Every single person working on this shoot is a girl? The brand rep, the photographer, the models... madre mía, what is this, a feminist convention?"

Ana’s jaw tightened for a split second, but she kept her sweet, innocent smile firmly pinned to her face. "It’s a female-owned athletic brand, baby. They focus on women’s empowerment and self-defense for college campuses."

"Self-defense?" Gavi laughed out loud, not even bother to hide his amusement as he looked at the petite female brand rep setting up a water station. "Ana, come on. Be serious for one second. 'Female self-defense' is the biggest marketing scam in the world."

"Oh yeah?" Ana purred, leaning her shoulder against his broad chest. "You think so?"

"It’s basic biology, chica!" Gavi declared with absolute, unwavering confidence, pounding his fist lightly against his chest. "Look at me! Look at my shoulders, my arms, my bone density! A woman can take twenty self-defense classes, she can learn all the little martial arts tricks she wants, but the moment a real man—a man like me—grabs her? It’s over. Game over. Women don't need 'self-defense.' Women need men to protect them. That’s why God made guys like me six-foot-one and built like a wall."

Gavi puffed his chest out under his electric-blue polo, preening like a prize-winning peacock. He genuinely believed every single word coming out of his mouth. In his mind, he was the grand, chivalrous protector, the ultimate apex predator of Washington Square Park.

"Don't worry, chica," Gavi added, wrapping a heavy arm around Ana’s waist and pulling her tight against his hip. "You never have to worry about self-defense anyway. As long as you’re with me, nobody touches you. I’ll break their fucking jaw."

"Aww... you’re so brave, papi," Ana whispered raspy into his ear, her voice dripping with sarcasm that flew straight over his head. "So big and strong."

While Gavi was busy playing the chivalrous boyfriend to Ana’s face, his eyes were actively wandering around the gym like a radar dish.

Just twenty feet away, two of the other models were doing lunges on the black mat. One was a tall, leggy blonde girl with a high ponytail, and the other was a stunning Latina with dark skin and a wildly voluptuous build.

Gavi’s eyes locked straight onto the Latina model’s backside as she dropped down into a deep squat.

Dios mío... Gavi muttered to himself in his head, speaking in pure Madrid Spanish inside his mind. Qué pedazo de culo tiene esa chiquita... Madre mía, esa tía está de locos. Menudo culazo.

He bit his lower lip slightly, his dirty, manipulative brain instantly firing on all cylinders. He was already calculating how he could casually get her Instagram handle after the shoot without Ana noticing. He was a master of multitasking—protecting one girlfriend, lying to the second, and already eyeing up the potential third.

The sheer combination of his massive male ego, the visual stimulus of five gorgeous models in tight athletic gear stretching in front of him, and the memory of Ana’s body from last night caused a sudden, violent physical reaction.

Down below, inside his tight blue jeans, his heavy equipment suddenly woke up with a vengeance. His dick throbbed, filling out rapidly, pushing hard against the thick denim fabric right behind his heavy leather belt.

Gavi froze mid-sentence.

Fuck, he thought, looking down at his pants in panic. A very visible, rigid tent was pushing against his blue jeans. Not right now. Not in front of six girls.

"Uh... chica," Gavi cleared his throat coughing awkwardly as he folded his hands over his crotch. "I... I need to go to the rest room for two minutes. To, uh... check my hair before the camera starts rolling."

Ana glanced down at his crotch, seeing the massive, obvious bulge straining against his zipper. She let out a quiet, wicked chuckle that Gavi didn't hear. "Of course, baby. Take your time. Don't keep the cameras waiting."

Gavi practically waddled across the gym floor, keeping his hips tilted back to hide the massive tent in his jeans, rushing through the double doors into the men's locker room.

The locker room was completely empty and dead silent. Gavi sprinted over to the long row of mirrors above the sinks.

He leaned against the marble counter, unbuttoned the top button of his polo, and checked his reflection. He ran a hand through his short, wavy brown hair, shaking it out until it fell into that perfect, artfully messy, effortless style. He flexed his broad shoulders, flare his back muscles, and admired the sharp, razor-edge line of his jaw.

"Looking like a fucking king, Pablo," Gavi whispered to his reflection, smirking at himself in the mirror. He leaned his head back, adjusting his belt and carefully rearranging his rock-hard erection inside his underwear, tucking it upward against his waistband so it wouldn't stick straight out into his jeans.

He took three deep breaths, waiting for the blood flow to settle, admiring his thick biceps under the blue polo fabric one last time before slapping his own cheeks to get hyped.

"All right. Let’s go show these little girls what a real man looks like," Gavi muttered to himself, turning around and strutting back out to the gym with his head held high.

"All right, everyone! Positions!" the female photographer called out, adjusting the flash settings on her heavy DSLR camera. "Gavi, step onto the black mat, please!"

Gavi stepped onto the thick wrestling mat, his white sneakers making a sharp squeak against the rubber surface.

Now, Gavi had a secret, bizarre mental quirk—a weird little power fantasy kink that he’d never admitted to a single soul in his life.

Deep down in his twisted, spoiled brain, Gavi genuinely felt that modern culture, college campuses, and women in general were constantly trying to "ruin" men like him. He felt like feminism was a personal attack on handsome, rich, high-testosterone guys who just wanted to have fun and control things.

Because of that, Gavi had this bizarre, private fantasy of being a smooth, indestructible comic-book supervillain. The kind of villain who effortlessly crushes the hero, stands over the defeated women, and proves that money, muscle, and male dominance win every single time. He loved the idea of playing the bad guy who gets away with everything.

And right now? Standing on a black mat surrounded by women with cameras pointed at him? He decided to tap straight into that dark, twisted supervillain persona to make his poses look "intense and dramatic."

"Okay, Gavi!" the photographer shouted. "We’re shooting a scenario where you’re playing the aggressive intruder, and Ana is defending herself! Give me something dominant, threatening, and intense!"

Gavi’s eyes narrowed. A sinister, cocky smirk broke out across his sharp face.

Time to play the villain, Gavi thought to himself, his ego swelling to maximum capacity.

He puffed his chest out, broadened his heavy shoulders, and stepped right into Ana’s personal space. He lowered his stance, towering over her five-foot-nine frame, letting his shadow fall completely over her.

"Like this?" Gavi called out to the photographer, his voice deep and booming. "I corner her against the edge! No escape for the little girl!"

Ana stood there on the mat, wearing her black sports bra and tight leggings. She looked up at Gavi’s arrogant, smirking face, her dark eyes glittering with absolute, unadulterated hatred.

You have no fucking idea what’s coming, you miserable little pig, Ana thought to herself.

"Great! Love the intensity, Gavi!" the photographer called out. "Now, give me an action pose! Gavi, make a motion like you’re reaching out to grab her shoulder or grab her waist, and Ana, show me a defensive reaction!"

Gavi grinned. He raised his large, thick hand, leaning forward aggressively. He reached his fingers out, targeting Ana’s waist, intending to pull off a dramatic, heavy-handed grab that would make him look like a total conqueror in the final photos.

"Reaching in!" Gavi announced loudly, dipping his upper body forward. "I’m taking control!"

Gavi lowered his guard completely. His feet were planted wide apart on the rubber mat, his hips pushed forward, his dark blue jeans stretched tight across his front, exposing his midsection and groin area with zero protection.

That was the moment.

Ana didn't hesitate for a micro-fraction of a second.

She didn't raise her hands to block. She didn't dodge.

Instead, Ana planted her left foot hard into the rubber mat, wound her right hip back with every single ounce of core strength, leg muscle, and raw, explosive rage she possessed, and launched her right knee straight upward like a rocket-propelled battering ram.

THWACK-CRACK!

It was a point-blank, full-force, brutal knee strike delivered with the speed and precision of a professional Muay Thai fighter.

And Ana’s bone-hard kneecap drove straight, directly, violently into the absolute center of Gavi’s vulnerable, previously bitten, previously soccer-ball-hammered testicles.

The sound of the impact echoed off the gym’s high steel rafters like a crack of thunder.

For one agonizing, terrifying second, universe stopped spinning.

Gavi’s hands remained frozen in mid-air. His eyes shot wide open, turning almost completely white as his pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks. The color drained out of his handsome face so fast it looked like his soul had literally been sucked out through his ears. Every single drop of oxygen vanished from his lungs in a sharp, wheezing gasp.

“...hhhkk...”

That was the only sound Gavi could make. A dry, pathetic, voiceless air-gasp.

The triple-stack damage was apocalyptic. The original bite trauma from Ana, combined with the high-velocity impact from Lauren’s soccer ball yesterday, topped off by a full-force, professional knee strike to the exact same spot created a localized physical catastrophe. His nervous system completely overloaded.

Gavi’s knees didn't just bend; they exploded outward like broken twigs.

