somerealnerd

  The equipment room practically hummed with tension, thick and electric, like the air before a storm broke. John tilted his head up at Anthony—the hulking bastard towered over him, six-foot-three of muscle and menace—but somehow, he felt small. John’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smirk curling there, like he was the one looking down, holding all the cards.

  Anthony was reeling, caught ft-footed, his brain scrambling to catch up. “How the fuck…” he stammered, voice cracking, raw and ragged.

  No way was he letting this punching-bag John—this nobody he’d kicked around for years—call the shots now. His jaw tightened, and he opened his mouth to spit it out, the same old venom: this wager was a sham, always had been—just a twisted game to mess with him, no prize, just a fist to the face waiting at the end.

  Don’t kid yourself, pig.

  John cut him off cold: “What, gonna say I’m just a happy log, this wager’s a joke, and cashing it in means I’m toast?” Before Anthony could choke out a reply, he pressed harder: “Think I’m as dumb as you? Didn’t see you itching to swing at me next?”

  For the first time, Anthony felt stripped bare—like this scrawny bastard had peeled back his skin, leaving him defenseless. Every thought, every move, id out pin. Hirious thing? Anthony’s shirt was buttoned tight—John was the one pantsless.

  “So what if you guessed it?” one of Anthony’s ckeys piped up, voice cracking. “You’re stuck here with us—we could bash your skull in, no sweat, you sad little freak.”

  “You got one thing twisted, dipshit,” John shot back, savoring the chance to drop his favorite Rorschach line.

  “I’m not locked in here with you—you’re locked in here with me.”

  Words barely hit the air before he moved—three quick, brutal swings, and Anthony’s trio of goons crumpled to the floor, out cold. Their girlfriends shrieked, terror ripping through the room.

  “Shut it!” John barked. “I’m not touching you—chill the fuck out and zip it.”

  Anthony stood there, dumbstruck. This guy—shorter by a head, maybe half his weight—was radiating something unhinged. Panic crept up his spine, cold and unfamiliar. Not knowing—that’s what gutted him. How’d it flip this fast?

  He still had size, though. He swung a meaty fist at John’s face, aiming to smash—but John slipped inside, smooth as a bde, and drove a hard uppercut into Anthony’s jaw. Legs wobbled, body hit the deck, twitching once before going dark—all in one slick motion.

  “Muscles everywhere, huh? Too bad your jaw’s still gss,” John tossed out, the st jab Anthony heard before lights-out.

  John turned, finally facing Britney. The queen bee—usually all fire and steel, strutting like she owned the world—stood frozen, eyes wide, lost on how to py this. His gaze slid down her bck pantyhose, tracing those legs, lingering on her feet. He ached to rip off her shoes, bury his face in them, breathe her in deep, then work his way up, tasting every toe slow and deliberate.

  But he couldn’t—not yet. One, Britt’s face screamed hell no. Two, he wasn’t showing that side here, not with this crowd. He had to stay iron, untouchable.

  So, no matter how bad he craved it—how every nerve begged him to dive in—he held off. No moves left but one. He grabbed some rope, trussed up the knocked-out punks, then snagged a chair. Plopping down, he fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. Pants stayed off, his manhood still jutting up like a damn trophy, a loud-and-clear message: Nobody’s leaving till I get mine.

  Ten minutes crawled by. Stacey—one of the girls—cracked first. “Britt, just do it already,” she snapped. “Get it over with, and we’re outta here.”

  John cut in fast: “Do what now? I’m just ciming my win—nothing more. And it’s gotta be her choice. You pushing her? Not my vibe.”

  Half-truth, half-lie. Lie was, he was loving this vibe—watching them turn on each other like rabid dogs, pure theater. Truth was, if Britt didn’t volunteer, his whole point—teaching her a lesson and breaking Anthony—fell ft.

  Becca, the quiet one, piped up. “Fine, I’ll do it. Quick and done—I’m cool with it. Few minutes, tops.” John sized her up—red hair fming, not a top-tier stunner in this gene-jacked world of knockouts, but back in his old reality? A solid ten. Her frame ran thin up top, maybe B-cups at best, but those jeans hugged an ass massive and plump, curving out lush and ripe. He pictured yanking the jeans down, getting a good look at those round cheeks from behind—smming into it, feeling it bounce back against him, each hit fueling the next.

