Chapter 2: The Game Player
The following week was a haze of shame and compulsive reloading. My phone became an appendage, its vibrations a source of both dread and electric anticipation. After a week of chatting with random people on dating apps, I swiped right on someone with a familiar face. I’d seen him at a banner in the college cafeteria. He’s a sophomore on the basketball team, a guy named Jaden whose photo showed him laughing, all easy confidence and coiled strength. My thumb had hovered, a cold sweat pricking my neck. This wasn’t some blurred torso from Queens. This was real. The app chimed—a match.
His first message popped up seconds later. “Hey.” Then, almost immediately, “Wait, I know you. You’re in the grad lab sometimes.” The recognition, casual and offhand, made my stomach flip. We started talking. He acted so cocky in chat, and it kind of made me sick because of all the things he bragged about.
He was popular, a name chanted in gyms, and I was an unknown master student. Master students are already tend to be invisible on campus, but I was on another level of unknown. “You’re always buried in those huge books,” he wrote. “Looks intense.” His texts were littered with flexing emojis and talk of games and parties, a world away from my own.
He starts to demand photos. “Let me see you,” he typed. I wanted to refuse, my thumb freezing over the keyboard. But something felt different in the way that he demanded it. It wasn’t the raw, anonymous hunger of the other chats. This was colder, more assumption than request. It felt like whatever he says becomes a reality I just have to accept.
The silence stretched as I stared at his message. My heart was a trapped bird against my ribs. He sent another message. “Come on. Don’t be shy.” The pressure was a physical weight. I fumbled with my phone’s camera, my hands unsteady. The screen flashed, capturing my wary expression in the dim room. I sent it before I could think.
“Cute,” he replied instantly. The word felt like a pat on the head. “Now one without the shirt. I want to see what’s under all those layers.” The command was simple, absolute. The laptop on my bed still held the ghostly glow of the videos from last week. Jaden’s demand echoed in the quiet, a new voice in the old chorus.
Jaden’s demand echoed in the quiet, a new voice in the old chorus. My fingers moved on their own, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt until the fabric fell open. The phone’s camera flashed again, capturing the pale, vulnerable plane of my chest and stomach in the gloomy light.
I sent it, my breath held. “Now turn around,” he wrote back. I did, angling the phone over my shoulder, the waistband of my jeans tugged low. I took a few photos for him, each one feeling like another layer stripped away.
“Okay, your turn,” I typed quickly, my pulse fluttering. “Send me one of you.” The request felt fair, a transaction. The three dots appeared, bounced, then stopped.
“Nah,” his reply finally came. I stared at the single word. “Why not?” I sent, irritation sharpening my thumbs. “I just sent you a bunch. That’s messed up.”
I was spamming him now, asking the reason why, my messages piling up in the chat. “Hello?? That’s rude.” My face felt hot. His response was slow, deliberate. “You don’t deserve a pic from me.”
The statement landed like a slap. I was mad and confused, my chest tight. I had already sent a bunch of photos for him, each a piece of me offered up. “How do I not deserve it?” I typed, the anger turning thin and reedy.
“Your photos aren’t enough,” he wrote, the words definitive. “They’re basic. I demand more. Better ones.” If any other person was doing this to me, I would simply unmatch them and block their number. But the way Jaden talked, the effortless humiliation, it pinched something deep and dormant.
But the way Jaden talked, the effortless humiliation, it pinched something deep and dormant. My anger dissolved into a shaky curiosity. I HESITATE AT FIRST.
“Better ones?” I typed, my thumb hovering.
“You heard me,” he replied. “Get creative. I’m bored.” The challenge was a hook in my gut, sharp and irresistible. I stood up from the floor, my knees protesting.
I looked at the laptop’s pulsing screen, then back to my phone. Jaden’s last message glowed. My mouth was dry. I walked to the dresser, the floorboards creaking under my weight, and pulled open the bottom drawer. The silky blouse and pleated skirt lay there, a secret waiting.
I lifted the blouse, the fabric whispering against my fingers. “What kind of creative?” I texted, stalling.
“Surprise me,” he wrote back instantly. “Think less grad student, more… obedient.” The word landed hard, its meaning a direct line to the hypno tab still humming on my bed. I let out a shaky breath and held the blouse against my chest, looking at my reflection in the dark window.
It was just fabric. It didn’t mean anything. My phone buzzed again. “Clock’s ticking.” I shrugged off my own shirt, the dorm air chilly on my skin. I slipped my arms into the blouse’s sleeves.
The silk felt alien and cool, clinging in all the wrong, right places. I fumbled with the small pearlescent buttons, my fingers feeling huge and clumsy. A weird, quiet thrill cut through the shame as I looked down at the draped front.
