Date: Mon, 02 Aug 2021 14:04:19 +0000
From: Ben Coolen <bencoolen@protonmail.com>
Subject: Swallowing My Pride

Swallowing My Pride

By Ben Coolen

bencoolen@protonmail.com

Readers, please keep in mind that this story is 101% fictional. In real
life no man is better than the other, and nobody is entitled to treat
other people cruelly.

This story contains sexual acts (domination, submission, humiliation,
oral sex, masturbation) between young males. If you don't like it, or it
is illegal in your country, state or community, please stop reading it
immediately.

Please keep in mind that Nifty needs our donations to keep this great
free service running.

I have written several other stories. You can find them here:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#bencoolen

Thanks to Naughty Bard for proofreading the text.

Chapter 1

Being a closeted gay in high school can be agonizing. Pretending to be
something you are not is not easy. And when you get to know your fellow
students in a new school, they will also get to know you. They learn that
you aren't dating anyone, you are never flirting with girls and you
avoid talking about your sexual desires and experiments, even though
those subjects are the centerpieces of an average teen boy's universe.


Particularly embarrassing for me was listening to the locker room banter
on Wednesday mornings. When my classmates and I gathered in the locker
room to change, most boys of the football team were still there,
recovering from their morning gym, taking their time to let their bodies
cool off before shower. That meant we had to listen to their boasting,
detailed descriptions of their sexual adventures and their ratings of the
girls in our school while we changed.


One particular morning their discussion turned to girls' lack of interest
in giving good head.


"I might let a dude blow me," Josh announced.


Everybody roared in laughter. The idea was hilarious, of course: the
quarterback of the team, notorious fuck-boy Josh, wanted to mess around
with a guy.


"You'd have sex with a dude, Josh?" Someone asked, encouraging him to
go on.


Josh leaned his back on the wall and clasped his hands behind his head.
As always, he enjoyed being the center of everyone's attention. He had
the looks and the aura to be in the spotlight.


He paused and watched his adoring posse before saying with a smug smile:


"Naah, I didn't say I'd have sex with a dude. But I might allow a guy to
suck me off."


"But he'd hafta be a faggot to do that," another dude stated the
obvious.


Josh chuckled at the self-evident fact.


"Yes Chris, obviously the dude would have to be a faggot. Guys don't
suck dick but fags do, so one of them might just as well suck mine."


"Let's find Josh a faggot, guys!" his right-hand man Brett suggested,
and the commotion got even more rowdy.


"Give us some codes, Josh. What kinda fag are we looking for?" Someone
wanted to know, excited.


Josh thought about it for a while, arranging his thick blond hair that
was expertly cut short on the sides and left longer on the top, combed
neatly back.


"Well, he'd have to be decent looking, so I wouldn't throw up when I
meet him. But not like feminine or faggy, that's out of the question,"
Josh explained and swayed his limp wrists to the delight of his audience.


I knew it would've been a wise move for me to sneak out, but I was
enthralled by the unusual subject. And besides, walking out at that point
would have made me stick out like a sore thumb: the only suspected
closeted gay in the room had become embarrassed by their banter.


Josh leaned forward as to say something important.


"The faggot would have to be like a guy. Probably a closeted one, I'd
say, since closeted fags work their asses off to be one of the guys, you
know."


I saw at least two guys glance at me with smirks, and I tried hard not to
blush.


"But one requirement is mandatory," Josh said with his finger up.


"What's that?"


"He has to be humble."


More laughter.


"Waddya mean humble," someone asked, eagerly waiting for Josh to
continue his list of qualifications.


"Look guys, the fag has to understand it's all about me getting my rocks
off. I'd never do anything back for him."


"That's pretty cold shit man, use a fag to get your rocks off," Brett
chimed in.


"That's right Brett, ice-fucking-cold. It goes like this: the fag goes
down on his knees, sucks my dick like crazy and I dump my load down his
throat. Then he thanks me and I kick his ass and tell him to fuck off."


