Chapter 1: Total Domination on the Mat
The gym smelled of old rubber mats, industrial cleaner, and the sharp, salty tang of sweat. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching the color from everything except the vibrant blues and reds of the team singlets. The air itself seemed to vibrate, charged with the collective energy of fifty crammed-in spectators—teammates, friends, people who’d just heard there was a grudge match happening after practice.
Patricia “Pat” Miller bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, the muscles in her calves flexing with each small movement. She’d wound her long blonde hair into a ruthlessly tight ponytail. Her blue eyes, usually bright with humor, were narrowed and focused, fixed on the boy across the circle drawn on the mat.
Ben Thompson mirrored her stance, his jaw set. A vein pulsed in his temple. He’d spent the whole week mentally preparing for this, ever since Coach Davis had agreed to officiate their “disagreement.” It was always like this with Pat. Top of the class? They traded spots. Dean’s List? It was a war. Now it was down to this: six minutes of regulation time on the wrestling mat. A simple question of strength and skill. No books, no professors, just the two of them.
“You ready to lose, Thompson?” Pat called out, her voice cutting through the low hum of the crowd. A grin played on her lips. “I brought a Sharpie. Thought I’d autograph your forehead after.”
“Keep talking, Miller,” Ben shot back, rolling his shoulders. “It’s just noise.”
Coach Davis, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual whistle lodged in the corner of his mouth, stepped between them. His eyes held a flicker of amusement. “Alright, you two. We’ve been over the rules. This is a proper match. Touch of the shoulders for a full second. No unsportsmanlike conduct. Shake hands.”
They approached the center. The gym fell quiet, the only sound the squeak of a sneaker from someone in the back. Pat extended her hand, her grip firm and dry. Ben’s was warm, slightly damp. Their eyes locked, and for a second, it was just the two of them in the entire world, a decade of one-upmanship funneled into this single handshake.
“Wrestle,” Coach Davis barked, stepping back.
They circled. Ben was quick, darting in for a low single-leg shot. Pat anticipated it, sprawling her hips back, her weight crashing down on his shoulders. The smack of bodies against the mat was a solid, meaty sound. She sprawled hard, using all her leverage to drive him into the vinyl. He fought to keep his base, forearms straining.
“Not that easy,” Pat grunted, her voice close to his ear.
She slid an arm around his waist, locking her hands. He was strong, thrashing like a caught fish, but her position was perfect. With a sharp, explosive heave, she lifted him just enough to break his balance. He crashed onto his side, and she was on him in an instant, one leg hooked over his, her chest glued to his back.
“One!” Coach Davis called, kneeling beside them.
Ben bridged, his neck cords standing out, trying desperately to keep his shoulders off the mat. The crowd roared, a wave of noise that washed over them. Pat adjusted her grip, sinking her weight lower, pressing down with every ounce of her strength. She could feel him trembling beneath her, the frantic expansion of his ribs as he struggled to breathe.
“Just give up,” she whispered. The words were for him alone. “You know how this ends.”
He growled, a raw, frustrated sound, and made one last violent twist. It was a mistake. It gave her the angle she needed. She drove forward, flattening him. His shoulders met the mat with a definitive thud.
“Two! Three! Pin!” Coach’s hand slapped the mat.
The whistle shrieked. The noise from their friends was deafening—cheers, whoops, disbelieving laughs.
Pat didn’t roll off immediately. She held the position for a half-second longer, feeling the definitive submission of his body beneath hers. Then she pushed herself up, kneeling over him as he lay on his back, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling lights with dazed humiliation.
She rose to her feet, looking down at him. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. “You’re pathetic, Ben,” she said, her voice loud enough now for everyone to hear. The gleam in her eyes was pure, unadulterated amusement.
Ben pushed himself up on his elbows, his face flushed a deep, mottled red from exertion and shame. “You’re just lucky, Patricia. I slipped.”
“Lucky?” Her laugh was a short, sharp bark that echoed in the sudden quiet. “I’m not lucky. I’m just better than you. We have the grades, the stats, and now…” She gestured to the mat between them. “…this. It’s a clean sweep.”
