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The morning after the video, Stephanie brushed her teeth with the kind of violence usually reserved for scrubbing blood off a floor. The mint foam threatened to spill over her lips as she glared at her own reflection. She looked perfectly normal, as if nothing had changed. Her perfect posture, perfectly done braid, perfect bone structure. But she didn't feel perfect. She had woken up in the middle of the night and just kept replaying the video like some cursed movie. Pom-poms bobbing, tits bouncing under that godforsaken uniform, her voice cracking on "Go Leon!" She'd done too well. But she apparently excelled even at humiliation.
She was totally unprepared for how to interact with Leon going forward. Does she just pretend like nothing has changed? Does she try to be more dominant to reassert control? Does she need to be extra nice to him so he doesn't share that video with anyone else?
Her mind swirled as she processed how to handle an unprecedented situation. Ordinarily, she would talk it through with Bryce, but she didn't like the idea of letting him know how badly this was bothering her.
Of course, Bryce knew from the way she was pointedly avoiding him and not talking that she was nervous about the day. He wanted to be supportive, but wasn't sure how. And, to be honest, he wasn't sure if he trusted himself to help with this situation given his rapidly developing erection--and conflict of interest. If interactions with Leon were going to lead to sex like they had last night, then he was on team Leon.
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Leon also didn't sleep well, but not because of anxiety. But because of an all-night masturbation session that had left him somehow more energized. His laptop screen glowed before him--paused at the exact frame where Stephanie Dahlstrom stood mid-cheer, one leg lifted in a high, muscular kick that nearly grazed her ear, the too-small uniform clinging to every curve of her body.
He hadn't expected her to go through with it. Not really, and certainly not like this. There was a fire in her eyes, not just fury but something unstable beneath, something he hadn't seen before.
Leon leaned forward again, jaw working side to side thoughtfully. He dragged the timeline back, rewound to the part where she shouted "Go Leon!" Her voice cracked on Leon. There it was. That crack--that perfect crack, the voice of someone choking on pride and submission simultaneously. Her tongue didn't want to say his name like that. Her body didn't want to move like that. But she made it.
And why would someone like her do that? Because she lost. Because she was proud. Because she was obsessed with honor? No. Because she couldn't not do it. Because some part of her wanted to.
That's when it hit him, a thrill so sharp it made him inhale through his teeth. "Ohhhh, fuck me," he whispered, eyes still glued to her frame. "You liked it, didn't you, Professor?" His voice was a whisper in the dark room, venom and glee in equal measure. "You liked putting on a show for me. You needed to win at losing."
The corner of his mouth curled. His little game wasn't just about provoking a reaction from her anymore because he could. Well, not exactly. Now, he had a purpose. To find out if Stephanie Dahlstrom was actually dominant... or whether she had been cosplaying it her entire adult life, wrapping herself in armor to hide the inner core of weakness buried deep within.
Leon zipped up slowly, savoring the ache in his groin, the lingering heat in his chest. The video continued to loop silently on screen as Stephanie knocked on the door right on time to give her compliment of the day.
The air inside was dense and warm, tinged with the faint odor of microwaved something. Her gaze moved automatically to the desk, already anticipating the oily smirk, the too-long eye contact, the smug drawl. But she froze mid-step. The laptop on his desk was playing the video. Her video. On a loop.
The tiny screen glowed like a shrine to her humiliation. There she was again--raising her arms, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, braid swinging as she cried out,
"Give me an L!"
Stephanie's voice came out low and sharp. "Turn that off."
Leon didn't even blink. "No."
Her fingers curled into her palm. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." He gestured toward the screen like a host unveiling a masterpiece. "I quite like it, actually. You have excellent form. Great smile. There's this moment--right before you say 'Go Leon'--where your mouth twitches like you're going to cry. Gets me every time."
Her whole face went still. Only her nostrils flared. "This wasn't part of the deal."
Leon tilted his head. "There was no clause about not watching it. You sent it. I own a copy now." He reached forward, clicked a button. The volume went up a notch.
"... Give me an O--!"
Stephanie's hands clenched at her sides, then slowly rose to her hips, the pose instinctual and commanding but undermined by the faint tremor in her left hand.
"Turn it off," she said, quieter now. "Please."
Leon looked up at her, eyes sharp behind the greasy bangs falling across his forehead. "That's better," he said, his voice all honey and rust. "See, I like this Stephanie. Polite. Civil. Flexible."
Her face colored. "You've made your point."
"Oh, I'm not sure I have," he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I plan on watching this all the time, Professor Dahlstrom. In fact, I might set it as my screen saver. I could run it on the hallway monitor outside Anthropology--"
"You fucking wouldn't."
He shrugged. "I'm kidding, obviously." He wasn't. "Unless you keep swearing at me. That hurts my feelings."
She stepped closer, voice dropping. "If you had any idea what I'm holding back right now, you'd shut that shit down and apologize."
Leon smiled, slow and easy. "If you really wanted me to stop, Stephanie... you'd offer something in exchange. A little payment." He leaned on the word, tasting it.
"Something to sweeten the deal. Otherwise, well--I'm a creature of habit."