I grabbed the skirt next, stepping into it and pulling the zip up over my hips. The waistband cinched, the pleats fanning out. My reflection was now someone fractured, a boyish face atop a feminine silhouette. The dissonance was perfect, horrifying.
I picked up my phone, turned the camera on myself, and took the picture.
I stared at the image for a second—my boyish face tense above the silk blouse, the skirt's pleats sharp in the low light—before hitting send. The whoosh sound felt final.
Jaden’s reply came fast. "Better," he wrote. "But I said creative. Show me underneath."
My fingers hovered. "That’s too far," I typed back, the refusal automatic and thin.
The three dots appeared and lingered. "Then we're done here," he finally sent.
His words were a blunt fist to my chest. The chat with Alex from last week flashed in my mind—the location pin, the hollow aftermath—but this threat felt sharper.
"Wait," I messaged, the word pathetic even as it left my thumbs.
I dropped to the floor, the hardwood biting through the thin skirt. My hands shook as I tugged the hem up, exposing my thighs.
I angled the phone down, capturing the pale skin, the edge of my underwear. Click.
Another, closer: my hips arched, the fabric rucked high. Click.
A final one, my face turned away, all submission and silent plea. I sent all three in rapid succession, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
The silence stretched, each second a raw nerve. Then, his response: "Good."
A shaky breath escaped me. The attention was a drug, and I was already craving the next hit.
My phone buzzed again, Jaden’s name glowing against the dark screen. “Now lose the clothes,” he wrote, his message a blunt command.
I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. “I can’t,” I typed back, the words tasting like chalk. “That’s too much.”
The three dots appeared, pulsed, then his reply: “Then we’re done.” The finality of it stole my breath, a vacuum where the addictive attention had been.
Images flashed—Sasha’s hurt face, the hypno video’s pulsing spiral, the empty silence after Alex. My hands were moving before my mind caught up, fingers fumbling with the blouse’s delicate buttons. The silk slithered off my shoulders, a whisper against my skin.
I kicked the skirt away, the fabric a puddle on the floor. The dorm air was cold on my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I switched to video, my reflection in the lens wide-eyed and pale.
I licked my fingers slowly, watching myself in the screen, the wetness glistening. Then I trailed them down, the touch a shocking jolt of familiarity from last week’s shame. I pressed inside, my breath hitching, the camera capturing every wince and shudder.
The video was short, raw, and utterly compromising. I attached it with a caption typed in a feverish rush: “Special for you. Maybe now you’ll finally see me.” I hit send, the whoosh sound echoing in the quiet room.
My phone lay silent in my hand, a dead weight, as I waited for his response.
The silence stretched, thick and syrupy, broken only by the frantic drum of my own heartbeat in my ears. I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred, the chill from the floor seeping up into my bare thighs.
Finally, a vibration. A single, stark line from Jaden: “My dorm room. Tomorrow at 8. i want to see u in something sexy”
The following evening, I stood outside the bachelor dorm building, shivering in the thin, borrowed coat over my "something sexy"—a silk camisole and tight shorts hidden beneath. The brick facade loomed, buzzing with the sounds of rap music and shouting from open windows. I WAS SCARED AT FIRST, GOING TO THE BACHELOR GUYS DORM ROOM IS ALREADY SCARY.
I pushed through the heavy main door, the lobby air thick with the smell of stale beer and fried food. A group of guys lounging on a stained couch stopped their conversation to stare. My cheeks burned.
"Hey, you lost?" one called out, a slow grin spreading across his face. I kept my eyes fixed on the stairwell, my stomach twisting into a hard knot.
I avoided him, hurrying across the sticky linoleum toward the staircase. Every footstep echoed. I heard a low laugh behind me, followed by a muttered, "What the hell was that?"
Each flight of stairs felt steeper than the last. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat syncing with the bass thumping from behind closed doors. ESPECIALLY FOR A GRAD STUDENT AND WEARS A GIRLY CLOTHES.
The third-floor hallway was a gauntlet of open doors and loud voices. I pulled the coat tighter, my knuckles white on the fabric. A guy stepping out of a bathroom gave me a long, appraising look that stripped the coat away.
PEOPLE WILL STARE AT ME AT THE HALLWAY, HOW CAN A OLDER GRAD STUDENT HUMILIATE THEMSELF AT THE BACHELOR DORM BUILDING. His gaze felt physical, a crawl over my skin. I focused on the room numbers, my vision narrowing to the peeling digits.
BUT HIS COMMAND IS TOO HARD FOR ME TO DENY. The thought was a cold, solid weight in my gut, the only thing propelling me forward. I stopped before door 312, Jaden’s last text burning in my mind.
I raised a trembling hand, hesitated, and then knocked. The sound was too soft, swallowed by the hallway noise. I knocked again, harder.
The door swung open.
