Karma

Kyle's pulse hammered in his throat. The hypocrisy burned hotter than the sun scorching his shoulders. This was the same Tyler who'd bragged about titty-fucking Diane against the bathroom sink last Thanksgiving. Now Diane was praising Tyler's feminist integrity while he mapped her areolas with his fucking fingerprints.

Tyler's phone buzzed violently against the patio table—three rapid-fire vibrations. The screen lit up with a preview: Lydia @ Homecoming beneath a photo thumbnail that made Tyler's smirk evaporate. Kyle lunged, snatching the device before Tyler could react. The image loaded in horrifying clarity: Lydia sandwiched between two linebackers, her black lace bodysuit straining over tits that put Diane's to shame. The caption screamed *TEAM EFFORT* in glittery font.

Diane gasped, stumbling back from Tyler's suddenly limp grip. Her breasts swayed heavily, still flushed from his rough handling. She blinked down at herself—at the red marks blooming across her skin—then up at Kyle's ashen face. "Is it off?" Her voice cracked. The air reeked of coconut oil and something darker, metallic. Tyler's hands hovered uselessly, fingers still curled in phantom shapes.

"Yeah" Tyler muttered, distracted. "You should go for a shower now." He commanded her, still looking down at the phone in disbelief. Was this Kyle's doing? As Diane scampered off, Kyle spoke, "What!?"

Tyler didn't know. He scrolled through the thread—each message a fresh gut punch. Rubin, the quarterback's bragging text glittered onscreen: *ur mom's interview went great... dad hired her on the spot... said she's perfect for his personal assistant role.* Accompanying photos showed Lydia bent over a mahogany desk in that obscene blazer dress, her engraved collar glinting under chandelier light. The final image—a close-up of the club's embossed business card taped between her tits—made Tyler's vision blur.

It was at that point Kyle understood exactly what happened:

Rubin's father owned the yacht club that Lydia was applying to. He must've been present during the job interview. Rubin and his father must've come to the same conclusion as Kyle had. They realised that Lydia was a gullible bimbo who could be convinced to do anything. Rubin must have taken advantage of the situation.

Kyle's laugh was a rusty hinge. "Karma's a bitch with great tits, huh?" He watched Tyler's thumb tremble over the screen, hovering on a video thumbnail of Lydia moaning around a cigar. The timestamp—3:47 PM—lined up perfectly with Tyler's "helpful" grope session with Diane. Kyle leaned in, breathing coconut sunscreen and victory. "Guess your mom got *really* into her job search, and I didn't even need to deliver the final punch."

Kyle pat Tyler on the shoulder, rubbing the salt into his wound. "You're lucky that Rubin's been merciful."

Tyler looked up, confused, "What do you mean?"

Kyle grinned, flipping through the photos on Tyler's phone with a mocking slowness. "See how your mom's blazer is still buttoned? Rubin hasn't even *touched* skin yet." He zoomed in on Lydia's flushed face, her lips parted around the cigar—professional, composed, yet unmistakably *strained*. "Just pressure. Just... suggestion." Kyle tapped the screen where Rubin's hand rested *beside* Lydia's hip, not under her skirt. "Your mom's so eager to please, she's doing all the work for him."

Kyle leaned closer, conspiratorially, "But things could get a lot worse if I give him permission."

Tyler choked, "Permission?! How dare you think she belongs to you!" Kyle raised an eyebrow, "Oh yeah? Just like how you think my mom belongs to you?" Kyle shoved Tyler to the ground. "You've ignited war, Tyler. And now your mom's going to pay."