Stephanie's mouth tightened, eyes narrowing to slits. "Go fuck yourself."
Leon clapped his hands once, quietly. "There she is. Back in full form." He gestured at the screen again. "Seriously though, Steph. You might want to reconsider. The more you fight me, the more I wonder if you're not just angry... but turned on."
She turned on her heel so fast her braid snapped like a whip behind her. "Eat shit."
The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle his pencil cup.
Leon sat there in the silence, the video continuing to loop--Stephanie's flushed face, her voice cracking, her body moving in choreographed humiliation. He leaned back again, smiling to himself. She was cracking. She thought she still had power. But she'd said please.
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Stephanie stormed through the front door just after sundown, the slam echoing through the quiet house like a gunshot. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood as she dropped her bag and blazer in a single violent motion that sent keys skittering across the floor. Bryce looked up from the kitchen island, where he'd been scrolling through his laptop.
"Hey," he said carefully sensing her mood.
Stephanie's eyes were wild, stormy. Her braid was unraveling. "He had it playing on a loop."
Bryce blinked. "The video?"
"Yes. The fucking video. Right there, on his desk, just looping while I walked in. Smiling at me like a fucking little troll pervert." Stephanie continued irately.
Bryce closed the laptop gently, turned to face her fully. "Did he say anything?"
"Oh, did he say something?" she laughed, bitter and sharp. "He told me he liked it. That he might use it as a screensaver. That he gets off on the part where my mouth twitches like I'm going to cry." She kicked off one heel, then the other, one bouncing off the wall. "I asked him to turn it off. Asked, Bryce. Me. I said 'please.' And you know what he said?"
Bryce swallowed, heartbeat already thudding in his chest. "What?"
"He said I should offer payment."
She looked up at him now, eyes glinting with fury and something more volatile just beneath. "Can you believe that? Little gremlin sitting in his rat-hole office, jacking off to the worst day of my fucking life, and when I try to get just a shred of dignity back, he negotiates."
Bryce's breath was shallow now. The words, the scene, the image--it lit something up in him, hot and dark and shuddering with adrenaline. He stood, rounded the island slowly.
Stephanie kept going. "I told him to fuck off. Obviously. Stormed out. But goddammit, Bryce--he was so calm. Like he knew it would get to me. Like he knew I'd come in there rattled and try to regain control, and he just... peeled it off me."
Her fists were clenched. Her chest was heaving. The braid had begun to fall completely apart, strands clinging to the sweat at her temple.
"You want to know the worst part?" she whispered, stepping in now, voice shaking. "Hearing him say he's going to watch it over and over again--and knowing he means it? It made me feel... exposed. Like I'd been peeled open, and he was staring inside my skull."
"And I'm like angry. And furious. And horny? I don't fucking understand any of this." Stephanie exclaimed angrily.
Interrupting his beautiful wife's rant, Bryce grabbed her head and pulled her in for a kiss. That was all it took as she attacked him like a woman on a mission. They stumbled backward, knocking over a chair, barely making it to the couch before she shoved him down and straddled his lap.
She yanked his zipper down, freed him with practiced aggression, and dragged her panties to the side with one hand. She dropped onto swiftly in one practiced motion.
"HhhaaAAAH--fuck--" she cried out, head thrown back, her whole body taut with electric shame and heat. She was soaked, tight, twitching around him already, as she rode him. Neither said a word about why they were both already so desperate. Neither asked. It was easier to just not admit the truth.
Stephanie sank down harder, riding him like she needed to drive the memories out of her skin. Her head dropped, braid falling over one shoulder, her teeth catching her lower lip. She moaned as her thighs flexed around him her orgasm rapidly building to a crescendo. She came first, silent at first, and then again 30 seconds later as she let out a long, broken cry as her body clamped tight around him. This sent Bryce over the edge shortly thereafter.
Stephanie finally pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Her mascara had smudged slightly at the corners of her eyes, a single streak dragged down one cheek where she'd been pressed against him. She looked wrecked. Devastated. Gorgeous.
Bryce opened his mouth to say something--anything--but stopped. What could he possibly offer her right now? Comfort? Clarity? Forgiveness? He wasn't even sure if she wanted it. And anyway, a part of him, the part that had watched her explode with unrestrained lust the moment she stormed in, didn't want to console her. That part wanted to feed whatever was happening.
"I said please," she repeated, quieter this time, like she still couldn't believe it.
Bryce swallowed. "Yeah. You did."
Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and searching, as if daring him to make something of it. But he didn't flinch. Instead, he lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you regret it?"
The question hovered between them like a match suspended above a gas leak.
Stephanie didn't answer. She climbed off his lap, carefully, as if the act of standing required effort. She moved toward the kitchen without another word, grabbing a glass and filling it at the sink, her back to him standing there for several moments.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore." She whispered just loud enough for the two of them to hear.
As she moved back to sit on the couch she said "I can't believe I begged him," she whispered, the words ghosting over Bryce's chest.
Bryce swallowed. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to say it didn't matter, that it wasn't real, that Leon was just a worm squirming in his little mud puddle. But he couldn't. Not when his cock had twitched at the word payment, not when his hips had jerked against her like he was starving as she screamed her orgasm down into his shoulder. He wanted it to be wrong. But his body had never reacted to her like this before.