The door swung open not to Jaden’s smirk, but to a wall of noise and bodies, the room hazy with vape smoke and the sharp scent of cheap liquor. Four other guys were sprawled on furniture or leaning against the walls, all of them tall, broad-shouldered, wearing team jerseys. Their conversation died as they turned to look at me, my thin coat feeling suddenly absurd.
I tried to smile. My gaze found Jaden by the window; he gave a slight, indifferent chin nod, his eyes already drifting back to his phone. One of the guys, with a shaved head and thick arms crossed over his chest, let out a short, disgusted laugh.
“J,” he said, his voice cutting through the bass from the speakers. “You said there was girls coming.” His eyes raked over me, from my nervous face down to the sliver of silk camisole visible at my throat. “All I see was a grad student faggot who dress like a girl. I don’t swing that way.”
The word landed, a physical blow to the solar plexus. My mouth went dry, my prepared greeting dissolving into nothing. I could only be silent, standing frozen in the doorway as the insult hung in the smoky air, my cheeks burning.
Jaden just shrugged, not even looking up from his screen. “Chill, man,” he said, his tone light, conversational. “There will be more girls coming.” He finally glanced at me, a flicker of cool appraisal. “They just need to be a little patient.”
My heart sank, a cold, heavy plunge that reached my stomach. The realization was a dizzying slap. I thought I was gonna have a special time with Jaden, something private and intense like our chats. But he just invited me to be fresh meat in an orgy, a curious appetizer for his teammates while they waited for the main course to arrive. The silk against my skin now felt like a clown’s costume, pathetic and laughable.
The silk against my skin now felt like a clown’s costume, pathetic and laughable. Jaden chuckled, putting his phone down and leaning back against the window sill. "Relax, man," he said to the shaved-head guy, his voice smooth and dismissive. "Look at him—he's girly enough, and that ass is as fat as the main whore on 125th." A burst of laughter erupted from the room, sharp and grating. One of the others, a lanky guy with a buzzcut, nodded and grinned. "Yeah, he does have a big ass." Another whistled low, his eyes tracking over the thin coat I still clung to. My face burned hotter, the heat spreading down my neck and chest. The camisole underneath felt like it was etching itself into my skin, a brand of shame. I wanted to bolt, to run back down those stairs and never see this building again. But my feet were rooted to the sticky floor, held by some morbid curiosity or deeper need. Jaden's comment echoed the hypno videos' promises of degradation, and a sick part of me thrummed in recognition. "Come in, don't just stand there," Jaden said, waving a hand like he was summoning a dog. The shaved-head guy smirked, some of the anger fading into amusement. He took a swig from a beer bottle, his eyes never leaving me. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards, into my bones. I forced one foot forward, then the other, stepping fully into the room. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in with their laughter and the thick, sweaty air. Jaden's gaze was appraising, cold, and it stripped away any last pretense of dignity. In that moment, the argument with Sasha felt galaxies away, drowned out by this immediate, visceral reality.
In that moment, the argument with Sasha felt galaxies away, drowned out by this immediate, visceral reality. Jaden’s eyes met mine, flat and commanding. “Kneel,” he said, his chin tilting toward the angry guy, Tyrone. The room held its breath.
I obeyed.
The worn carpet dug into my knees as I shuffled forward, the silky shorts thinning to nothing against the rough fibers. Tyrone looked down, his earlier disgust shifting into a cold, assessing curiosity. He reached out, his warm, calloused hand gripping my face, forcing my head up.
He studied me, his thumb rough on my cheekbone. “Huh,” he grunted, his breath smelling of beer and mint. “Jaden wasn’t lying. You do look girly.” He tilted my head side to side, the scrutiny absolute. “Got a pretty and sexy Oriental face,” he stated, the comment about my race hanging in the air, a possession.
His grip tightened, turning my face towards the zipper of his track pants. "Prove it," he grunted, the words thick with challenge. The other guys shifted closer, their breathing the only sound over the thumping bass.
TYRONE OPEN UP HIS BRIEF AND TOLD ME TO GIVE HIM THE BEST BLOWJOB I CAN GIVE. I OBEY.
My fingers fumbled with the waistband, the material rough under my trembling touch. He sprang out, already thick and heavy, the musk of him flooding my senses as I leaned in. I opened my mouth, the reality of his girth stretching my lips painfully, a shock far removed from the pixelated fantasies on my laptop.
A groan rumbled from his chest as I took him deeper, my throat convulsing. "Yeah, use that pretty mouth," someone muttered, the words curling around me like smoke. I moved, the rhythm clumsy at first, then finding a pace driven by a desperate need to please, to be validated by this brutal approval.
Salty precum leaked onto my tongue, the taste metallic and profoundly animal. Tears welled from the strain as he thrust deeper, the head bumping the back of my throat with each push. "Look at him go," Jaden said, his voice a cool observation from somewhere above.