"Yeaaah, that's the way to treat a faggot," someone howled over the
roar of laughter.


"Coach alert!" A jock sitting next to the door announced and the uproar
died down.


The coach stormed in and started to usher his team to hit the showers so
they wouldn't be late for their next class. I couldn't help noticing
something peculiar while tying the laces of my gym shoes. From the start
of Josh's performance about faggots and blowjobs, Brett, Josh's best bud,
had his eyes on me. He had a little `I know what you are' smile on his
face and he enjoyed watching my discomfort. I tried my best to hide it,
but Brett saw through my cover like he was able to read my thoughts.

------

I met Brett for the first time soon after I started eighth grade. Our
family moved from Vermont to South Carolina when my dad got a tempting
job offer from a firm there. For me, moving to a new town on the other
side of the country was both thrilling and scary. Scary because I didn't
know any other kids there, and I had no clue how to mingle with the kids
in my new school.


I started at the new school six weeks before the end of the last year of
junior high, which made my orientation even harder. As the new kid I
didn't make any new friends there because everybody was looking forward
to the summer holiday. I was a loner, which made me an easy target for
bullies looking for prey.


My first encounter with Brett took place when I forgot my gym bag in the
locker room after PE class. When I went back to get it after lunch, the
room was already packed with another bunch of sweaty kids returning from
the soccer pitch. To get back to my seat in the farthest corner of the
cramped room I had to navigate my way through half-naked boys, gear bags,
cleats and outstretched legs. I tried to avoid eye contact altogether,
but from a corner of my eye I saw this handsome, athletic boy looking at
me with a hostile little smirk. He was sipping orange juice from a bottle
nonchalantly, but I felt his eyes on my back when I fetched my bag.


When I wobbled towards the exit and safety, he played the oldest trick in
the bully handbook on me. Just when I was taking a long step over
someone's bag, he stretched out his leg, and I stumbled on it and landed
on the floor.


"What the fuck, dude! Watch where you're going!" Came his immediate
reaction. His voice was full of fake rage and genuine joy from his
successful stunt.


"I'm sorry Brett," I said, getting up, rubbing my knee that had taken a
painful hit against a bench.


He tilted his juice bottle so that some of the yellow liquid spilled on
his foot and from there down on the floor.


"Look what you did asshole, you spilled my fucking OJ!" Brett
exclaimed, pointing at the puddle.


"No I didn't, you spilled it yourself, I saw you..."


Brett leaned over, grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled my face
right in front of his.


"Are you calling me a liar, pussyboy?" He said with his dark eyes
drilling into mine.


"Oh no, sorry man, no...."

"Fuck sorry. Clean up that shit," he ordered and let go of me.


"With what?" I asked.


He leaned back with a cocky smile on his face, hands clasped behind his
head, the thick golden chain around his tanned neck gleaning in the
bright lights of the locker room, a classic pose of an alpha male
enjoying the power he possessed over weaker guys.


"The fuck do I know. All I know is you're not leaving this fucking room
before you've cleaned up that mess you made," he said and flexed his
biceps to emphasize his ability to enforce his ruling.


Despite my discomfort I noticed the tufts of black hair in his armpits. I
felt a rush of vulnerability in the face of his aggressive masculinity.


I thought of the gym bag I was carrying. I unzipped it and took out my
towel. Then I had to entertain my audience with the ultimate
embarrassment: I sank down to my knees between the spread legs of my
tormentor and started to wipe the sticky yellow juice off the floor. My
gaze wandered to his legs. He had black hair on his calves, and a thin,
downy layer of it was sprinkled on his thighs, too. Through the wide legs
of his shorts I could see all the way up to his dark blue underwear and
the bulge in it. I could smell his sweat, and when I glanced up to his
smirking face, I felt my cock harden. I needed to get out of there as
soon as possible!