  But no—not today. He had a point to prove, and Britt was the key. He shook his head at Becca, reluctant but firm, then swung his gaze to Britney, voice dripping scorn: “That’s how you treat friends? You lose, and she’s gotta clean up your mess?”

  Britt’s fuse lit. She jabbed a finger at him, spitting fire: “Don’t get cocky, you dead log! You’ve got no right to judge me—lucky break doesn’t make you hot shit!”

  Her screech jolted the four KO’d guys awake. Anthony blinked, saw himself bound, and dread sank in fast. Memories of what he’d done to John fshed—now, helpless, he couldn’t guess what was coming. “Britt, just fuck him already!” he blurted. “Get it done, and we’re gone!” The others chimed in, nodding like whipped dogs.

  John nearly lost it ughing. This was too good—he almost wanted to stall, keep stirring the pot, watching them eat each other alive. “You call yourselves men?” he tossed at the guys. “Ganging up to force a girl into this—pathetic.” Then he spun to Britt: “These your pals? Becca’s got more balls than all their shriveled sacks combined.”

  Becca—sweet, spacey Becca—let out a giggle at that, then cmmed up, catching the room’s vibe.

  John figured it was time to nd the killing blow. “You don’t deserve her, Britt,” he sneered. “Some friend.”

  That did it. Britt’s rage detonated—she slid off her pantyhose and panties in one furious yank, flinging them aside, and bellowed, “Fine, let’s fucking do it! Scared of you? Please—don’t bust in two seconds, you limp log!”

  She whirled on Anthony, gring at his gawking face, and mimicked John’s move—a solid crack to his jaw. “Quit staring, you asshole!” Down he went again, lights out.

  Got her, John crowed inside, pulse racing. He flicked his eyes to the three sidelined girls. Britt today, those three next—soon enough. Business first.

  Still parked in his chair, he crooked a finger at Britt. She stormed over, fuming, and sank down slow…

  When Anthony woke again, it was nothing else but the gasps and moans flooding the room—the air thick, electric, flipped upside down. The three girls on the sidelines were flushed red, eyes darting between disgust, shock, and maybe a glint of urge. When Anthony finally zeroed in on Britney, a tidal wave crashed through his skull—rage, jealousy, shame, hate, and disbelief smming into him all at once. His eyes bulged, bloodshot and wild, veins pulsing red as tears broke free, spilling down his face in a messy, uncontrolble flood. The sheer force of it—every twisted feeling he’d ever buried—tore him apart right there.

  Just across from him, on that grimy mat, Britney was locked in with John, a sight that burned itself into his brain. She perched half-straddled over him, glistening with sweat, her tan skin catching the light like polished bronze. John’s arms snaked under her knees, sliding inward, strong fingers threading up and back until they gripped her neck from behind. She was pinned tight against him, suspended above his frame, her toned, wheat-colored legs hoisted high and trembling. Her pussy took every brutal thrust from John’s hard cock—that cock, the one supposed to stay limp forever—now pounding into her with relentless fury. Something gushed out, pfft-pfft, soaking John’s balls till it gleamed wet and slick. Each sm pulled sticky threads between them, the friction churning up a creamy white mess at their junction, dripping and smearing with every move. Britt’s eyes stretched wide, rolling back in her skull, her tongue lolling out as she let loose sharp, blissful shrieks—pleasure and surrender ripping through her voice. Sweat coated them both, her golden glow fring under the sheen, turning her into some radiant, feral thing.

  Anthony tried to choke out words, but his mouth just fpped—nothing came. John didn’t spare him a gnce, his world narrowed to the goddess sprawled across him. His balls hammered onto Britt’s vagina, a relentless sp-sp-sp echoing off the walls. To John, it was crystal clear: Today’s another fucking good day.

  The bitter twist? Anthony caught himself stiffening at the sight—shame cwing his brain while his body betrayed him. What kind of dog gets off watching his girl get fucked? His head screamed it, but down below, he was honest as hell. Then Britt’s voice cut through, soft and syrupy, a sound he’d never pulled from her.