He collapsed straight down onto the black wrestling mat, slamming onto his side, curling into an impossibly tight, trembling ball. He wrapped both arms around his crotch, burying his face directly into the rubber floor, his toes curling so hard inside his sneakers they almost tore through the leather.

"AGGGHHHHHH—!" Gavi finally let out a high-pitched, warbling, pathetic screech that sounded like a tea kettle coming to a violent boil. "AAAAAGGHHHH! ¡MIS HUEVOS! ¡MADRE DE DIOS, AAAAAAHHHHH!"

Tears—real, heavy, burning stream of tears—erupted out of Gavi’s eyes, soaking into his wavy hair and wet-marking the black rubber mat beneath his face. He rolled onto his back, kicking his legs frantically in the air like a dying cockroach, clutching his groin with both hands like his life depended on it.

"OH MY GOD!" Ana gasped out, placing both hands over her mouth, putting on an absolute Masterclass performance of fake panic and innocence. "OH MY GOD, GAVI! I AM SO SORRY! ¡DIOS MÍO!"

The photographer and the brand reps dropped their clipboards, gasping in horror as they rushed toward the mat.

"Is he okay?!" the photographer yelled. "Should we call an ambulance?!"

"I’m so sorry!" Ana cried out, dropping to her knees beside Gavi’s writhing, sobbing body, patting his blue polo shirt with fake concern. "I thought... I thought he was wearing a athletic cup! The director told me male models always wear protective cups during action shoots! Gavi, baby, I’m so sorry! I thought you had protection on!"

"I DON'T HAVE A CUP!" Gavi screamed through his tears, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, hysterical squeak as he hugged his knees to his chest. "WHY WOULD I WEAR A CUP TO A PHOTO SHOOT?! ¡ME HAS MATADO! ¡ME HAS DESTROZADO LOS HUEVOS, ANA!"

"I didn't know!" Ana sobbed fake tears, squeezing his shoulder while secretly digging her nails into his bicep to hurt him more. "I’m so sorry, baby! Can you stand up?!"

The female photographer frowned, looking down at Gavi with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Jesus... he’s really crying. Like, actually weeping."

"Is he going to throw up?" one of the other models whispered from the sidelines. "He looks really pale."

Gavi heard the girls whispering. Through the blinding, white-hot, soul-crushing agony radiating through his lower stomach, his hyper-fragile male pride fired off one final, desperate survival flare.

He couldn't let these girls see him cry. He couldn't let five hot models watch the great Pablo Gavira Páez weep on the floor like a beaten toddler.

"I... I’m..." Gavi wheezed out, his voice shaking violently as he forced his eyes open, bloodshot and dripping with tears. "I’m... fine... I’m... okay..."

With supreme, excruciating effort, Gavi pushed his upper body off the rubber mat. Every single muscle in his core screamed in agony. His face was bright red, covered in sweat and tears, his messy brown hair sticking to his forehead.

He slowly, agonizingly forced himself up onto his feet. His legs were shaking like bamboo stalks in a hurricane. His hips were locked completely stiff, his feet turned outward like a penguin.

"See?" Gavi choked out, forcing a terrifying, painful, grimacing smile through his tears, holding his hand up to wave off the crowd. "I’m... fine... Just... a minor collision... Elite athletes... recover fast..."

"Gavi, you look like you’re about to pass out," the photographer said bluntly.

"No! No... I’m good..." Gavi squeaked, his voice two octaves higher than normal. "Just... going to the rest room... to stretch it out... Excuse me..."

Gavi turned around stiffly. He couldn't walk normally. His thighs physically could not touch without sending waves of fire through his bruised groin.

Holding his blue polo shirt down over his crotch with both hands, Gavi waddled toward the exit doors at a speed of approximately 0.5 miles per hour. Every single step was pure torture. Step... wince... step... gasp... step... whimper.

The entire crew watched in complete, dead silence as the six-foot-one "elite athlete" shuffled out of the gym like an eighty-year-old man with two hip replacements.

The moment the heavy wooden door of the men’s locker room clicked shut behind him, Gavi’s brave facade completely, utterly exploded into dust.

He didn't make it to the stalls. He didn't even make it to the bench.

Gavi collapsed straight onto his knees right there on the cold, hard tile floor near the sinks.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi threw his head back and let out a raw, blood-curdling, hysterical scream that echoed wildly off the tiled walls. He slammed his fists onto the floor, doubling over until his forehead pressed directly against the cold ceramic tiles.

He wept. He didn't just tear up; he sobbed pathetically, loudly, frantically, like a little boy who had just been abandoned in the woods. Tears and snot poured out of his face onto the floor.

"Why..." Gavi cried out in Spanish, his voice cracking violently. "Why is this happening to me?! ¡¿POR QUÉ ME PASA ESTO A MÍ?! ¡DIOS MÍO, QUÉ HE HECHO!"

As he lay on the cold tile floor sobbing, a terrifying, suppressed childhood memory burst straight through his mind like a freight train.

He saw his father, Gerard Páez. He saw their high-end dining room in Madrid back when Gavi was ten years old. He heard the sudden, sharp CRACK of his mother’s Italian high-heeled boot slamming straight into his father’s groin. He saw his powerful, arrogant diplomat father hitting the floor, vomiting onto the rug, crying like a baby, losing every single ounce of his dignity in three seconds flat.

The exact same terror, the exact same humiliation was happening to him right now.

"I’m turning into Dad..." Gavi whimpered, shaking uncontrollably on the floor. "I’m dying... my lineage is over... I’m never going to have children..."

Shaking violently, Gavi slowly, painfully unbuttoned his leather belt. He unzipped his blue jeans, pulling the denim down to his thighs along with his designer underwear, his hands trembling like leaves.

He looked down between his legs to check the damage.

His eyes widened in pure horror.

His poor, traumatized testicles were bright, angry purple and swollen to the size of two large plums. His dick was completely shriveled, looking like a tiny, sad, defensive worm trying to hide inside his body.

"OH MY GOD!" Gavi shrieked, choking on his own tears. "IT’S SWOLLEN! IT’S PURPLE! IT LOOKS LIKE A PLUM! ¡ESTÁ MORADO, MADRE MÍA!"

Panic shot through his veins. Shaking wildly, Gavi reached into his pocket, pulled out his iPhone with trembling, sweaty hands, and clicked on his speed dial.

He called his father.

The phone rang three times before the smooth, authoritative voice of Gerard Páez answered the line from his office at the United Nations.

"Pablo?" Gerard answered in heavy, formal Spanish. "What is it? I am in the middle of a strategic briefing with the Spanish delegation—"

"PAPÁ!" Gavi wailed out loud, crying hysterically into the phone speaker. "PAPÁ, HELPPPPP! ¡PAPÁ, ME MUERO!"

Gerard paused, his voice instantly dropping its formal tone, filled with genuine fatherly panic. "Pablo?! ¡¿Qué pasa?! What happened?! Are you injured?! Did someone attack you?!"

"PAPÁ, MY BALLS!" Gavi sobbed into the phone, rolling onto his side on the locker room floor, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and cupping his swollen groin with the other. "MY BALLS, PAPÁ! THEY’RE PURPLE! THEY’RE SWOLLEN LIKE PLUMS! ¡ME HAN DADO UNA PATADA EN LOS HUEVOS!"

A heavy, dead silence stretched over the phone line from the U.N. building.

Gerard let out a long, exhausted, deeply disappointed sigh. "Pablo... are you serious? You called my private emergency line because you got kicked in the testicles?"

"PAPÁ, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Gavi wept out, wiping snot from his nose onto his blue polo sleeve. "IT HURTS SO BAD! IT HURTS IN MY STOMACH! IT HURTS IN MY BACK! AM I GOING TO DIE?! HOW DO YOU FIX THE PAIN?!"

Gerard let out another quiet sigh, the memory of his own wife’s high-heeled boot clearly flashing in his own mind.

"Listen to me, Pablo," Gerard said, his voice dropping to a stern, old-school Spanish father whisper. "You need to pull yourself together. You are a Páez. You are the son of an ambassador. Stop crying like a little girl."

"I CAN'T STOP CRYING!" Gavi squeaked out. "TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"

"When it happened to me in Madrid..." Gerard advised grumpily, "the doctor told me to stand up and jump up and down on the balls of your feet. It forces the blood flow to redistribute and resets the nerve endings in the pelvic floor. Stand up and jump, Pablo."

"J-jump?" Gavi stammered, sniffing hard. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! Jump up and down! Now stop calling me during U.N. hours!" Gerard snapped, hanging up the phone with a sharp click.

Gavi sat on the locker room floor, staring at his phone screen.

Jump up and down. Okay. Papá knows best. Papá survived it.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Gavi pulled his underwear and blue jeans back up, buttoning his pants with immense difficulty. He used the marble sink to haul his six-foot-one frame up onto his feet, standing wobbly in front of the mirror.