But first I had to go through the most humiliating part of the assignment
Brett had forced upon me.


I took hold of his heel and lifted his foot to clean up the puddle around
it. And then I had to use my towel to wipe the sole and the arch of his
flushed and sweaty foot. There was juice even between his toes, and I had
to clean them one by one.


I glanced up and saw him looking at me with a gleeful smirk. But there
was something else in the way he looked at me, something peculiar, I
thought for a split of a second, but then he surprised me with a
question.


"Tell me something, dude. How did you know my name?" He wanted to know.


Oh no! I had carelessly called him Brett; how would a lowly new kid like
me know the names of guys from other classes than his own? The truth was,
I had noticed him a while before in the school yard. When I saw that
athletic heartthrob with thick locks of black hair almost down to his
shoulders, I immediately looked up his name and started to follow his
Insta with a fake username.


"Everybody knows your name, Brett," I said with a shaky voice, still
holding his foot in my hands.


My answer brought a complacent smile on his face.


"Yeah, I guess they do. Now get the fuck outta my locker room, faggot!"
He snapped and yanked his foot back.


With that, I stumbled out, holding the juice-soaked towel in my lap to
cover the boner in my pants.


The following night I didn't even need to open my secret stash of photos
and video clips of hot boys. I just opened Brett's IG account and flipped
up to one of my favorite photos of him. He was leaning back against a
railing of someone's porch, his hair all messed up by the wind,
shirtless, wearing blue shorts that were riding dangerously low on his
hips, disclosing the upper third of his white Tommy boxer trunks. I
looked at his bright, complacent smile and reminisced on how his body
smelled, what his legs looked like while I was kneeling in front of him,
how soft and warm the sweaty sole of his foot felt in my hands, and how
he used his strong, raspy voice to make me degrade myself in front of
everyone.


I could have just quickly dried his foot with the towel without actually
touching it, but I took it in my hand instead, and held it so I could
carefully wipe the arch and even the sole that didn't even have any juice
on it.


Then something dawned on me. The peculiar way he looked at me as I
cleaned his foot. He had seen through me and had pretty much figured me
out.


I wasn't wiping his foot just because I was forced to do it. There was
nothing left to be cleaned anymore, but I was still holding his bare foot
in my hands, nursing it! Why had I done that?


I knew the answer. Because I longed to touch him and acknowledge his
superiority, and he saw that.


I closed my eyes and saw myself with the eyes of an onlooker: kneeling on
the floor at the feet of that teen stud, worshiping his foot...


I had no trouble falling asleep after recovering from the staggering
orgasm I experienced.

------

I managed to avoid Brett for the remaining few weeks of the semester, but
after summer break I found myself sharing Biology class with him. The
classroom was like a cramped auditorium with rows of seats descending
gradually towards the teacher's desk.


Brett took a seat right in front of me, his head and shoulders visible
over my desk right in front of me. When he leaned back, which he often
did, his long black locks covered the edge of my table, and sometimes my
book or notebook too, and I could smell the cologne he put on every
morning.


His presence was severely distracting me from my studies. And not only
his presence, but his lower belly seemed to be itchy, and he had a habit
of pulling the hem of his shirt up so that he could scratch his flat
abdomen. He also regularly felt a need to scratch or arrange his balls,
and he did that by boldly stuffing his hand inside his jeans or shorts.
Needless to say, my eyes were glued on him during these performances.


Then our very sympathetic biology teacher, Ms. Soames, asked me to stay
behind after class. She wanted to know why my grades were in danger of
falling below acceptable, while I had sported straight A's in junior
high. With a heavy heart I made a lame excuse about getting headaches
from the bright lights in the center of the classroom. She suggested
immediately that I would find myself a seat somewhere on the sides of the
room, and after doing so my biology performance improved miraculously.