He glared, scrambling to his knees. The defeat was a physical thing on him, a stain.
Pat turned, presenting her back to him, and waved a hand vaguely toward herself. “The whole school wanted to see this, but I think you got the best view.” She glanced over her shoulder, her smirk widening. “Bet you never thought you’d end up sniffing my ass in front of the whole team, huh?”
A mixture of gasps and loud guffaws erupted from the crowd. Ben’s expression tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.
Coach Davis cleared his throat. “Alright, Miller. Match is over. Shake hands and let’s wrap it up.”
“In a second, Coach,” Pat said, her gaze never leaving Ben. The competitive fire hadn’t banked; it had simply changed fuel. This was sweeter than the pin. This was the aftertaste of victory, and she wanted him to savor every bitter note. “We’re just having a post-match discussion. Right, Ben?”
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the mat, his breathing beginning to slow.
“You know the rules of a grudge match,” she continued, her tone conversational, as if discussing a homework assignment. “The loser concedes. Fully. So.” She took a single step toward him, looming over where he knelt. “Concede.”
Ben’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Go to hell.”
Pat just shrugged, a casual, easy movement. She then turned and took a few steps toward the crowd, where phones were still held aloft, recording. She put her hands on her hips, a victor surveying her domain. “He needs a little encouragement, guys! What do we say?”
A chant started, hesitant at first, then gaining strength, fueled by the circus-like atmosphere. “Con-cede! Con-cede!”
Ben flinched as if each syllable was a physical blow. The color drained from his face, leaving only the stark red flush of his ears. He looked from Pat’s triumphant figure to the chanting crowd, and the fight finally seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped.
Pat turned back to face him. She didn’t say a word. She just arched an eyebrow, waiting.
The chanting died down into an anticipatory hush.
Ben lowered his head. His voice, when it came, was a gravelly whisper. “I concede.”
“Didn’t catch that,” Pat sang out.
“I concede!” he snapped, the words torn from him.
“Good.” She walked back until she stood directly over him. “Now… kiss my foot.”
A beat of silence hung in the thick air. Ben remained frozen, his body rigid with tension. Pat didn’t move, her smile unwavering. The entire gym was holding its breath.
Slowly, jerkily, Ben bent forward. He closed his eyes, as if that could spare him the reality, and pressed his lips quickly against the top of her dusty wrestling shoe.
Pat let out a soft, mocking sigh. “Was that so hard?” She then pivoted, presenting the back of her red singlet. “Now here. And make it count. I want to feel it.”
A strangled sound escaped Ben’s throat. He looked up, his eyes meeting those of a teammate, who quickly looked away. There was no help coming. This was the price. He leaned in, his movements stiff and mechanical, and gave a quick, dry peck on the fabric covering her shoulder blade.
Pat laughed, a bright, ringing sound of genuine delight. “Wow. You really are the worst.” She reached into the pocket of her gym bag, which sat just off the mat, and pulled out her phone. She thumbed it open and tossed it to a friend in the front row. “Film this.”
She then turned back to Ben, who was now just kneeling, utterly defeated, a shell of his usually defiant self. “On your hands and knees,” she instructed, her voice losing its playful edge and turning smooth, commanding.
Ben obeyed. The fight was completely gone.
Pat walked over and, with effortless athleticism, straddled his back, sitting on him as if he were a bench. She shifted her weight, getting comfortable. The crowd whooped. She held up a hand, waving like a queen on a float.
“Take a picture, Sarah,” Pat called to her friend with the phone. “Make sure you get his face in it.” She looked down at the back of Ben’s head. “Smile, Ben. It’s time for your close-up.”
Ben didn’t smile. He kept his head down, his eyes squeezed shut, but he could do nothing about the hot, humiliated tears of frustration that welled up, spotting the mat beneath him. The phone’s camera shutter clicked several times in the silent gym.
Pat slid off him, took her phone back, and examined the screen. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. “Perfect.” She looked at Ben, who still hadn’t moved from his hands and knees. “You’re mine, Ben. Always have been, always will be. Don’t forget it.”
Don’t forget it.”