  “Johnny, can we face each other? Let me lie down—come at me from above, please. You had me so good up there just now.” She was riding him backward, twisting to fsh him a sugary smile over her shoulder.

  John ran a gentle hand down her spine, gripped her waist, and eased her onto her back. He spun her legs around—pausing mid-turn to pnt a quick kiss on her foot, too tempting to resist—all while staying buried deep inside her, seamless and slick.

  This Britt? The one who always had to be on top with me? Anthony’s eyes burned with stunned disbelief. Everyone’s flipped today.

  But John and Britt didn’t clock him—they dove back in, a fresh round of thrusts kicking off. “Ah, ah—right there, Johnny, kiss me!” Britt’s hands cmped John’s shoulders, yanking him down hard, nails digging red streaks into his skin. Their lips crashed together, tongues tangling loud and wet, filling the room with sloshing sucks, Britt’s fierce moans muffled against his mouth, and the squelch-squelch of their soaked collision, punctuated by sharp sps.

  Anthony felt it building—that edge, hands tied behind him, no help, just the raw overload of the scene pushing him there. One of the girls—nobody caught who—let out a loud gulp, swallowing hard. That sound snapped something in his head, a taut wire fraying loose, and he blew right there in his pants, a humiliating wet stain spreading fast.

  John and Britt weren’t done. She was lost in it, legs—tan and strong—locked tight around his waist, cmping like she’d die if his dick slipped free. Her eyes gzed over, lips fused to his, arms strangling his neck. They went at it another hundred thrusts, John’s growl rumbling low as he pinned her down, hips smming forward, his penis pulsing hard inside her, unloading every drop deep. Britt’s thighs squeezed him tighter, her whole body quaking, taking it all in wild shudders.

  Finally, John rolled off, colpsing onto the mat, chest heaving. A trickle of “cream” leaked from Britt’s vagina, sliding slowly down her crotch, pooling onto her butthole, then dripping to the mat below.

  Anthony snapped, shame and restraint gone, as if he no longer worried about what John would do to him with him tied. “You fucking log, I swear I’ll kill you!” he roared, voice cracking.

  John finally flicked him a look—and zeroed in on the damp patch soaking Anthony’s pants. He got it in a fsh—this spoiled prick had popped off—and pointed, ughing his ass off. “Oh, my mighty bully king! You just dumped your whole week’s load right there, huh?”

  Anthony’s brain pinged—Britt knew his “pace” better than anyone—and he spun his fury on her. “You shameless bitch! I’ll deal with you too—just wait!”

  Britt opened her mouth to bite back, but John tapped her spine lightly, silencing her with a look.

  “Fucking log, think this breaks me?” Anthony sputtered, red-faced and rabid. “No chance—I’ll tell you straight, I’ve got women lined up! This slut’s trash now—done!”

  John frowned, shook his head—why did morons always lean on crude bravado to flex?—then shrugged. “I know. So what?”

  Anthony pounced, voice shrill: “So what? What, you think you can steal ’em all, you prick?”

  John faced a grade-A idiot, smirked slow and nasty. “We’ll see about the rest—numbers don’t mean shit. But your mom? Only got one of those, right?”

  A half-decent mom jab—except nobody was ughing. We all knew John wasn’t joking.

  “How dare you talk about my mom like that?” Anthony snarled, his voice splintering with fury, face flushed red.

  John’s eyes glinted—Anthony’s outburst peeled back a yer of stupidity so raw it almost made him choke on his own ugh. Wow, this idiot’s got mommy issues, and he’s handing it to me on a silver ptter? The thought hit, and he cracked up again, loud and unrestrained. “You’re just full of surprises, Anthony. I was still plotting how to screw you next, and here you are, serving me the pybook!”

  He smirked, a slow, wicked curve tugging his lips. This reward world was getting better by the second.

  He stood, yanking his pants back on, then crouched to untie Anthony’s ropes, casual as if he were loosening a shoece.

  Anthony scrambled to rise, fists twitching—only for John to sm his head back down, smashing it into the floor with a deafening thud.

  “Oh, almost forgot,” John drawled, leaning close, voice dripping venom. “Got a line to give back.”

  “I own you, you muscle-brained pussy.”