His face was a complete mess—red eyes, swollen eyelids, tear tracks, and snot.

"Okay..." Gavi whispered to himself, setting his feet. "Jump up and down. Reset the nerve endings."

Gavi bent his knees slightly and took his first small, gentle jump onto the balls of his feet.

BOUNCE.

The moment his sneakers landed back on the hard tile floor, the sudden downward gravitational shockwave rattled his heavy, swollen, purple testicles.

A sharp, electric spike of pure, unadulterated, nuclear agony shot straight up his spine, hitting his brain like a sledgehammer.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi screamed so loud a janitor outside the locker room dropped his mop.

Gavi didn't jump a second time. He collapsed straight back onto his knees, grabbing his crotch, slamming his head against the tile floor, sobbing ten times harder than before.

"PAPÁ IS A LIAR!" Gavi wailed out, eating dirt off the floor. "PAPÁ DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING! ¡ME DUELE MÁS! ¡ME DUELE MÚCHO MÁS!"

Right at that exact agonizing second, his phone buzzed inside his denim pocket.

BZZZ. BZZZ.

Gavi, still lying on his side on the locker room floor crying, painfully fished the phone out and looked at the screen through his blurred, tear-filled vision.

It was a text from Lauren.

Lauren: Hey babe! Just reminding you about our romantic private dinner at your penthouse this Sunday night at 7:00 PM! You promised you’d make it up to me after the park incident! Can’t wait to see you, hope your groin feels better! ❤️

Gavi stared at the screen, a fresh wave of helpless, pathetic tears rolling down his nose onto the glass.

Three days. Sunday night was three days away.

He was supposed to host a romantic, high-performance, smooth-talking dinner for Lauren on Sunday, kick her out by 8:00 PM, and then perform like a wild, horny king for Ana right after.

And currently, his manhood looked like a bruised plum, his nerves were destroyed, his soul was shattered, and he couldn't even stand up without screaming like a Victorian ghost.

"God..." Gavi whimpered, clutching his phone to his chest, lying helpless on the locker room floor while his blue polo shirt soaked up his tears. "Please... please let my balls heal by Sunday... please..."

He had no idea that Sunday night wasn't going to be his recovery

By Saturday afternoon, Gavi’s balls were still rock-hard, slightly purple, and painfully swollen to the size of small lemons. Every single step he took felt like he was walking on a landmine filled with exposed nerve endings.

But Pablo Gavira Páez was a stubborn, hyper-arrogant bastard. He refused to let a little physical trauma ruin his reputation as Stern’s ultimate golden boy. With his parents out of town at the UN summit in Washington D.C., his massive penthouse was entirely empty, and he had his double-booked weekend play set up. Lauren at 7:00 PM for a sweet, domestic dinner,

Before the night began, Gavi decided he needed to hit the NYU varsity gym one last time. He dragged himself into the heavy weight room, wearing a sleeveless grey tank top and sweatpants, desperately trying to do light bench presses to prove to himself that his testosterone hadn't completely evaporated.

"Fuuuuuck..." Gavi grunted, lowering a lightweight barbell onto his chest. Every time his core flexed, a sharp, white-hot throbbing radiated straight through his bruised groin. "Fuck my life."

He reracked the bar, sitting up on the bench while panting heavily, clutching his lower stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, his brain desperately searching for a solution.

There has to be a way, Gavi thought to himself, completely serious in his own mind. There has to be a specific gym exercise or a secret martial arts technique to strengthen your testicles. Like... ball-conditioning. Making them callous and immune to pain. If guys can condition their shins by kicking steel poles, why can't I condition my balls to be rock-hard?

He literally pulled out his phone, typing into Google: how to make testicles less sensitive to impact heavy lifting workout. He scrolled through three completely useless medical forum pages telling him to see a urologist before slamming his phone onto the bench in frustration.

Giving up on his absurd ball-strengthening fantasy, Gavi grabbed his gym bag and limped stiffly toward the private varsity shower locker room to get ready for his 7:00 PM dinner with Lauren.

Little did Gavi know, a ghost was hovering right outside the locker room door.

. The moment she saw him head into the shower stalls, she slipped quietly through the side entrance of the gym, wearing an oversized hoodie and holding her tote bag tight against her chest.

She walked straight over to Gavi’s assigned gym locker, which he had stupidly left unlatched. She swung the metal door open, her eyes instantly landing on his neatly folded change of clothes for the night: a crisp electric-blue polo shirt, a pair of blue designer jeans, his leather belt, and a fresh pair of black Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

Lauren smiled a sweet, terrifyingly dark smile.

"Time for Phase Two," she whispered to herself.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a thick, odorless, transparent gel. Her roommate—a brilliant senior Chemistry major who hated cheating men with a burning passion—had synthesized the compound in her advanced lab.

The substance was called Capsaicin-8-Methyl-Nitro-Complex—a hyper-concentrated, synthetic chemical derivative of pure ghost pepper oil mixed with a slow-release chemical binder. In its dry, gel state, it was completely invisible and unfelt for the first forty-five minutes. But once it absorbed skin oils and body heat, it triggered a massive, deep-tissue chemical thermal reaction. And if it came into contact with water? The chemical binder instantly polymerized, turning into an ultra-sticky, industrial-grade adhesive that bound the burning hot capsaicin directly to human skin cells.

Lauren grabbed Gavi’s black Calvin Klein boxers, pulled them straight out of the locker, and tossed them into the trash can near the sink.

Then, she opened the glass vial. She smeared a heavy, thick layer of the invisible chemical gel directly onto the inside crotch seam of Gavi’s dark blue designer jeans—right where his bare, unsheathed manhood would rest.

She carefully folded the jeans back up, set them neatly inside the locker, closed the metal door, and slipped out of the gym like a shadow.

Ten minutes later, Gavi stepped out of the steam-filled shower stall, a white towel wrapped around his waist. He ran a hand through his wet, wavy brown hair, looking at himself in the mirror, still wincing slightly whenever he shifted his weight.

He opened his gym locker, reaching in for his clothes. He paused, frowning deeply as his hand searched the shelf.

"Wait... where the fuck are my boxers?" Gavi muttered in his heavy Madrid accent, looking around the floor. "Did I forget to pack them? Joder..."

He checked his gym bag twice. Nothing.

Gavi sighed in frustration, rubbing his temples. "Whatever. Going commando. The blue jeans are soft enough."

He pulled his electric-blue polo shirt over his head, flexing his broad shoulders in the mirror. He stepped into his dark blue jeans, pulling them up over his bare thighs, and buckled his heavy leather belt tight around his waist. The rough denim fabric rested directly against his bare skin, but currently, the chemical gel was cold and completely inactive.

Gavi sprayed a heavy dose of luxury cologne onto his neck, checked his hair one last time, and smirked at his reflection.

"Looking hot, Pablo," he whispered to himself. "Time to go act like a king."

By 7:00 PM, Lauren was sitting comfortably on the plush white sofa inside Gavi’s sprawling Hudson Yards penthouse. She was wearing a soft, innocent pastel sweater and a cute skirt, looking like the sweetest, most submissive girlfriend on planet Earth.

Gavi was strutting around his high-end open kitchen, pouring two glasses of expensive red wine, feeling his confidence skyrocketing. Seeing Lauren sitting there on his couch, quiet, sweet, and totally compliant, activated his twisted, absurd supervillain kink once again.

Look at her, Gavi thought to himself, a smug, arrogant grin spreading across his sharp face as he brought the wine glasses over. She’s so sweet. So innocent. Totally under my control. Women are made to submit to guys like me. I’m like a Roman Emperor in this penthouse. A total tyrant king. I command the room, and the women just bow down.

He sat down beside Lauren, handing her a glass, draping his thick, heavy arm arrogantly over her shoulders.

"Here you go, chica," Gavi purred, turning up his thick Spanish accent, puffing his broad chest out under his blue polo. "A little luxury for my favorite girl. You like the penthouse view?"

"It’s amazing, Gavi," Lauren cooed softly, batting her eyelashes with fake adoration. "You’re so powerful. You really have everything, don't you?"

Gavi’s male ego expanded to nuclear levels. "Well... when you’re born a Páez, you get used to the best. I run things, Lauren. It’s just how I’m built."

Lauren checked her watch subtly.

It had been exactly forty-five minutes since Gavi had pulled those jeans on.

Down below, inside his dark blue jeans, the synthetic Capsaicin-8 complex was finally reaching peak activation temperature against his skin.

At first, Gavi felt a mild, strange warmth in his lap. He shifted his weight on the leather couch, frowning slightly.

Huh, Gavi thought. Is the heater on in here?

Ten seconds later, the mild warmth turned into a sharp, uncomfortable prickle.

Gavi’s eyes widened slightly. He uncrossed his legs, shifting uncomfortably. The prickle rapidly intensified into a deep, agonizing, chemical heat. It felt like someone was holding a magnifying glass over his bare crotch in the middle of a desert.