But Ben’s eyes, when he finally raised them, weren’t empty. A fresh, reckless fury burned there. The whispered concession had been a tactical retreat, not a surrender. He shoved himself to his feet, his breath coming in ragged pulls.
“One more round,” he spat, the words vibrating with tension.
The crowd, which had begun to disperse, immediately stilled. A low murmur rippled through the gym.
Coach Davis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thompson, it’s over. You lost.”
“I slipped!” Ben insisted, his voice cracking. He gestured wildly at Pat. “She knows it! A fluke! One more round. Winner gets… gets everything. Real concession.”
Patricia didn’t move. She studied him, that familiar, electric thrill zinging up her spine. This was better. He was giving her more. “Coach?” she said, her tone sweetly reasonable. “If he wants to lose twice in one night, who are we to stop him? It’s educational.”
Coach Davis looked from Ben’s desperate, defiant face to Pat’s calm, grinning one. He shook his head, a faint smile twitching his own lips. “Two minutes. No pin, just submission or points. And this ends it. For real. Shake on it.”
They didn’t shake. They just backed to their starting marks, eyes locked.
The whistle blew.
This time, Ben was a storm. He charged, not with a technical shot, but with pure, aggressive force, wrapping her up in a clinch, driving her backwards. The crowd roared, sensing a story. Pat grunted, her feet scrambling for purchase. He was stronger than she’d accounted for, fueled by pure humiliation.
“Not a fluke now, is it?” he growled in her ear, muscling her toward the edge of the mat.
Pat stopped resisting. She let him push. Then, as his momentum tipped just past its peak, she hooked a foot behind his ankle and dropped her entire weight, pulling him down with her. They crashed, but she was already rotating, hip heisting, using his own force against him. It was a flawless, effortless switch. In a blur of red fabric and tangled limbs, she was on top, her legs scissors-locking his torso.
He bucked, arching his back. She readjusted, splaying her weight. He was trapped.
“Same song, second verse,” she panted, a smile in her voice. She didn’t go for a pin. She shifted higher, working her way up his struggling body until she was straddling his chest. Then she pushed forward, mounting his face with her thighs, her lower back and shorts directly over his mouth and nose.
The gasps from their friends were audible. Someone whispered, “Oh, shit.”
Patricia settled her weight firmly. She could feel his hot, frantic breath through the damp fabric. “You wanted a round two, Benny. Here it is.” She wiggled her hips, a deliberate, taunting motion. “How’s the view from down there? Better than the dean’s list, I bet.”
Ben’s hands came up, pushing at her thighs. They were like iron. He twisted his head to the side, gulping air. “Get off! This isn’t wrestling!”
“Sure it is,” she chirped. “It’s called dominance, Thompson. You’re submitting. I can feel you trying not to breathe.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the mat near his head, and rocked back again, applying more pressure. “Smell it. That’s two hours of practice and your defeat. Inhale.”
He let out a muffled, choked sound of rage. His struggles began to weaken, not from lack of air, but from the crushing weight of the humiliation. The fight was draining, replaced by a dawning, horrible awareness of every watching eye.
Pat released the pressure slightly. “Want out?”
He nodded, a stiff, minimal movement.
“Then say it. Say, ‘Avery, your sweaty ass beats me every time.’”
He shook his head, his eyes screwed shut.
“Okay.” She settled again, this time grinding down gently. The crowd was dead silent, mesmerized by the cruel spectacle. “Coach, think he’ll pass out from shame or lack of oxygen first?”
“Miller,” Coach warned, but he didn’t move to stop it. This was the grudge match Ben had demanded.
“Alright, alright!” Ben’s voice was strangled, desperate. The words spilled out, hot and sour. “Pat, your sweaty ass beats me every time!”
She popped up instantly, swinging around to sit on his stomach. She looked exhilarated. “See? Was that so hard?” She lifted a foot, still in its sweaty wrestling shoe, and placed the sole against his cheek, not hard, but undeniable. “Now, my feet worked hard tonight too. Show some appreciation.”
Ben flinched, turning his face away. Pat pushed his head back with her foot, holding it there. The smell of salt, rubber, and fatigue was potent. “Kiss it, Ben. Or we go back to the first position. Your choice.”
