Chapter 12: The Ultimate Submission
The taste of feet was a phantom stain Ben couldn’t scrub away. It lingered through three showers, through toothpaste and mouthwash, coating his tongue like a fine, persistent dust. He slept in fits, the memory of laughter and the feel of rough mats under his knees jolting him awake. For two days, he was a ghost drifting between classes, head down, seeing the knowing smirks everywhere.
The text came on Saturday morning.
Wrestling gym. Noon. Rematch.
Bring your singlet. Or don’t. Won’t matter.
A cold, flat clarity settled over him. The tunnel he’d been living in had an end after all. It ended on a mat. He dressed in old gym shorts and a t-shirt, leaving the singlet folded in his drawer. This wasn’t sport.
The wrestling gym smelled of old sweat, disinfectant, and leather. The bleachers were pulled out, and a surprising crowd had gathered—maybe thirty people. He recognized faces from the cafeteria, from the cheer gym, from his own classes. Jess was there, whispering to Mara. Chloe sat alone, looking at her hands. The buzz of conversation died as he entered, every head turning his way.
In the center of the main mat, Patricia was stretching. She wore a black singlet, her blonde hair tied back in a severe ponytail. She moved with a lazy, predatory grace, her muscles coiling and releasing. Coach Davis stood near the scoring table, arms crossed over his chest, a clipboard under his arm. He gave Ben a brief, unreadable nod.
“Glad you could make it, Thompson,” Patricia called out, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged space. “Figured you might be tired of licking. Thought you might want to try using your hands for a change.” A ripple of laughter moved through the spectators.
Ben walked to the edge of the mat, feeling hollow. This wasn’t about winning. It was about consumption.
“This is an informal exhibition,” Coach Davis announced, his voice gravelly and bored, as if announcing a drill. “One five-minute round. Standard folkstyle rules. Shake hands.”
They met at the center circle. Patricia’s hand was dry and strong. Her eyes held none of the mischievous glint from before; they were flat, focused, like stones. “For old time’s sake,” she said, just for him.
The whistle blew.
Ben’s body moved on instinct, years of training muscle memory. He shot in low, aiming for a single-leg takedown. It was a good shot, fast and clean. For a fraction of a second, he had her leg. Then the world upended.
She sprawled, her weight crashing down on his back like a bag of cement, her hips driving him into the mat. He fought for balance, for air, but she was already shifting, her limbs slotting around his with a terrifying, practiced ease. An arm snaked under his armpit, around his neck. He thrashed, but she was glued to him, her chest against his back, her smell—clean sweat and citrus shampoo—filling his nostrils.
“Shhh,” she hissed in his ear, her voice a intimate venom. “Just like in chem. You think you’ve got the formula, and then I change the variables.”
With a brutal wrench, she rolled, taking him with her. The ceiling lights spun. He landed on his back with a gut-punch whump, her full weight on his chest. She was in side control, pinning his near arm with her knee. He bucked, trying to bridge, but she was a mountain. Her forearm came down across his throat, not quite choking, just pressing. His vision swam.
The crowd was chanting something now. It started low, then grew. “Pin her! Pin her!” No. They were chanting for her.
Patricia leaned close, her breath hot on his face. “They’re not here for you, Ben. They’re here to see the finale.” She shifted her weight subtly, her hips grinding down. “Remember when you beat me in the 400-meter dash? By a tenth of a second? You celebrated. I never forgot.”
In a blur of motion, she released the side control, swung a leg over his torso, and spun, dropping her hips. She didn’t just take mount. She slammed down, her body settling directly onto his chest and face. The world went dark, muffled. The soft, heavy pressure of her ass covered him completely. He was buried.
The chanting morphed, coalesced into something uglier, clearer. “SMELL HER ASS! SMELL HER ASS!”