Brett, on the other hand, was already climbing fast up the greasy social
ladder of our high school. He cleared the tryouts for the football team
with flying colors, and after being given the opportunity to show his
talents in a real game, his speed, tactical eye and sheer aggressiveness
earned him the position of the starting running back. He became great
buddies with the quarterback and top jock, Josh Everett. They were a
top-notch duo in the offense, seemingly being able to read each other's
thoughts.


By Christmas, Brett had performed a rocket-like rise from a lowly
freshman to the star of the football team and the number two jock, which
in our school pretty much equaled being the crown prince of a kingdom.
When the team practiced on the pitch, there was always a herd of adoring
girls on the sidelines, waiting for Brett to come chat with them
afterwards. I was there too, a bit further from the girls, pretending to
do my homework on the lawn, but waiting for the precious opportunity to
watch him bathe in his own popularity.


And he never let his fans down. When the coach dismissed the team after
some final pep talk, Brett would strut over to meet the girls with his
helmet under this arm, his sweaty hair glued to his forehead and shirt
rolled up to his chest to unveil his washboard abs. He had this habit of
raking his unruly hair with his fingers, which gave him an opportunity to
show off his bulging biceps.


He never paid any attention to me, and I was convinced he didn't even
know my name. But I kept collecting his pictures and video clips from
social media, and at least three times a week I jacked off to an image of
Brett, coming fresh out of shower, goofing around shirtless or throwing a
football. He was even bold enough to pose for the camera dressed only in
form-fitting boxer trunks. I stared at the formidable bulge in his
underwear and dreamed of getting to look, touch and taste what was inside
of it.  But I knew I would never get to talk to him, let alone even
briefly touch his magnificent body.


I was wrong.

.....

Christmas time brought a huge change in my young life. During the
holidays I did something I had been thinking about for a long time: I
gathered my courage and came out to my mom and dad. They were wonderfully
supportive, telling me they had just been waiting for me to bring up the
subject. My grandparents had also guessed a long time before that I was
gay, and they told me it would make no difference for them, so my holiday
time was filled with relief, love and support.

After that it felt natural to come out to my friends at school. Most of
them were totally cool with it, and the word naturally spread like
wildfire through the grapevine. I got pats on my shoulders, words of
encouragement and even some hugs and surprisingly few snide remarks. To
my astonishment even Josh and Brett reacted positively, one gave me the
thumbs up in the hallway and the other uttered 'way to go, Billy' to me
when he saw me in the cafeteria. Only much later did I learn that they
had been ordered to do so by the coach who wanted his top athletes to
show that jocks were able to act as non-assholes if necessary.

The support I got gave me new confidence, and I felt I could achieve
anything I wanted if I showed guts and worked hard for my goals.

And when the election process for a new president of the student council
was announced in May, I knew I had to run. My candidacy got a positive
reception right from the start; the administration thought it showed how
modern and tolerant our school was. Nobody really thought I would have a
real chance in the race, though. The bets were on Jenna Weiss, the smart,
charismatic and occasionally furious red-headed feminist, known to defend
the oppressed and stand up against the oppressors. Jenna was very popular
among students, and she wasn't gonna have any trouble reaching the
finish line first.

There was just one obstacle.

There were only two candidates in the race so far, and they were both
gay.

The jocks were appalled, and even many of the moderate male students
shared their concerns, no doubt encouraged by their conservative parents.
Our school wasn't THAT tolerant, was it?

Rumor had it that even the higher powers had become concerned about the
all-minority options for school president. Now when I say `higher
powers' I actually mean one extremely influential man: Chase W. Everton,
the biggest financial supporter of our school. Our state-of-the-art new
gym complex was called C.W. Everton Athletic Center for a reason. And
currently the school board was courting Mr. Everton to open his check
book for the thorough renovation and ambitious expansion of our football
arena.

A gay president of the student council would have meant saying goodbye to
the dream of a 5000-spectator football temple for our sacred Wildcats.