My jaw ached, a sharp fire spreading through the muscles. I hollowed my cheeks, trying to remember every filthy tutorial, every whispered command from those hypnotic videos. His hand knotted in my hair, guiding my pace now, his hips pistoning forward to meet each suck. The wet, obscene sounds filled the space between beats of the music, a soundtrack to my obliteration.
Tyrone’s cock was a brutal, pulsing weight on my tongue, thick veins ridge against the soft inside of my cheek as I struggled to take him deeper. “Get that fucking throat open,” he growled, his fingers tightening in my hair until my scalp burned, and I gagged, tears blurring the laces of his sneakers. I forced myself to relax, a sick thrill spiking through the shame as my throat opened, allowing the swollen head to nudge into the tight passage, my own spit leaking down my chin in a hot, messy stream. The taste of him—salt, skin, and something fundamentally male—flooded my mouth, and a low, involuntary moan vibrated against his shaft, which seemed to amuse the others. “Listen to that, he’s loving it,” someone chuckled, the sound distant behind the roaring in my ears. I was; the sheer filth of it, the total reduction to a warm, wet hole, was unlocking a part of me the hypno videos had only ever teased, and my own hips shifted restlessly against empty air. He fucked my face in earnest now, short, brutal thrusts that stole my breath and made my eyes roll back, the relentless stretch a punishing reward. “Suck it, you eager slut, suck it like you need it,” Tyrone commanded, and I did, my tongue swirling urgently along the thick underside, drinking the bitter precum that now flowed freely. The room dissolved into the rhythmic slap of his balls against my chin, the choked gurgles I couldn’t suppress, and the ragged sound of my own submission. Sasha’s face, tear-streaked and accusing, flickered once behind my eyelids and was instantly erased by the overwhelming present of his musk and the approving grunts of the spectators. My jaw screamed in protest, but the pain was just another color in the cacophony, proof I was here and being used exactly as I’d secretly craved. He was everywhere—in my mouth, down my throat, his grip anchoring me to this moment of profound, annihilating purpose. “Gonna cum,” he warned, his voice a strained rumble, and I just nodded, my mouth too full to speak, my body taut with a perverse anticipation. The first hot, salty spurt hit the back of my throat, and I swallowed convulsively, the bitter taste a final, binding contract. He kept pumping, painting my throat with it, until he finally pulled out, smearing the last few drops across my trembling lips. I knelt there, gasping, spent spit and semen slick on my chin, the reality of what I’d just done crashing into the silence left in the wake of the bass. Before I could even wipe my mouth, the dorm room door swung open with a bang, framing three silhouettes in the hallway light.
THREE OTHER GIRLS CAME WITH A SEXY CLOTHES, THE OTHER GIRLS THAT WAS ALSO HAVE THE SAME FATE AS ME. ALL OF THEM THOUGHT THAT THEY WILL HAVE AN INTIMATE TIME WITH SOMEONE ON THE BASKETBALL TEAM, BUT ALL OF THEM WAS just more warm bodies for the taking. They blinked, adjusting to the dim, smoky light, their hopeful smiles—painted lips and glitter on eyelids—already freezing into confusion as they surveyed the scene. “Jaden?” the tallest one asked, her voice a bright, uncertain chirp that died in her throat as she saw me on my knees, the mess on my face glistening. The lanky guy with the buzzcut grinned, stepping toward them and closing the door with a definitive thunk. “Right on time,” Jaden said, not moving from his perch, his eyes cataloging their fishnet stockings and plunging necklines with the same detached interest he’d shown me. “We were just getting started.” One of the girls, a redhead in a corset, let out a nervous, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “What’s… what’s going on?” she managed, her eyes darting from Tyrone, still tucking himself away, to my ruined posture on the floor. “You said a party,” the third girl whispered, her arms crossing over her sequined top in a sudden, protective hug. Tyrone wiped his hand on his thigh, his earlier anger replaced by a predator’s slow smile. “It is a party,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And you’re all the entertainment.” The redhead took a step back, her heel catching on the frayed carpet. The lanky guy was there, his hand firm on her shoulder. “Don’t be like that,” he murmured, his other hand already skimming the curve of her waist. I watched their hope curdle into a dawning, shared horror that mirrored my own, their made-up faces becoming masks of the same sick understanding. We were all just differently wrapped concessions here, our sexy clothes not invitations for intimacy but uniforms for consumption. Jaden finally stood, stretching his arms above his head as if bored by the preamble. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he told the girls, a command that promised the opposite. The door was shut, the bass throbbed, and the room’s atmosphere thickened from anticipation into something heavier, a shared trap snapping closed. One of the girls, the quiet one, looked at me, our eyes meeting in a fleeting spark of mutual, shameful recognition before she quickly looked away at the stained floor.