The sound was distant, underwater. His own heartbeat was a drum in his ears. He tried to turn his head, to find air, but the black spandex was sealed against his skin. It was hot. Damp. The intimate, salty-sweet odor of hard exercise, intensified and inescapable, flooded his senses. He gasped, and the fabric pressed into his mouth.
She wasn’t moving to pin his arms. She wasn’t trying to submit him. She was just… sitting. Settling in. He felt her wiggle, adjusting her position, grinding down to get comfortable. The pressure on his ribs was immense.
“The cheer mats were nothing,” her voice came, muffled but perfectly audible through the layers of flesh and fabric. He felt the vibration of her words in his skull. “This is where you live now. This is your altitude.”
He couldn’t breathe. Panic, pure and animal, ignited his limbs. He slapped at her legs, her back, but his efforts were weak, uncoordinated. She ignored him, one hand braced casually on the mat beside his head as if waiting for a bus.
“Coach!” a voice shouted from the crowd. It sounded like Chloe. “He can’t breathe!”
Coach Davis’s voice, calm and close. “He can tap anytime, Patricia. Or you can secure the pin. Your match.”
Patricia laughed. The motion shook through Ben’s whole world. “He’s not tapping, Coach. He’s stubborn. He’s still trying to prove he’s my equal.” She leaned back, the pressure intensifying, then rocked forward. The rough seam of her singlet dragged across his nose and lips. “A little victory lap,” she purred.
She began to move. Not to get off, but to smear herself across his face. She rocked her hips side to side, painting his skin with the damp heat, grinding her cheeks against his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He was drowning in it. The chants were a fever dream. The taste from the cheer gym was back, but a hundred times stronger, personal, violating.
After an eternity, she lifted herself just an inch. Cool air hit his slick skin. He sucked in a ragged, sobbing breath.
“Kiss it,” she commanded, her voice low and absolute.
His mind broke. Something deep inside him, the last calcified fragment of the person who challenged her, who argued with her, who raced her, finally cracked into dust. A low, wounded sound escaped him. He pressed his trembling lips against the damp fabric.
The crowd erupted. Whistles. Stomping feet.
She stood up in one fluid motion. Light and noise assaulted him. He lay gasping on the mat, his face wet, his body trembling with adrenaline and shame. He saw her calves, then her thighs, as she stepped over him. She was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her neck, a look of profound, quiet satisfaction on her face.
Coach Davis walked over, not to Ben, but to Patricia. He was holding something. A wide, faux-leather championship belt, the kind from a novelty shop, gold-colored plates glinting under the lights.
“Figured you’d want something to commemorate it,” Coach said, a small, tight smile on his face. He handed it to her.
“Thanks, Coach,” Patricia said, her voice bright. She buckled the belt around her waist, over the singlet. It looked absurd, glorious. She turned, surveying her kingdom.
Her eyes fell on Ben, who was pushing himself up to his hands and knees, head hanging, spit and sweat dripping from his chin.
She unhooked the belt. Instead of putting it back on, she looped it once, holding the end with the large, buckle.
“Come on, champ,” she said, her voice carrying. “Time for our victory lap. Campus loop. Let everyone see.”
She tossed the looped end of the belt. It landed on the mat beside his hand with a soft thud.
He stared at the blank, tan leather. The chanting had died. The gym was silent, waiting. He heard the rustle of someone leaving—Chloe, maybe—but couldn’t look up.
His hand, moving of its own accord, reached out. His fingers closed around the belt. It felt stiff, new.
Patricia gave a gentle, commanding tug. The pressure was insistent, undeniable.
On all fours, the belt-loop loose around his neck, he followed. She led him off the mat, past the silent bleachers, toward the gym door that led out into the bright, common daylight of campus. The crowd began to trail behind them, a murmuring, buzzing procession.
He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the scuffed floor, then the concrete of the pathway, the leash in his hand, the steady, confident stride of her feet just ahead. The old fury was gone. In its place was a cold, hollow silence, and beneath that, something else: a new and terrible understanding of what could be lost, and what could be taken, forever.