"Uh... Lauren?" Gavi stuttered out, his Madrid accent cracking as he set his wine glass down on the coffee table with a sharp clack. "Is it... is it hot in here to you?"

"No, babe," Lauren said innocently, taking a slow sip of her red wine. "It feels totally fine. Why?"

Suddenly, the chemical reaction reached maximum velocity.

The slow-release Nitro-Complex fully ignited against his bare, unsheathed, sensitive skin.

It didn't just feel hot. It felt like someone had poured boiling battery acid mixed with liquid fire directly onto his dick and bruised testicles.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi let out a blood-curdling, hysterical shriek, launching himself straight off the leather couch like he’d been hit by a taser. He dropped his wine glass, sending red wine spilling across the white rug, and began jumping up and down frantically in the middle of the living room floor.

"MY DICK IS ON FIRE!" Gavi screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes bulging out of his head, clutching his crotch through his jeans with both hands. "MY DICK IS BURNING! ¡DIOS MÍO, MI POLLA ESTÁ EN LLAMAS! AAAAAAHHHHH!"

Lauren gasped, placing both hands over her mouth, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of absolute panic. "Gavi?! What’s happening?! What do you mean it’s on fire?!"

"IT’S BURNING! IT’S BURNING LIKE ACID!" Gavi wailed, tears instantly bursting out of his eyes as he ran in frantic circles around the kitchen island, stomping his feet like a madman. "IT HURTS! IT HURTS SO BAD! ¡ME QUEMA! ¡ME QUEMA MÚCHO!"

"Oh my god!" Lauren shrieked, running over to the kitchen sink. "Maybe water will help! Water cools down fire, right?! Let me pour water on it!"

"YES! WATER! POUR WATER ON IT! ¡POR FAVOR!" Gavi sobbed, leaning his upper body back against the counter, tearing at his electric-blue polo shirt in pure, unadulterated agony.

Lauren grabbed a giant plastic pitcher, filled it straight to the brim with cold tap water, rushed over to Gavi, and dumped the ENTIRE pitcher directly onto the front of his dark blue jeans.

SPLASH.

That was the fatal mistake.

The moment the water hit the Capsaicin-8 complex, the chemical binder instantly polymerized.

The water didn't cool the burn. It multiplied the heat by a factor of ten, while simultaneously turning the inner chemical layer into a hyper-sticky, industrial-strength glue that bound the rough denim fabric DIRECTLY onto his bare, burning skin.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi let out a sound so loud, horrific, and inhuman it echoed straight out into the hallway of the luxury building. The pain was beyond description. It was a fusion of third-degree chemical fire and raw skin being ripped apart.

He fell straight onto his knees onto the wet kitchen tiles, slamming his forehead against the floor, sobbing hysterically, kicking his legs like a dying horse.

"IT’S WORSE! IT’S A THOUSAND TIMES WORSE!" Gavi screamed, snot and tears pouring down his face, soaking into his polo shirt. "THE WATER MADE IT WORSE! IT’S STICKY! IT’S GLUED TO ME! ¡QUÍTAME LOS PANTALONES! ¡QUÍTAMESLOS, POR FAVOR!"

"Gavi, I don't know what to do!" Lauren cried out fake tears, hovering over him. "Do you want me to take your jeans off?!"

"YES! TAKE THEM OFF! BEG YOU, LAUREN, I BEG YOU!" Gavi wailed out loud, grabbing the hem of her skirt, weeping like a pathetic child on the floor. "TAKE THEM OFF ME! PLEASE! I’LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING! MY PORSCHE! MY MONEY! JUST TAKE THEM OFF!"

Lauren’s eyes flashed with a dark, vengeful satisfaction as she reached down to unbuckle his heavy leather belt. She grabbed the waistband of his soaked, sticky dark blue jeans.

"Okay, Gavi, hold still!" Lauren shouted. "I’m going to pull!"

Lauren braced her foot against his hip, grabbed the denim waistband with both hands, and yanked downward with all her physical strength.

FFFRRRRRRRIIIIIPPP.

The sticky, bound denim peeled off his raw, chemical-burned skin like duct tape being ripped off a fresh wound.

"AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi’s scream hit a pitch that could break glass. He rolled onto his back on the kitchen floor, wearing only his blue polo shirt, completely bare from the waist down. His skin was bright, angry lobster-red, covered in chemical burns, his swollen testicles throbbing wildly in the air.

He curled into a tight, shivering ball on the wet floor tiles, clutching his head, weeping out loud in broken Spanish.

"I’m dead..." Gavi sobbed, hyperventilating violently. "I am officially dead... God has cursed me..."

Lauren stood over his shivering, pathetic body, holding his soaked blue jeans in her hand, looking down at him with utter, cold contempt.

Phase Two was a resounding, glorious success.

While Gavi was lying on his kitchen floor weeping in his blue polo, two floors down in the penthouse lounge, Aurora Páez was sitting on a leather chair, holding her iPhone to her ear.

She was calling her mother, Elena Páez, who was currently at the diplomatic hotel in Washington D.C.

"Mom?" Aurora said into the phone, her voice completely smooth and calculated.

"Aurora, honey?" Elena answered from D.C. "Is everything okay in New York?"

"Mom... I’m calling you because Pablo is out of control," Aurora said, sighing dramatically into the mic. "He’s being insanely irresponsible. He was bragging to his friends earlier about how he’s going to spend thousands of dollars at a shady strip club in the Meatpacking District tonight instead of studying for his finance midterms."

On the other end of the line, Elena Páez’s sharp, traditional Spanish mother instincts instantly flared up. "What?! He is going to a strip club during midterms?!"

"Yes, Mom," Aurora lied smoothly, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "And you know how Dad is. Dad needs to give Pablo a stern lesson in discipline. Can you make Dad text Pablo right now? Tell Dad to text him that he booked a 'special surprise diplomatic VIP table' for Pablo at the Meatpacking strip club tonight, so Pablo actually goes there thinking Dad supports him—and then we trap him?"

Elena let out a sharp, strict Spanish sigh over the phone. "Your brother is an absolute idiot. I am telling your father to text him right now. Pablo needs a massive wake-up call before he ruins our family name."

"Thanks, Mom," Aurora smirked, hanging up the phone.

Aurora pulled out her group chat with Lauren and Ana, typing out a fast message:

Aurora: Phase Two is complete. Mom just handled Dad. Gerard is texting Gavi right now telling him a VIP table is waiting for him at the strip club tonight.

Phase Three was officially underway. The final execution was about to begin.

Two full weeks had passed since the night Gavi’s bare crotch became a chemical hazardous waste site.

Two entire weeks of agony, ice packs, loose sweatpants, and deep-seated psychological trauma. But slowly, mercifully, his damaged equipment was starting to heal. The angry lobster-red skin had finally peeled off, the swelling in his testicles had gone down from the size of plums back to their normal, proud proportions, and he could finally walk without looking like a freshly birthed giraffe trying to navigate a sheet of ice.

Standing in front of his full-length penthouse mirror, Gavi pulled on his classic uniform: his favorite electric-blue polo shirt that stretched tight over his chest, and his dark blue designer jeans, held secure by his heavy leather belt. He took a cautious step forward. No pain. He did a quick, gentle jump on the balls of his feet. No sharp, soul-crushing agony.

Gavi grinned at his reflection, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "The king is back, baby," he whispered to himself, his voice thick with unearned confidence. "You can't kill a Páez."

There was just one massive, unbearable problem.

Gavi hadn't had sex in two whole weeks.

For Pablo Gavira Páez, fourteen straight days without physical intimacy was an unprecedented, apocalyptic dry spell. Ever since he stepped foot on NYU’s campus as a freshman, he had never gone more than three days without getting laid. His body was practically vibrating with pent-up, hyper-focused horniness. Every single girl he saw on his Instagram feed looked like a ten. His mind was constantly foggy, his testosterone levels were boiling over, and his newly healed dick was throbbing inside his blue jeans like a loaded spring ready to detonate at the slightest touch.

He was sitting on his leather couch, tapping his foot impatiently, when his phone buzzed on the glass coffee table.

It was a text from his father, Gerard.

Dad: Pablo. I have set up a private VVIP room for you tonight at the Velvet Lounge in the Meatpacking District. I hired the most elite, beautiful, wild dancer in New York to perform a private show just for you. Consider it a gift for your hard work. Enjoy yourself, my son.

Gavi’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. A massive, stupid, ecstatic grin split his handsome face. He practically squealed out loud, his thumb flying across the screen.

Gavi: PAPÁ! You are literally the greatest father on planet Earth! I love you so much! I owe you big time for this!

He tossed his phone onto the couch, threw his head back, and laughed like a victorious gladiator. "Yes! ¡Dios mío, gracias! Finally, a real party!"

