Chapter 24: Pong Table Humiliation
The calendar alert chimed at 8:55 PM the following Sunday, a digital prod to a physical reality. Ben’s body reacted before his mind could, a low tremor in his hands as he pulled the blue singlet from his drawer. The fabric smelled of her lemon-scented detergent now, not his.
He found her room rearranged again. The mat was out, but so was a small tripod with her phone mounted on it, the red recording light a Cyclops eye in the center of the room. She wore her practice gear.
“We’re documenting progress,” she said, nodding to the phone without looking at him. “For my kinesthetics class. Case study on muscle memory degradation under consistent submissive conditioning. Professor thought it was brilliantly proactive.” A quick, sharp smile. “Get on the mat. On your back.”
The session was a silent, clinical horror. She moved him through positions—the half-nelson, the cradle, the pin—holding each for minutes at a time while the phone recorded his blank, perspiring face. She didn’t taunt him. She narrated in a flat, academic tone. “Note the lack of spinal resistance here. Subject has internalized the inefficient posture. Neurological pathways are rerouting to accept dominance as default.”
After forty minutes, she stopped the recording. “Okay. Up. We’re going out.”
“Out?”
“The Kappa Deltas are having a mixer. I need to make an appearance. And you’re my plus-one.” She tossed a hoodie at him. “Put this on over that. You look ridiculous.”
The sorority house thrummed with bass, a living organism of colored lights and shouting. Patricia carved through the crowd, Ben trailing in her wake like debris. Sisters hugged her, their eyes sliding over him with vague recognition. Is that the guy from…? The unasked question hung in the scent of cheap vodka and body spray.
“Pat! You made it!” A brunette in sequins squeezed Patricia’s arm. “Beer pong is dying. You gotta reload the table.”
“On it,” Patricia said, steering Ben toward the grimy, cup-littered basement. The table was a disaster zone of spilled liquid and shattered plastic. She surveyed it, then looked at Ben.
“Kneel. Right there.” She pointed to the puddle of dubious origin by the table leg.
He didn’t move. The public noise, the eyes, it was different. A last ember of something sparked.
Her expression didn’t change. She leaned close, her voice a feather in his ear that cut through the music. “One hundred and twelve thousand views, Ben. The comment section has a poll on what I should make you do next. ‘Wear a leash’ is winning. We can do that here, now, if you want. Or you can kneel.”
He knelt. The cold, sticky seepage immediately soaked through his sweatpants.
From her pocket, she produced a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, the kind from a novelty store. With efficient clicks, she fastened one cuff to his right wrist, the other to the sturdy leg of the beer pong table. The action drew a few glances, laughs, a phone raised.
“Better,” she said. She kicked off her slides, placing her bare feet on his thighs. They were clean, perfectly pedicured. “Footrest. Hold still.”
She accepted a red plastic cup from a passing brother, sipping, chatting with people who came by. She wiggled her toes occasionally, digging them into the muscle of his leg. A dollop of ranch dressing from a stray wing plopped onto her arch. She looked down at it, then at Ben.
“Lick it off. It’s wasteful.”
The room tilted. The bass line vibrated up through the floor into his bones. He bent his head, his tongue scraping the cool, greasy smear from her skin. Salt, garlic, the underlying taste of her sweat. Someone whooped.
“Good pet,” she said, not looking at him, taking a sip of her drink.
Later, a sister, drunk and giggling, plopped down on the edge of the table. “Oh my god, he’s actually cuffed! Pat, you’re insane.”
“He’s useful,” Patricia shrugged. “Hey, Sarah. You look stressed. Need a seat?”
Sarah giggled louder. “What, like…?”
Patricia gestured. “Best seat in the house. Firm. Supportive.”
And with a laugh, Sarah slid off the table and lowered herself, sitting on Ben’s face, using his head as a stool. The world became a crushing darkness of denim and pressure. He couldn’t breathe. Muffled vibrations of her laughter rattled his skull. The weight lifted after an eternity, and he gasped, tears mixing with the sweat on his face.
Patricia leaned over, her face a portrait of cheerful inquiry. “Taste that, valedictorian?” Her voice was light, conversational. “That’s what real achievement smells like. It’s not in a book. It’s right here.” She ground her sweats-covered heel against his nose for emphasis.
He stared at the screen, the light harsh in the dim hall. A new text appeared beneath the calendar alert, this one from Maya. Parents are worried. Call them. He deleted it, the action swift and cold. His thumb hovered, then opened a different app.
The video was still there. The view counter ticked upward even as he watched, a living testament. Comments scrolled by. Bro is finished. She’s a goddess. Is there a full version? He swiped it away.