When Josh Everton, the first-born son of the great man, announced his
candidacy, it electrified the race immediately. Josh was the undisputed
number one jock, the most popular male student and the object of the wet
dreams of many female and gay male students. And he was destined to
become something great, to continue the legacy of his father.

So now there were three candidates: Josh Everton, Jenny O'Leary and yours
truly, Billy Evans. All us candidates had our campaign slogans:
`JOSH4PREZ' for Josh, "FEM FRENZY' for Jenny and `PRIDE!' for me.

Jenna's campaign was very well organized, as one could expect. His team
did thorough research on the student population and used social media
skillfully to reach their key target groups. Josh's supporters swaggered
in the hallways wearing their snug-fitting JOSH4PREZ t-shirts, urging
guys to dump the dike and the fag and vote for the only real choice, but
their in-your-face approach gained few new supporters.

The general feeling was that Josh wouldn't have enough votes to be
elected in the first ballot. And if I would encourage my supporters to
vote for Jenna on the second round, she would likely carry the prize
home.

Everybody knew Josh was worried. The rumor went that his dad had promised
him a BMW convertible if he became president. A top athlete like Josh
Everton, loaded with confidence and fighting spirit wouldn't let a prize
like that be taken from him, would he?

------

Two days before the election I learned the answer to that question.

As I walked down the empty hallway, Brett suddenly appeared from behind
the lockers. He stopped me and said:

"Billy, we need to talk."

"About what?" I asked, taking a step back, immediately distrustful.

He nudged his head towards a door behind the lockers. The door was ajar,
with a piece of wood preventing it from shutting.

"Come on, I'll show you something."

I hesitated for a brief moment but then followed him down a staircase. I
didn't know what was down there, but Brett clearly knew the way, leading
us three floors down, well below the basement level.

At the bottom of the stairs was just a hatch on the wall, barely large
enough for anyone to slip through. Brett bent down, jimmied the rusty
latch aside and opened the hatch. He gestured me to go through.

I grew even more suspicious.

"What's in there? Your buddies waiting to beat the shit outta me?"

He chuckled and flashed me a friendly smile.

"No, Billy. I just wanna have a word with you, I swear."

I decided to believe him and went through, entering a small dark room.
Brett came after me and switched on the lights. The room had been a
locker room once upon a time. It was way too small to serve the current
student population, and the sparse furniture looked old and worn.

"How did you find this place?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Josh and I decided to try to find us a home base. Somewhere to hang out
you know, maybe have some fun with girls. So, we went for a little
expedition one night, went through the old parts of the compound and
found our way here."

Chatting with Brett in a friendly manner for once felt good, but I told
myself not to let my cover down.

"Good for you. But what do you want from me, Brett? I ain't got all
day," I said, trying to sound indifferent.

He looked me straight in the eye.

"You wanna know what I want from you, Billy? Suck my dick."

I felt annoyed.

"No need to be rude, man. Just say what you want."

"I just told you."

"Now you lost me totally, dude."

"Suck my dick, Billy."

I gasped.

"You want me to ..."

"Finally got it, huh?"

I felt dizzy. Was this a dream?

"So, you think that just because I'm gay I'd want to go down on you?"

My question made him smile.

"Yeah, I do. And because you've been drooling over me since the second
we met."

He stepped real close and stared me in the eyes with a little smile. I
could smell his cologne and feel his breath on my face.

"I've seen how you ogle at me in the locker room, dude. You do it even
during class. No need to pretend."

I felt my face turn red.

"Well, just... just because I've... maybe... looked at you... doesn't..." I
stuttered.

He laughed in my face and grabbed my wrist.

"Are you really telling me you don't wanna get your lips around this?"
he said and pressed my hand on the bulge in his jeans. I could feel his
dick and balls against my palm.

He saw the despair in my eyes and smiled.

"You've been dreaming about this, haven't you Billy? Come on, feel it,"
he purred, well aware that his teasing was driving me crazy.