Meanwhile, four hundred miles away in a high-end private office inside the Spanish Embassy in Washington D.C., Gerard Páez was having the absolute worst night of his professional life.

"P-Pablo... please..." Gerard gasped out, his face bright red, tears leaking from his eyes as he leaned heavily over his mahogany executive desk.

Standing right beside him was his wife, Elena Páez. She was wearing a tailored designer pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back in a sharp, flawless bun, radiating the terrifying, absolute authority of a Spanish matriarch who had completely reached her limit.

Elena’s right hand was firmly, ruthlessly wrapped around her husband’s groin through his pants, squeezing his testicles with just enough pressure to keep him on the absolute verge of fainting.

"Did you send the text, Gerard?" Elena asked, her voice smooth, icy, and completely devoid of mercy.

"Yes! ¡Sí, mi amor! I sent it! I sent it exactly how you wrote it!" Gerard wept out, his hands trembling as he set his phone down on the desk blotter. "Please... release me... por favor, Elena..."

"Good," Elena said, her voice dropping an octave as she tightened her grip for one last agonizing second before finally letting go.

Gerard collapsed forward onto his desk, gasping for air, clutching his groin with both hands, sobbing softly into his leather blotter.

"Why..." Gerard wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye, looking up at his wife with pure betrayal. "Why are we setting up our own son, Elena?! He is our blood! He is twenty-one! Why are you letting his sister and those two young women orchestrate a public execution?!"

Elena crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at her husband with absolute, unadulterated disgust.

"Because he is turning into you, Gerard," Elena spat out, her words cutting through the quiet office like a razor blade. "Look at him! Look at his life! He breaks sweet girls' hearts, he uses women like disposable toys, he parties every single night, he skips his university classes, and he walks around Manhattan thinking he is untouchable simply because he carries your diplomatic name!"

"He is just a young man having fun!" Gerard protested weakly, his voice cracking. "It is what young, wealthy men do—"

"Shut your pathetic mouth, Gerard!" Elena snapped, pointing a sharp, manicured finger directly at his face. "I tolerated your endless, disgusting cheating scandals in Madrid for twenty years because of your political career. But I will NOT allow my son to grow up into a arrogant, manipulative, sexist playboy who thinks women exist solely to serve his pathetic male ego! Aurora told me everything. He played two brilliant girls at the exact same time, using your UN status as a disgusting lie to manipulate them!"

"It’s just... it’s just a lesson he could learn later—"

"No," Elena interrupted, a cold, dark smirk spreading across her lips. "The girls he hurt are going to teach him that lesson tonight. Female solidarity is a beautiful thing, Gerard. And Pablo is about to learn that when you treat women like garbage, the garbage eventually comes back to crush you."

Elena stepped closer to the desk, grabbing Gerard by his silk designer tie.

"And as for you..." Elena whispered, her eyes flashing with pure vengeance. "You still owe me for what you did in Madrid."

Before Gerard could even scream, Elena yanked his silk tie straight toward the heavy-duty paper shredder sitting on the edge of the desk. She jammed the tip of his tie directly into the auto-feed slot.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

The mechanical blades roared to life, instantly pulling the silk fabric deep into its gears. Gerard’s head was yanked down violently against the top of the desk, his neck pinned mere inches from the whirring plastic teeth. His legs were forced wide apart, his body completely immobilized, his dark jeans stretched tight across his lap.

"Elena! NO! ¡ELENA, POR FAVOR!" Gerard shrieked in absolute terror.

Elena didn't say another word. She stepped around behind his pinned, helpless body, wound her right leg back, and delivered a swift, brutal, textbook kick with her pointed leather shoe straight between his spread legs through his jeans.

THWACK.

"AAAAAAAGGGGGHH!" Gerard’s muffled scream rang through the embassy office as he went totally limp, stuck to the desk by his shredded tie, weeping in pure, inherited family misery.

Elena adjusted her blazer, picked up her designer handbag, and walked out of the office, closing the heavy oak door behind her with a soft, satisfying click.

Back in Manhattan, Gavi was floating on dark clouds of pure, arrogant anticipation.

He strutted through the velvet ropes of The Velvet Lounge in the Meatpacking District, completely ignoring the long line of regular plebeians waiting outside in the cool night air. The bass was thumping through the floorboards, dark purple neon lights washed over the plush leather booths, and the air smelled like expensive perfume, sweet vape smoke, and luxury vodka.

"Pablo Gavira Páez?" the massive, bald bouncer asked, checking a VIP guest list.

"That’s me," Gavi smirked, flashing his dark brown eyes and pulling his electric-blue polo shirt down tight over his chest.

"VVIP Room 3. Top of the stairs. Your father’s reservation is confirmed," the bouncer said, unhooking the heavy brass chain. "Enjoy the show, sir."

Gavi practically floated up the grand carpeted staircase. He felt like an absolute king. Two weeks of hell, two weeks of pure physical suffering, and now he was about to reap the ultimate reward.

He pushed open the heavy mahogany door of VVIP Room 3.

The room was massive, opulent, and dimly lit by ambient red and gold mood lighting. In the center stood a plush, raised leather lounge chair facing a small, private wooden stage. A bottle of Dom Pérignon was sitting in a silver ice bucket on the side table, alongside two crystal glasses.

Gavi took a seat on the leather lounge chair, leaning his head back, stretching his long legs out in his dark blue jeans. He picked up his champagne glass, taking a slow sip, letting his dark, twisted power-fantasy kink completely take over his brain once again.

Look at this, Gavi thought to himself, a smug, villainous grin spreading across his handsome face. This is how life is supposed to be. Men at the top, running the world, sitting on thrones while women perform for our amusement. Feminism is a total joke. At the end of the day, money, power, and male dominance conquer everything. I am the villain of Stern, and nobody can touch me.

Just as he finished his self-absorbed, arrogant thought, the heavy wooden door clicked open.

Three stunning, voluptuous dancers stepped into the room, wearing revealing lace outfits, their hips swaying in perfect rhythm to the heavy bass coming through the walls.

Gavi’s jaw nearly hit the velvet carpet. His pent-up horniness hit an absolute fever pitch. His freshly healed dick throbbed hard against his blue jeans, his eyes wide as he drank in the sight.

"Welcome to your private show, Pablo," one of the dancers cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she walked toward his chair.

"Make yourselves at home, chicas," Gavi purred, turning up his thick Madrid accent, spreading his arms wide over the back of the leather chair like a Roman emperor receiving his court. "Don't be shy."

The girls giggled, circling his chair. One leaned over his broad shoulders, whispering into his ear, while another knelt on the carpet, gently running her hands up his denim-clad thighs. Gavi threw his head back, letting out a deep, satisfied groan, completely blinded by his own massive ego and roaring hormones.

"We have a very special, exclusive performance set up for you tonight, Gavi," the main dancer murmured raspy against his cheek. "But for the best experience... the rules say the guest of honor must be completely secured."

Gavi blinked his dark eyes, his horny brain instantly interpreting it as a dirty, exciting roleplay game. "Secured, huh? Chica, I like where this is going."

"Hands on the armrests, papi," she instructed sweetly.

Gavi didn't hesitate for a single second. He placed his thick, muscular arms flat against the padded leather armrests.

Quick as lightning, the two other dancers pulled thick, soft velvet restraint straps from behind the chair. Before Gavi could even register what was happening, they wrapped the heavy straps tightly around his wrists and ankles, ratcheting them down secure until his hands were locked flat and his legs were spread wide apart on the raised footrests.

He was completely, totally immobilized. His electric-blue polo shirt was stretched tight over his chest, his dark blue jeans pinned to the seat, his lap completely exposed and undefended.

"Whoa... okay," Gavi chuckled nervously, his ego still trying to frame it as a hot kink. "A little tight, chicas, but I can handle it. When does the main dancer come out?"

The three dancers didn't answer. They simply smiled, stepped backward toward the side exit, and slipped out of the room, closing the heavy door behind them.

The red and gold ambient lights suddenly cut out, plunging the VVIP room into near-total darkness.

Gavi pulled lightly against the velvet wrist straps, a sudden, uncomfortable prickle of anxiety washing over his neck. "Uh... hey? Chicas? The lights?"

Suddenly, a blinding, white-hot spotlight snapped on, aiming straight down onto the small wooden stage directly in front of Gavi’s locked chair.

The room’s private Bose surround-sound speakers suddenly roared to life at maximum volume, blasting a heavy, recognizable, iconic pop intro through the venue:

 

The music shifted abruptly into a heavy, bass-boosted, lethal remix of Britney Spears’ "Womanizer."

♬ "Boy, don't try to front, I know just what you are... Boy, don't try to front, I know just what you are... WOMANIZER, WOMAN-WOMANIZER, YOU'RE A WOMANIZER, BABY!" ♬

The heavy velvet curtains on the stage swung wide open.