The following Thursday, an invitation bled into the campus atmosphere. It was for a party at The Vine, a off-campus house known for cramped rooms and cheap beer, hosted by some of Patricia’s teammates. Ben heard about it in fragments—from overheard conversations in the library, from notifications in a group chat he hadn’t left. The pressure was a subtle, rising barometric drop.
On Saturday night, he stood across the street from the pulsing house. Bass thumped through the walls. Shadows of dancing figures blurred the windows. He told himself he wouldn’t go. He was just walking. The autumn air was sharp, but his palms were damp.
His phone buzzed. A photo from Patricia. It was a selfie from inside the party, her face glowing with sweat and smile, a red plastic cup raised. The text below read: Missing my chair. There’s nowhere good to sit.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He crossed the street. The decision felt less like a choice and more like a limb succumbing to gravity.
The inside was a wall of sound and heat. The smell of spilled beer, cloying perfume, and bodies collided in the thick air. He moved through the crowd, a ghost navigating a land of the living. He saw her almost immediately.
Patricia was holding court in the kitchen, leaning against the sticky counter. She was telling a story, her hands moving, and a ring of people laughed on cue. Her eyes scanned the room as she spoke, predator-casual. They locked onto him. Her story didn’t falter, but her smile widened a fraction.
A few minutes later, she extracted herself, weaving through the crowd toward him. She held out two cups. “You look thirsty,” she said, her voice cutting through the music.
“I’m fine.”
“Take it.” She pushed it into his hand. “It’s just soda. I’m not a monster.” Her grin said otherwise. “Circulate. Mingle. It’s a party, Benny. Don’t be a wallpaper.”
He took a sip. It was flat cola. She watched him, then leaned in. Her breath smelled like citrus vodka. “See Jason over by the fridge? The big one? He’s the one who commented ‘footstool ambitions’ on the video. He thinks he’s clever.” She patted Ben’s cheek, a condescending tap. “Be nice.”
She melted back into her circle. Ben stood rooted, the cup cold in his hand. Jason, a massive lineman, noticed him staring and raised his own drink in a mock toast, his laughter booming over the music.
The next hour was a slow exercise in social dissection. He was not ignored. He was acknowledged with nods that were too knowing, with smiles that held concealed knives. A girl from his econ class asked, faux-innocent, “Hey, weren’t you and Patricia, like, crazy rivals?” Before he could answer, her friend giggled and pulled her away.
He found himself in a dim hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to disappear into the peeling paint. The bathroom door opened and Patricia stepped out, smoothing her hair. She saw him and stopped.
“There you are. Hiding is rude.” She stepped closer, blocking his path back to the main room. The noise was muffled here. “Having fun?”
“What do you want, Patricia?”
“I want you to participate.” Her voice was low, conversational. “This is the social proof of concept. The video was theory. This is the lab. Everyone here has seen it. Everyone here knows. So let’s give them a little… practical demonstration.”
He felt cold. “No.”
“Not a big scene.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Something subtle. Something only we—and everyone watching—will understand.” She looked down at her feet, then back at him. “My shoe is untied.”
He followed her gaze. The lace of her white sneaker was indeed trailing on the grimy floor. The meaning hung in the air between them, grotesque and clear.
“The floor’s gross,” he mumbled, the weak protest dissolving in the bass from the next room.
“Then you better be quick about it.”
His knees felt like rusted hinges. He bent down, the party sounds warping as he lowered his head. The hallway seemed to narrow. He could see the fine scuffs on her shoe, a speck of dirt on the white fabric. His fingers, clumsy and cold, fumbled with the laces.
From this angle, he could see the interested glances from a few people lingering near the kitchen entrance. He focused on the task, tying a simple, tight knot. The smell of beer and cheap cleaner filled his nose.
As he finished, he felt a gentle, unmistakable pressure on the top of his head. It was the bottom of her other shoe, resting on him. Not pushing down. Just resting. A claim.
“Good boy,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. The pressure lifted. “Now get up. You’re blocking traffic.”
He rose, his face burning. The observers quickly looked away, their conversations suddenly animated. Patricia was already walking back toward the kitchen, calling over her shoulder with a light, laughing tone, “Thanks, Benny! You’re a lifesaver!”
He stood alone in the hallway, the imprint of her sneaker a phantom weight on his skull. The party roared around him, a cacophony he was now fundamentally outside of. He understood this was the point. The demonstration was complete. The theory was now irrefutable lab data.
He moved toward the front door, the crowd seeming to part for him without a glance. As he pushed out into the chilling night, the last thing he heard was the crescendo of a popular song, and Patricia’s distinct laugh rising above it, sharp and alive. The door swung shut, muting the sound, but the echo of it followed him all the way down the silent street.