My fingers decided to caress the cylinder-like soft tube and the sack of
full balls contained inside the left leg of Brett's tight jeans and my
dick got instantly hard.

"Almost there, Billy. All you need to do is open my pants and take it
out. Wrap your lips around my cum-sling. No one will ever now," he spoke
to me with a smoothing voice and placed his hands on my shoulders,
pushing me down.

Brett sounded so assuring, and I wanted to do it so bad, that I lied to
myself that he was being honest with me, that he was just genuinely horny
and wanted some head, and I could trust him. Yet I hated both him and
myself as I sank slowly down on my knees on the cold, filthy tiles of the
deserted room. I still hated us both as my shaking fingers unbuckled his
belt and unbuttoned his jeans. But when I pulled his zipper down and saw
his man-size dick stretching the bright blue cotton of his American Eagle
boxer trunks, my hate vaporized.

I felt his hand on the back of my head and he pulled my face close to his
open jeans.

"Go on Billy, give it a kiss."

I leaned in and pressed my lips on his shaft.

The feeling was mind-blowing. The sex organ of that stunningly handsome
young stud was separated from my lips by only the thinnest possible layer
of fabric. It wasn't a dream; I could smell Brett's crotch and sense his
heat and feel his cock pulsing against my lips.

"You wanna suck it, don't you, Billy?"

I nodded, not daring to look at him.

"Look at me, Billy."

I looked up into his confident hazel eyes.

"You wanna suck my dick, Billy?" He asked again.

"Yeah." I said.

He smiled.

"Yeah, you do. Go on, I'll let you do it," he said and leaned against
my face.

He kept his hand behind my head and swayed his narrow hips slowly,
grinding his crotch on my face. The feel and odor made me so crazy with
lust that I grabbed his hips and started to kiss and lick the front of
his underwear like a madman.

Then he took a sudden step back. Not understanding what was happening, I
tried to crawl closer on all fours, but he placed his palm on my forehead
and stopped me. I looked up and saw him chuckling at me.

He waved his index finger at me with a cocky grin.

"Aa-aa, gay boy. Not yet."

"But when?" I moaned.

"Soon, Billy, soon," Josh said from behind me.

He walked around me and stopped in front of me with his legs spread and
thumbs inside the waistband of his jeans.

"I see you're enjoying yourself, Billy," he said with a sneer and
pressed his sneaker on my tented crotch.

I let out an involuntary moan and the boys laughed. Then Josh went on.

"You'll get to suck dick soon, Billy. Not only Brett's dick but mine
too. Right after you've endorsed me in the race. We both know you're
gonna drop out after the first ballot. Then you'll just tell your voters
to support me.  Do that, and you'll get your lips around our jock-cocks
and you'll be in gay heaven. But not sooner, and if you don't endorse me,
the offer is gone."

He patted me on the cheek.

"Think carefully, Billy. This in a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you.
Take care," he said.

"See ya Billy," Brett said with a wink and they disappeared through the
hatch.

For a fleeting moment I was scared they would bolt the hatch from the
outside, but it stayed open, and I heard their sneakers squeak on the
stairs.

I felt lightheaded. What the hell had I just done?

------

I tried and tried, but I couldn't catch any sleep that night. I tried to
think about relaxing memories, but my troubled mind kept coming back to
the scene in that forgotten chamber under our school. My face had been
buried in Brett DeWitt's bulging crotch, and I had worshiped his cock
like a madman.

What was happening to me? I couldn't succumb to the cruel plot of those
two arrogant jocks!

Ding!

I glanced at the alarm clock: 1:30. Who the hell was texting me at this
hour?

A snap from an unknown user.

A picture.

A slim young guy's loins. Flat lower abdomen, a trail of dark hair
leading down to... the blue AE underwear I had taken a very close look of.
I saw the familiar outline of a sturdy male sex organ, the one my lips
had touched and my nostrils sniffed through the ultra-thin layer of
cotton and elastane of his boxers.