Stepping out from behind the curtain, bathed in the sharp, merciless white spotlight, were two figures dressed in matching, skin-tight black leather dominatrix outfits, complete with high-heeled knee-high boots, silver-studded collars, and heavy, braided leather bullwhips resting in their hands.

The two figures lifted their heads simultaneously, looking straight down at Gavi.

It was Lauren and Ana.

Lauren was holding her whip with a cold, terrifying, razor-sharp smile plastered across her face. Ana was running her thumb over the leather handle of her whip, her dark eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated, psychotic malice.

Gavi’s brain completely, violently short-circuited.

The universe shattered into a million tiny pieces. His heart dropped straight out of his chest, hitting his stomach with the force of a lead anvil. Every single drop of blood vanished from his face, leaving his skin a ghostly, sickly paper-white.

"L... L-Lauren...?" Gavi whimpered out, his Madrid accent cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak. His dark brown eyes bulged out of his head as he stared at his two girlfriends standing together on stage, holding whips. "A... Ana...?"

Ana took one slow, deliberate step off the stage, the sharp metallic clack of her high heel echoing over the roaring Britney Spears track. She flicked her wrist, letting the leather whip snap against the wooden floor with a loud, violent CRACK!

"Hey, papi," Ana purred, her deep voice cutting through the music like a butcher's knife. "Did you miss us?"

Lauren stepped down right beside her, twirling her whip with a terrifying, calm precision. "Surprise, Gavi. Welcome to the main event."

Gavi began pulling frantically against the heavy velvet straps, his broad shoulders thrashing against the chair, his dark blue jeans straining against the leg restraints, pure, unadulterated horror flooding his bloodstream.

"No... no... no, no, no, NO!" Gavi screamed out, his voice cracking into a frantic, weeping shriek, shaking violently in the chair. "NO! ¡POR FAVOR! ¡NO, NO, NO! ¡DIOS MÍO, MI POLLA! ¡MIS HUEVOS! ¡NOOOOOOO!"

The bass from Britney Spears’ "Womanizer" was pounding through the heavy subwoofers of VVIP Room 3, vibrating the glass champagne flutes on the side table. But to Pablo Gavira Páez, the sound was nothing more than a roaring, deafening funeral march.

Bound hand and foot to the plush leather chair, Gavi thrashed violently against the thick velvet straps. His muscular broad shoulders strained against the electric-blue polo shirt, his knuckles turning chalk-white where his wrists were pinned flat, and his fitted dark blue jeans held rigid against the leg rests. He was completely, utterly immobilized, trapped like a prize stallion inside a gilded slaughterhouse.

Lauren and Ana stepped off the small wooden stage in perfect, terrifying unison.

Their high-heeled knee-high dominatrix boots made a sharp, rhythmic clack... clack... clack... against the hardwood floor. Ana was twirling her heavy leather bullwhip with a casual, predatory elegance, while Lauren held hers across her chest, a bright, manicured, wicked smile plastered across her face.

"L-Lauren... Ana... por favor..." Gavi whimpered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic squeak. His dark brown eyes were bulging out of his head, his sharp jaw trembling as a cold, clammy sweat instantly broke out over his forehead. "Listen to me... this is a crazy misunderstanding, chicas... I swear to God, I can explain—"

"Oh, shut up, papi," Ana purred, stepping right up to the side of his chair.

She reached out with her free hand, plunging her long, sharp manicured nails deep into Gavi’s messy brown hair, grabbing a fistful of it and yanking his head backward until his neck was fully extended toward the ceiling. At the same time, Lauren stepped up to his left side. She reached out, sliding two fingers under the crisp collar of his electric-blue polo shirt, pulling the fabric tight against his throat until Gavi let out a dry, choked gasp.

"Aww, look at him," Lauren cooed softly, leaning down close to his ear, her voice dripping with artificial, saccharine sweetness. "The big, strong NYU soccer captain looks a little nervous, Ana."

Ana leaned over his face, her dark, almond-shaped eyes glittering with pure, unadulterated, psychotic malice. She tightened her grip on his hair, tilting his head even further back.

"Don't be scared, Gavi," Ana whispered raspy against his lips, her warm breath smelling of sweet cherry gloss and cold revenge. "I thought you loved playing rough in bed? Isn't this what you wanted? You like wild girls, right? You like when I control you?"

"NO! NOT LIKE THIS!" Gavi shrieked, his Madrid accent slipping into pure, panicked Spanish. "LAUREN! LAUREN, PLEASE! You’re not like her! You’re sweet, Lauren! You’re good! Please, chica, tell her to stop! Unhook me! I’ll give you whatever you want! My money, my Porsche, anything! Just let me go!"

Lauren looked down at his desperate, tear-streaked face. She let out a small, innocent-sounding giggle that sent a chill straight down Gavi’s spine.

"Oh, Gavi..." Lauren sighed softly, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand before slapping his face with a sharp, stinging TAP. "I am sweet. But sweet girls get tired of being lied to by arrogant, two-timing Spanish trash."

Without a single second of warning, Lauren raised her leather bullwhip and swung it downward in a short, precise arc.

THWACK!

The braided leather handle slammed squarely into the front of Gavi’s dark blue jeans—right across his freshly healed, hyper-sensitive, vulnerable groin.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi let out a sound so loud, shrill, and inhuman it practically shattered the glass light fixtures above. His entire body convulsed wildly against the velvet restraints. His hips shot upward, his back arching off the leather chair so hard his blue polo shirt nearly tore at the seams. His eyes bulged out of his sockets until the white capillaries showed bright red, his jaw unhinging as tears instantly erupted from his eyes, pouring down his cheeks in hot, messy streams.

"¡MI POLLA! ¡MIS HUEVOS! ¡MADRE DE DIOS, AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Gavi wailed, thrashing his head side to side, hyperventilating violently. "LAUREN, NO! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?! ¡ME HAS DESTROZADO!"

"Oops," Lauren giggled, resting the handle of her whip casually against his blue jeans, right over his throbbing crotch. "Did that hurt, babe? My bad. My weak female biology slipped."

Ana laughed out loud, a rich, dark sound that echoed over the pounding Britney Spears beat. She tossed her whip onto the side table, grabbed a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and took a long swig straight from the neck before handing it to Lauren.

"You know what, Lauren?" Ana said, her dark eyes flashing with a wicked, playful light as she stepped around to the front of Gavi’s chair. "We’ve been working way too hard setting up this little party. I think we deserve a break. A little show for our audience."

Lauren took a sip of the champagne, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, smirking down at Gavi’s trembling, tear-stained face. "I agree, Ana. Let's give the ambassador’s son his money’s worth."

As the heavy bass of "Womanizer" echoed through the room, Lauren and Ana began to move.

They didn't dance for Gavi. They danced for each other.

Moving in slow, hypnotic synchronization directly in front of Gavi’s locked chair, Ana slid her hands down Lauren’s waist, pulling her tight against her leather-clad hips. Lauren threw her head back, laughing softly, spinning around to press her back against Ana’s chest. They swayed together, ultra-sexy, ultra-sensual, completely ignoring Gavi like he was nothing more than a piece of furniture in his own VIP room.

Then, right at the climax of the chorus, Ana grabbed Lauren by the back of her neck, pulled her in, and slammed her lips onto Lauren’s in a deep, passionate, dirty kiss.

Gavi’s brain completely, violently short-circuited.

Watching his sweet, innocent Midwest girlfriend passionately making out with his wild, insanely hot Portuguese model girlfriend—two absolute tens completely lost in each other while wearing leather dominatrix outfits—triggered an immediate, uncontrollable physical disaster down below.

Despite the blinding, white-hot agony lingering in his groin, despite the horror of being tied to a chair, Gavi’s massive, hyper-arrogant male brain couldn't stop his body’s primal reaction.

Down inside his tight blue jeans, his heavy equipment suddenly throbbed violently, expanding straight up into a rock-hard, massive erection that pushed blatantly against the dark denim.

Gavi gasped, his face turning bright crimson from a mixture of ultimate shame and overwhelming horniness.

"F-fuck..." Gavi rasped out, his voice hoarse, his chest heaving under his blue polo shirt as he stared at them with wide, wild eyes. "Fuck... chicas... please... por favor..."

The girls broke the kiss, breathing softly, and slowly turned their heads to look down at his lap.

Ana’s eyes locked straight onto the massive, rigid tent straining against his zipper. A slow, terrifying, victorious smirk spread across her face.

"Look at that, Lauren," Ana purred, pointing a manicured nail at his crotch. "The little pig is hard. Even after everything, he’s still thinking with his dirty little dick."

"Please..." Gavi sobbed out, tears mixing with the sweat on his sharp jawline. He pulled pathetically against his wrist straps, his pride totally dissolved into pure, desperate horniness. "Please, Ana... Lauren... give me release... I’m begging you! Touch it... touch it, por favor! I’m going crazy!"