His whole body trembled with the effort of containing his fury. Slowly, with a profound, soul-deep reluctance, he turned his head and pressed his lips against the grimy arch of her shoe.
“Both feet.”
He did it again on the other foot, his actions mechanical, his eyes glazed over.
“Good boy.” She shifted, turning to kneel over his shoulders. She looked over her shoulder at his pale, sweaty face. “You know what’s next. And I want it proper. No peck. A real, thankful kiss.”
“Patricia, please.” The word ‘please’ shattered in his mouth.
“Ben,” she sighed, as if explaining to a child. “You lost. I won. This is the price. Pay it.”
He slowly, so slowly, lifted his head from the mat. He closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth against the fabric covering her backside in a lingering, wretched kiss.
Patricia threw her head back and laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the gym. “Thank you!” She climbed off him, but the humiliation wasn’t over. “On your hands and knees. Now.”
Ben, moving like an old man, obeyed.
She walked around him, a lioness inspecting her subdued prey. Then, with a playful hop, she straddled his back again, not sitting, but crouching. “Giddy up, pony boy. Take me for a victory lap.”
A weak, broken groan escaped him. But he started to crawl. Pat rode him, one hand lightly fisted in the back of his singlet, the other waving to the crowd. “This is what a total victory looks like, folks! Anthropology 301, eat your heart out!”
She directed him in a slow circle around the center of the mat. Then she reined him in, stopping him in the spotlight of the overhead lights. She stood up on his back, balancing for one precarious, breathtaking second before stepping down. She then sat on him again, draping herself backwards across his spine like a couch, propping herself up on her elbows. She flashed a peace sign, her smile radiant and ruthless.
“Sarah! Phone!” she called.
Her friend, wide-eyed, tossed the device. Pat caught it, turned the camera around, and snapped a series of selfies with Ben’s defeated form beneath her. She stuck out her tongue in one. In another, she mimed sleeping on his back. The flash went off, piercing the gym’s haze.
Finally, she slid off. She looked down at him. He hadn’t moved. He was just kneeling, head hanging, utterly spent.
She leaned close, her voice dropping so only he could hear, all mocking lightness gone for a second. “That’s for the debate team final, the stolen lab partner, and every single smug look you ever gave me. Now we’re even.”
She straightened up, tossed her hair, and walked toward the locker room, the echoes of her laughter hanging in the air long after she’d disappeared.
The locker room door swung shut behind her, cutting off the bright, buzzing chaos of the gym. In the sudden, sterile quiet of the tiled hallway, Patricia’s triumphant smile didn’t fade; it settled, becoming something quieter, more possessive. The echo of her own laughter seemed to hang around her shoulders like a cloak. It wasn’t enough.
A victory was a moment. She wanted a monument.
She paused, leaning back against the cool cinderblock wall. Through the small, wired window in the door, she could see the aftermath. The crowd was dispersing, a slow, chattering exodus. But in the center of the mat, a figure remained. Ben. Still on his hands and knees, head bowed, a dark, solitary statue of defeat.
Coach Davis was approaching him, a hand outstretched. Ben flinched away from it, pushing himself up to his feet. He stumbled, his movements clumsy with shame, and shuffled toward the boys' locker room entrance on the far side. He moved like he was carrying the weight of every laughing spectator on his back.
Patricia pushed off the wall, an idea crystallizing with perfect, brutal clarity. The public humiliation was just the audition. Now it was time for the long-term contract.
She changed direction, not toward the showers, but toward the equipment room—a cluttered, dim space smelling of old leather and dust, tucked behind the main gym. She emerged a moment later with a length of braided nylon rope, the kind used for climbing drills. She let it swing, loose and casual, from her hand.
She timed her interception perfectly, meeting him just as he reached the shadowy, narrow corridor that led to the men’s locker room. It was empty, the sounds of the departing crowd muffled and distant.
“Not so fast, Benny.”
He froze. He wouldn’t look at her. His shoulders were tensed up around his ears. “What do you want, Patricia? You won. Isn’t this over?”
“Over?” She chuckled, stepping closer. She could smell the sweat on him, the sharp scent of his humiliation. It was intoxicating. “That was just the pre-show. The main event starts now.”