I almost threw the phone back to my night desk and closed my eyes to be
safe from the temptations of evil powers.

Ding!

The same scene as in the previous one, but this time a thumb was
stretching down the waistband of the boxers, and I could see nicely
trimmed black pubic hair, and the root of a cock. A thick cock.

I lay awake dreaming of pressing my nose and lips on that garden of black
lawn.

Ding!

The thumb was stretching the waistband further down, and the fat cock was
hanging down on top of the underwear. It had to be six inches long.

I might press my lips on the silky skin and get a real taste of Brett.
All I had to do was... no!

Ding!

The underwear was now halfway down his thighs, under a plump sack of
large, hairy balls. And the cock was hard, pointing up like a pylon. It
was a magnificent organ, long, thick and smooth, towered by an expertly
cut purple crown.

Ding!

"want it billy?"

"u know what 2 do ????"

Suddenly I felt something wet in my pyjama pants. I knew without looking
that I had soiled them with warm cum.

I didn't catch any real sleep that night, and in the morning my mom had
to use all her authority to get me up. I pedaled to school as fast as I
could, knowing that I would be late for first period.

I ran to my locker and opened it hastily to grab my English textbook. But
an odd-looking item was placed on top of the pile. I picked it up.

A zipped small plastic bag, filled with something blue. I knew what it
was even before I noticed the printed letters on the item.

I stuffed the bag hastily into the pocket of my hoodie and ran down to
the boys' room. If a teacher  caught me in the hallway during class
without a pass I would be in trouble, but it didn't matter. I locked
myself into a booth and unzipped the bag. I unfolded the boxers, turned
them inside out and looked at the front. There was a yellowish stain
where Brett's engorged dick had leaked precum into the cotton.

I pressed the pouch on my face and breathed in through my nose. The smell
was absolute Brett. His masculinity, his virility, his aggressiveness,
his arrogance. All those qualities that made me crazy, the qualities I
really, really wanted to hate but just couldn't.

I forced myself to pack the underwear back into the bag and left for
class.

-------

The results of the first ballot were announced.

"Josh Everton 239 votes, Jenna Summers 196 votes and Billy Evans 151
votes."

Jenna's supporters jumped up and screamed with joy: quick-witted as they
were, they had already done the numbers. Her votes and just half of my
votes combined would be enough to bring her the presidency. It took a
while for the dumbest of Josh-fans to do the math, but their faces turned
sour when they managed to figure it out.

I had dropped out from the race, and the moderator invited me to the
podium and handed me the microphone. It was time for my concession
speech.

I looked at the audience in the fully packed auditorium. The front rows
were filled with supporters of us three candidates.

I looked at mine: a bunch of nerds, wimps and losers who had counted on
me to defend their rights. I turned my gaze to the feminists: Jenna in
her round, thick-rimmed glasses and her supporters, proud young women
ready to stand up to claim what rightfully belonged to them. They were
looking at me with trust and respect.

I looked at Josh's gang: cocky, narrow-minded, homophobic dicks and a
hang-around team of adoring girls. Sitting in the middle of his henchmen
was Josh himself, hands clasped behind his head, dressed in an expensive
white hoodie and 400-bucks white-and-red Air Jordans. He looked me in the
eye with a knowing smirk. Brett was sitting next to him, chewing gum, his
jeans-clad legs stretched out.

I looked at my supporters in the front row:

"Dear fellow students. I want to thank all of you who voted for me..." I
started.

I had made up my mind in the morning. I wouldn't let Josh use my lust to
submit to his dirty plot. I knew my reputation and pride were at stake. I
would be crazy to wash them down the drain. Fuck Josh!

"To be honest, we all kinda knew this would be the outcome of the first
ballot, didn't we? And I' m sure we all knew which one of the two
remaining candidates would get my support, and now I can confirm to you
with pride..."

End of Chapter One

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