"Oh, you want us to touch it, Gavi?" Lauren asked, stepping closer with a sweet, lethal smile. "You want our hands on your big, famous cock?"

"YES! YES, PLEASE! ¡SÍ, POR FAVOR!" Gavi wailed out, nodding his head frantic like a desperate puppy. "Anything! Just give me release! I’ll do whatever you want!"

"All right, baby," Ana whispered smoothly. "Wish granted."

Ana stepped to his right side. Lauren stepped to his left side.

Simultaneously, both girls reached down. But instead of stroking him through his jeans, both of their hands plunged down hard, wrapping their manicured fingers tightly around his swollen, vulnerable testicles through the thick denim fabric.

Ana’s hand locked onto his right ball. Lauren’s hand locked onto his left ball.

Gavi’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, all the blood draining from his face in a single millisecond.

"Wait—" Gavi gasped.

SQUEEZE.

They didn't hold him gently. They clamped down with a firm, ruthless, crushing grip.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Gavi shrieked, his voice climbing into an impossible, glass-shattering octave. His hips jerked wildly, but the velvet straps held him pinned flat. "NO, NO, NO! ¡MIS HUEVOS! ¡ME ESTÁN MATANDO! AAAAAAHHHH!"

"So, Gavi..." Ana said smoothly, leaning right into his right ear, her hand tightening its grip slightly. "Tell me something... who has the stronger grip? Me, or your sweet little scholarship girl?"

"G-Gavi..." Lauren murmured into his left ear, her fingers digging deep into his left side. "Don't lie to us, babe. Who holds you tighter?"

Gavi was sobbing uncontrollably, his head shaking wildly back and forth as pure, unadulterated physical torture radiated straight up into his stomach and kidneys. "I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW! ¡SUÉLTAME, POR FAVOR!"

SQUEEZE HARDER.

"AAGGGGHHH!" Gavi screamed, tears pouring down into his open mouth. "ANA! ANA! IT’S ANA! ANA HAS THE STRONGER GRIP! ¡ANA, POR DIOS!"

Lauren instantly pouted, her eyes narrowing into cold, vengeful slits. "Oh, really? Ana?"

SQUEEZE MAXIMUM FORCE.

Lauren dug her manicured nails straight into his left ball through the denim, twisting her wrist inward with every single ounce of her core strength.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" Gavi’s voice completely shattered, turning into a raw, ragged, pathetic wheeze. "LAUREN! LAUREN! IT’S LAUREN! LAUREN IS STRONGER! LAUREN, I SWEAR TO GOD IT’S YOU! ¡ERES TÚ, LAUREN! ¡LO SIENTO! ¡LO SIENTO MÚCHO!"

Both girls grinned at each other over his head. Then, with total, terrifying synchronization, both Ana and Lauren gripped his testicles with their absolute maximum physical strength and gave a brutal, full-force, crushing TWIST.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Gavi didn't just scream; he completely, utterly broke down.

The six-foot-one varsity soccer captain, the son of the Spanish Ambassador, the king of NYU Stern, collapsed inward as much as the straps would allow, weeping hysterically, pathetic, high-pitched Spanish sobs tearing out of his throat like a beaten five-year-old child.

"¡MAMÁ! ¡MAMÁAAAAAA!" Gavi wailed out loud, his face bright red, snot running freely down his lip onto his blue polo shirt. "¡PAPÁ, AYÚDAME! ¡ME MUERO! ¡DIOS MÍO, ME ESTÁN MATANDO LAS CHICAS! ¡PERDÓN! ¡PERDÓN, POR FAVOR!"

"Shut up, you pathetic baby!" Ana snapped, slapping his cheek hard. "You’re not dying yet! Now listen to me, Gavi! You’re going to tell us every single girl’s name you played on this campus! Right now!"

"Names, Gavi!" Lauren demanded, giving his left side another sharp, agonizing squeeze. "Every single girl you manipulated, cheated on, or used! NAME THEM!"

"OKAY! OKAY! I’LL TELL YOU! ¡OS LO DIGO TODO!" Gavi wept frantically, his breath coming in jagged, hyperventilating gasps. "1. Sofia from Fashion! [SQUEEZE] AAAAAAGH! 2. Camila from NYU Law! [SQUEEZE] AAAAAGH! 3. Isabella from Columbia! [SQUEEZE] 4. Jessica! 5. Chloe! 6. Vanessa! 7. Maria from Madrid! 8. Elena! 9. Sarah! 10. Mia! [SQUEEZE] AAAAAAAHHH! 11. Taylor! 12. Hannah! 13. Samantha! 14. Olivia! 15. Emily! 16. Brooke! 17. Natalia! 18. Carmen! 19. Lucia! 20. VALENTINA FROM HARVARD! ¡SON TWENTY! ¡SON VEINTE CHICAS, POR FAVOR! ¡YA ESTÁ! ¡NO HAY MÁS!"

Gavi was hyperventilating so hard his chest was heaving uncontrollably under his electric-blue polo, his entire body shaking like a leaf, tears and sweat soaking his neck, begging for mercy with every breath he had left.

"Twenty girls," Lauren said, disgusted, looking at Ana. "The guy literally ran an entire sorority of lies."

"Disgusting pig," Ana sneered.

Both girls finally released their tight grip, pulling their hands back.

Gavi let out a long, shuddering, whimpering sigh of relief, his head slumping forward against his chest, thinking the worst was finally over.

Then, a sudden, warm, wet stain began spreading rapidly across the front of his dark blue designer jeans.

Gavi froze.

Down between his legs, his bladder—completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated psychological horror, physical pain, and panic—had completely given up. A giant, dark, warm puddle of urine soaked straight through his dark blue jeans, dripping down the leg rests onto the plush velvet carpet beneath his chair.

For three seconds, VVIP Room 3 went dead silent, save for the thumping Britney Spears beat.

Then, Lauren and Ana looked down at his lap.

Ana let out a loud, screeching laugh that shook the room, clapping her hands together wildly. "OH MY GOD! LAUREN, LOOK! HE PEED HIS PANTS! THE BIG SOCCER CAPTAIN PEED HIMSELF!"

Lauren burst into a fit of uncontrolled, hysterical laughter, pointing right at his wet blue jeans. "OH MY GOD! GAVI! You literally pissed your pants! The ultimate alpha male of Stern just peed like a toddler!"

"Look at you!" Ana mocked, leaning down to slap his wet knee, laughing until tears came to her eyes. "You thought you were a strategic genius! You thought you were a supervillain playing two girls at once! And look at you now—tied to a chair, crying for your mom, getting beat up by two girls, and sitting in your own piss!"

"Did you really think you were smarter than us, Gavi?" Lauren taunted, running a finger over his pale, sweaty forehead. "You thought because you have a rich dad and a Porsche, women are just stupid objects for you to control? Newsflash, babe: we let you think you were winning, just so we could crush you ten times harder."

Gavi couldn't even look at them. He kept his head hanging down in pure, soul-destroying humiliation, tears dripping off his chin onto his soaked jeans, his ego completely, permanently obliterated into dust.

"And by the way, Gavi..." Lauren added, a dark, victorious smirk on her face. "In case you’re wondering who gave us your schedule, who set up the coffee shop meeting, and who helped us plan this entire weekend?"

Gavi lifted his tear-streaked face slowly, his dark eyes wide with dread. "W-who...?"

"Your little sister, Aurora," Lauren grinned maliciously. "She’s a proud feminist, Gavi. She hates your toxic, sexist playboy guts even more than we do. She was the mastermind behind Operation Spanish Omelet."

Gavi’s jaw dropped. "A-Aurora...?" he whispered, his heart shattering into a million pieces. "My own sister...?"

"Yep," Ana smirked, stepping right in front of his chair, her high-heeled knee-high boots clicking against the floor. "She sent her regards, papi."

Ana looked down at Lauren, her dark eyes flashing with one final, lethal spark of pure malice.

"You know, Lauren..." Ana purred, adjusting her stance. "Just because women don't have testicles of our own... doesn't mean we don't know exactly how to kick them."

Lauren smiled, stepping up right beside Ana. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

Both girls raised their right legs simultaneously.

Their three-inch, steel-reinforced stiletto heels hovered directly over Gavi’s soaked, swollen, completely defenseless groin.

Gavi’s eyes went wider than they had ever been in his entire life. The final, absolute realization of his impending doom hit his brain like a freight train.

"NO! NO! PLEASE! NOT THE HEELS! ¡LOS TACONES NO! ¡POR FAVOR, AAAAAAAAH—"

STOMP.

Both girls slammed their sharp stiletto heels down squarely, violently, with full-force body weight directly into the absolute center of Gavi’s groin.

THWACK-CRACK!

Gavi’s ultimate climax reaction was spectacular.