He finally turned, his eyes red-rimmed and blazing with a residual, useless fire. “Leave me alone.”
“Or what?” she asked, genuinely curious. She poked his chest with a finger. “You’ll challenge me to another wrestling match? We saw how that goes.” She let the rope glide through her fingers. “No, see, you made a deal. ‘Winner gets everything. Real concession.’ Those were your words. I’m just here to collect.”
“I kissed your shoes. I… I kissed your ass. I crawled. What else is there?”
“Everything,” she said simply. Her voice was low, matter-of-fact. “You’re not just beaten, Ben. You’re retired. From being my rival. From even pretending you’re in my league.” She held up the rope. “So, we’re establishing new terms. A new dynamic.”
His eyes tracked the rope, confusion briefly overriding the anger. “What’s that for?”
“It’s a leash.” She said it as if explaining that the sky was blue.
Ben stared. A choked, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.” She took another step, invading his space. He backed up, his heels hitting the wall. “But I’m the insane person who just owned you in front of the entire team. So, listen closely. From now on, you’re my pet. My project. My little humiliation-hobby.”
“Go to hell.”
“When I walk to class, you walk beside me, a step behind. You carry my books. If I tell you to fetch a coffee from the union, you run. You answer when I call. You behave.” She looped the rope into a makeshift collar. “And in private… we practice your obedience. Like now.”
She reached for his neck. He batted her hand away, a last, reflexive spark of defiance.
Patricia sighed, as if dealing with a poorly trained puppy. Without warning, she drove her knee up, not hard, but with sharp precision, into his inner thigh. He gasped, his leg buckling, and she used his moment of imbalance to shove him face-first against the wall, her forearm pressed between his shoulder blades.
“The first command is ‘stay,’” she hissed in his ear. He struggled, but the fight was gone, hollowed out from the inside. His body went slack against the cinderblock. “Good. Now, ‘hold still.’”
She slipped the loop of nylon rope over his head, tightening it just enough so it wouldn’t slip off. It sat against the damp skin of his throat, a crude, stark symbol. She gave the trailing end a gentle, testing tug.
“This stays under your clothes when we’re in public. A little secret. But you’ll feel it. And you’ll remember.” She released the pressure on his back and stepped away, holding the loose end of the rope.
Ben didn’t turn around. He stayed pressed against the wall, his breathing ragged. “You can’t… you can’t just do this.”
“I can. I am. And you’re going to let me, because the alternative is everyone on campus seeing the photos from tonight. The ones of you kissing my shoe. The one of me riding you. I’ll make them the background on every library computer. I’ll print flyers.” Her voice was cheerful, conversational. “Or, you can be my quiet, well-trained pet. No one else has to know the specifics. They’ll just see that Ben Thompson finally learned his place.”
He was crying now. Silent, shamed tears that tracked through the sweat on his temples. That was better than the anger. That was acceptance beginning its slow, bitter bloom.
“What’s your first name, pet?” she asked.
A long, tortured silence. Then, a whisper. “Ben.”
“Wrong.” She tugged the leash. “Pets don’t have human names. I’ll think of one. For now, you’re just ‘hey, you.’ Now turn around.”
Slowly, he turned. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. His eyes were fixed on the floor between them, on her wrestling shoes.
“Look at me.”
His eyes, glistening and broken, drifted upward.
“That’s better.” She coiled the excess rope in her hand, shortening the leash to just a foot of slack. “We’re going to walk to my car. You’re going to follow nicely. If you pull, I’ll correct you. Understand?”
He gave the smallest nod.
“Verbal confirmation, pet.”
“I understand,” he mumbled.
“Good boy.” She gave the rope another light, possessive tug. “Heel.”
She turned and began walking down the empty corridor toward the exterior door, not looking back. For a heartbreaking second, she wondered if he’d stay rooted to the spot, if the last of his pride would snap the flimsy nylon tether.
Then she heard the soft, shuffling steps behind her.
The leash went taut. Then it slackened as he fell into step, his head down, following a pace behind, the whisper of the rope against his neck the only sound between them in the quiet hall.