"I don't know who I am anymore," she added. "I used to know. I used to be sure."
"You're still you," Bryce said, but it sounded feeble the second it left his mouth.
"No," she said. "You saw that video. You saw what I did. How hard I tried."
"It was a bet," he offered. "You were keeping your word."
"Bullshit." Her eyes glittered, throat working. "You think I don't know how I looked in that outfit? You think I don't know what it felt like to perform like that for him?" She was trembling again now, her jaw tightening. I was excited. Excited, Bryce. I was wet before I even put on the outfit."
Bryce's breath caught, a helpless sound.
"Don't pretend it didn't get to you," she said, voice cutting now. "Don't sit there with your post-fuck halo and pretend you weren't hard the whole time I told you what I had to do."
Bryce didn't deny it. He couldn't. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling.
"I should be ashamed of myself," she said.
"are you?" he said softly.
She nodded, bitterly. "And that's the worst part. The shame feels like sex now. I don't even know when it started, but Leon's in my fucking head. He's--he's wormed in there like a virus. Like a fucking splinter under the nail I can't dig out."
"He's manipulating you," Bryce said.
"He's winning." Her voice broke on the word, and she covered her face with her hands, then dragged them down slowly, fingers smearing mascara across her cheeks. "And the more he wins, the more I... the more I want to win at losing."
There it was. The phrase Leon had whispered to himself in his dark little cave. She'd said it aloud. Win at losing. She didn't even realize.
Bryce exhaled, long and slow. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her temple. She didn't flinch from his touch, but she didn't lean into it either.
"it's going to be okay." Bryce whispered gently, even if he knew they were both going on a journey they could not predict.
The following afternoon, the sky over campus hung low and grey, clouds crouched like bruises ready to break. Stephanie moved through the Anthropology wing with precise, almost militaristic tension--heels sharp against the tile, expression tight enough to slice. She'd already resolved not to go. She told herself she wasn't going. She didn't owe him today. The cheerleading video had been the end of that series of humiliations.
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Leon was seated behind his desk, shirt untucked, one foot up on the edge of a battered filing cabinet, a smirk already blooming across his sallow face like mold on bread.
"Well, well. I was starting to think you weren't coming," he said without looking up.
"I shouldn't have," she replied coldly.
"Yet here you are." He glanced at her. "Compulsion's a bitch, huh?"
She ignored the chill that tickled her spine.
"I'm not staying long," she said, arms crossed, "and I'm not here for compliments. That part's over."
Leon finally met her gaze, leaning back with the leisurely satisfaction of someone who'd already won the hand and was now just playing for fun. "That's a shame. I was really enjoying our little tradition.
Stephanie's nostrils flared. "You're repulsive."
"And yet, you came here. Again. Why is that, do you think?" He steepled his fingers. "Lingering guilt? Or are you hoping I've cooked up a new game?"
Her stomach fluttered, traitorous and low. "No more games."
"Aw, don't be like that." He tilted his head. "Don't tell me the great Stephanie Dahlstrom is scared of losing."
"I'm not scared," she snapped, too fast.
"Oh good," Leon said brightly. "Then you won't mind hearing my proposal."
"I said--"
"Let's make another bet."
She clenched her teeth so hard it sent a bolt of pain down her neck. "I'm not interested."
"Sure you are," he said easily. "Because you're here. Because you didn't block my number. Because you haven't reported me, threatened legal action, or done any of the things someone truly offended might have done."
She took a breath, slow and deep, trying to calm the thudding chaos behind her sternum. "You've had your fun. You humiliated me. You won. Don't push your luck."
Leon stood, circling the desk slowly, hands tucked behind his back. He moved like a scientist preparing to observe a rare creature, not wanting to startle it too soon. "You don't get it yet, do you? This... this isn't about luck. It's about compulsion. About what's beneath all that polish and control."
"I control myself just fine."
"Right," he said. "That's why you're dripping wet right now."
Her eyes blazed. "You're disgusting."
Leon didn't flinch. "I'm right. That's worse."
Stephanie stepped back. Just half a step. She hated that he noticed.
"You want to punish me," he said, voice softening into something syrupy and hypnotic. "You want to put me in my place. Maybe slap me, humiliate me back. Show me I don't own you." He inched closer, the scent of stale deodorant and smugness drifting into her space. "But here's the truth: you don't hate that I beat you. You hate that you needed to be beaten."
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
"No?" he prompted. "Then why did you make the cheer video so fucking perfect? Why the full makeup, the kicks, the little wink at the end--"
"There was no wink--"
The anger surged back, hot and overwhelming. She wanted to slap him. Wanted to scream. Wanted to throw the laptop out the window and drag him down by the collar.
But more than anything, she wanted him to ask again. To push just a little harder. So she could say no. So she could lose. Again. Leon saw it. The flicker. The crack she didn't know she wore. "One more," he whispered. "One more bet. Just for me."
Stephanie shook her head, but it was slow. Weak.
"What's the game?" she asked, her voice so quiet she barely recognized it.
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