His eyes literally rolled back into his head until only the whites were visible. His body shot straight out of the chair like he’d been struck by a hundred thousand volts of pure lightning, his tongue sticking straight out of his mouth, letting out a final, silent, gasping, warbling screech that faded into complete, utter silence as his entire nervous system completely shut down.

His head flopped sideways against his shoulder, totally unconscious, totally defeated, totally broken.

Five minutes later, the heavy mahogany door of VVIP Room 3 opened.

Lauren and Ana stepped out into the dimly lit hallway of The Velvet Lounge, looking like absolute, high-fashion, invincible queens. They were holding their whips over their shoulders, laughing softly, their hair perfect, their makeup untouched.

Behind them, inside the VVIP room, Pablo Gavira Páez was left alone.

The girls had stripped him completely naked—leaving his electric-blue polo shirt and dark blue jeans shredded in a pile on the floor—and tied his completely bare, bruised, wet body back to the chair. On his chest, written in bright red matte lipstick, were the words: "WOMANIZER #1."

Before stepping out, Lauren had pulled out her iPhone, set the flash to maximum brightness, and taken a crisp, 4K, high-definition photo of his pathetic, unconscious, naked, tear-streaked face.

Ana clicked her heavy door shut behind them, locking it from the outside.

"So," Ana smirked, sliding her arm through Lauren’s as they walked down the grand carpeted staircase together toward the cool Manhattan night. "Coffee? Or should we use Gavi’s Black Amex card to buy us a penthouse in Paris?"

Lauren pulled out Gavi’s black American Express card from her purse, flipping it between her fingers with a bright, beautiful smile.

"First Paris," Lauren laughed softly, linking her arm tight with Ana’s. "Then coffee."

Behind them, high up in the VIP suite, the heavy bass of Britney Spears continued to thump through the walls, officially closing the chapter on the grand, tragic, hilarious downfall of Pablo Gavira Páez.

EPILOGUE

The September morning sun in Paris was hitting the terrace of Café de Flore in Saint-Germain-des-Prés with pure, crisp elegance.

Sitting at a prime corner table surrounded by silver coffee pots, fresh flaky croissants, and a spread of berry tarts were Lauren, Ana, and Aurora. All three of them looked like they had stepped straight off a luxury ad campaign. Lauren was wearing an oversized beige cashmere sweater with chic tinted sunglasses; Ana was draped in a tailored charcoal coat over a silk top, looking every bit the high-fashion supermodel; and Aurora looked effortlessly cool in a vintage leather jacket, sipping a hot double-shot espresso.

Floating between the three of them was Pablo Gavira Páez’s black American Express card—which had already accumulated roughly sixty-five thousand dollars in luxury hotel suites, first-class flights, and designer shopping sprees across Europe over the past ten days.

"Honestly?" Ana purred, delicately dipping a croissant into her cappuccino, her dark eyes sparkling behind her sunglasses. "His father’s black card has exceptional rewards points. I think we’re technically helping him build credit."

Lauren laughed out loud, leaning back against her wicker chair. "I’m pretty sure Gavi’s credit is the least of his concerns right now."

"Speaking of which..." Aurora smirked, pulling a freshly printed copy of The New York Post along with her iPad out of her leather tote bag. She set the newspaper flat on the marble table, right beside a digital translation of El País. "The morning press cycle just dropped. It is a absolute, glorious masterpiece."

Lauren and Ana both leaned in immediately, their heads touching over the center of the table.

Slapped across the front cover of The New York Post in bold, bright red font was a massive headline:

DIPLOMATIC DISASTER: AMBASSADOR’S PLAYBOY SON FOUND NAKED, BOUND & PISSED IN MEATPACKING VIP LOUNGE!

Beneath the headline was a blurred, strategically censored version of the high-definition photo Lauren had taken—showing a shirtless, pale Gavi tied flat to a leather chair, covered in tears, his face smeared with red lipstick reading "WOMANIZER #1," and his dark blue jeans sitting in a wet, soaked puddle on the velvet carpet.

"Oh, my God," Lauren gasped, her hands covering her mouth as she wheezed with laughter. "They actually printed the photo?!"

"They blurred his groin, obviously," Aurora giggled, taking a slow sip of her espresso. "But the story? Total viral wildfire. It’s been trending number one on Twitter and TikTok under #SpanishOmelet for forty-eight hours."

Ana picked up the newspaper, reading aloud with her deep, raspy Portuguese accent, savoring every single word:

"...Pablo Gavira Páez, twenty-one, son of the Spanish Ambassador to the United Nations, was discovered early Sunday morning by venue cleaning staff inside the VVIP suite of The Velvet Lounge. Sources confirm Páez was found tied to a chair, sobbing hysterically in broken Spanish, suffering from severe physical trauma to his pelvic region and extreme dehydration from crying..."

"Extreme dehydration from crying!" Ana shrieked, clutching her throat, dying of laughter so hard the French waiter two tables away turned to stare. "I am going to frame this article and put it over my bed!"

"Wait, wait, read the political update!" Aurora pointed to the page of El País. "This is the absolute best part. My mother is an absolute icon."

Lauren adjusted her study glasses to read the translated Spanish news wire:

Following the massive international scandal that disgraced the Spanish diplomatic delegation, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Madrid issued an immediate recall order for Gerard Páez. Citing 'a complete breakdown of familial governance and personal conduct,' Gerard Páez was officially stripped of his ambassadorial title and fired from his U.N. post.

In a historic move, the Spanish government officially appointed his wife, Elena Páez, as the new official Ambassador to the United Nations. Elena’s first official statement to the press from Washington D.C. was brief and ice-cold:

"My husband proved himself incapable of managing his household or maintaining diplomatic dignity. I will be taking over his duties effective immediately. Furthermore, my son, Pablo, has been withdrawn from higher education to focus on personal discipline and domestic reflection."

"YES!" Ana cheered softly, clinking her champagne glass against Aurora’s. "Queen Elena! I love your mother so much!"

"Dad is currently sitting in our Madrid villa doing the family laundry and cooking dinner while Mom runs the U.N.," Aurora grinned evilly. "He isn't allowed to touch his phone or his golf clubs for a year."

"And what about Gavi?" Lauren asked, leaning forward, a dark, curious smile on her face. "What’s the word on our favorite little supervillain?"

Aurora leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she swiped through a private WhatsApp family chat on her iPad.

"Gavi officially dropped out of NYU Stern yesterday," Aurora revealed. "He pulled his enrollment, deleted all his social media accounts, and sold his matte-black Porsche."

"Wait, really?" Lauren blinked. "He sold the Porsche?"

"He can’t drive it anyway," Aurora chuckled. "The doctor told him his pelvic floor nerves are so traumatized that sitting in a low sportscar seat gives him severe panic attacks. But that’s not even the funniest part."

"Tell us!" Ana demanded, stroking her chin. "What is his mental state?"

"He has developed full-blown, severe gynophobia," Aurora said, grinning from ear to ear. "He is literally terrified of women. My mom hired a female physical therapist to help him walk normally again, and the second she stepped into his bedroom, Gavi scrambled under his bedsheets, threw a pillow at her, and screamed, 'DON'T TOUCH MY HUEVOS, YOU CRAZY BITCH!'"

Ana and Lauren exploded into a fresh round of wild, wheezing laughter, holding their stomachs over the marble table.

"He won't leave his room if there’s a woman in the hallway," Aurora continued, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "If he hears a woman speaking in a heavy accent or hears the sound of high heels clicking on hardwood floors, his heart rate spikes to 180 and his dick completely retracts inside his body like a frightened turtle. He’s living in pure, perpetual fear."

"Serves the bastard right," Ana smirked, taking a long, satisfying sip of her champagne. "He spent his whole life treating women like toys, and now he’s scared of his own shadow."

"So," Lauren said, looking around the sunny Parisian terrace, feeling a deep, glorious sense of freedom and closure washing over her. "What’s the move for us?"

"Well," Ana said, reaching across the table and taking Lauren’s hand, giving it a sweet, affectionate squeeze. "I have a major runway gig for Paris Fashion Week on Thursday. And since Gavi’s Amex is still active for another forty-eight hours before  officially freezes it..."

Ana looked over at Aurora and Lauren with a dark, dazzling, unstoppable smile.

"...I think we should buy three front-row tickets, rent a luxury yacht on the Seine tonight, and order the most expensive caviar in France."

Lauren smiled, raising her coffee cup to clink against Ana’s champagne glass and Aurora’s espresso cup.

"To female solidarity," Lauren declared softly. "And to Operation Spanish Omelet."

"To crushed eggs," Ana and Aurora chorused together.

As the three girls laughed under the warm Parisian sun, four thousand miles away in a quiet, darkened bedroom in Madrid, Pablo Gavira Páez was curled tightly under three heavy blankets, wearing baggy sweatpants, shivering in terror at the distant sound of his mother’s high heels clicking down the hallway.

The king of Stern was officially dead. And the girls were living happily ever after.