Negotiate with me

I stand at the edge of the polished hardwood, my eyes locked onto Emily. She’s in the center of the open gym, working through a series of stretches. Every time she arches her back or extends a leg, I find myself unable to look away; I’m practically panting, my pulse hammering in my ears as my gaze lingers on the way her cheer uniform clings to her athletic frame. Watching her like this, completely unaware of how pathetic I look, makes me feel an intense, filthy rush of arousal. The way she moves—with a grace I’ll never possess—only makes the ache in my jeans sharper, harder. My hands start to tremor watching her.

Then she catches me staring. The grace of her movement instantly evaporates, replaced by a sharp, shuddering look of pure disgust. Seeing the revulsion on her face, seeing her physically recoil from me as if I’m something toxic, sends a jolt of pure, dark power through me. Her hatred is the ultimate aphrodisiac; the more she loathes me, the more I feel like I’m finally, truly in control.

My mind starts racing with the possibilities, I can see the possibilities when she is gives me the cold, icy glare she’s burning into me. Go ahead, look at me like that, I think, my breath hitching as I imagine finally breaking that arrogance. It won't be long until you’re on your knees, begging me to stop or begging me to continue—I haven’t decided yet. I’m going to make you realize that you aren't just a cheerleader; you're my plaything. I’m going to strip away that disgust and replace it with total, absolute submission. My hands begin shake more.

"Natalie said you were coming," she spits out, her voice dripping with venom. She doesn't even bother to hide her disdain, her hazel eyes scanning me with the kind of cold, dismissive contempt one might reserve for a piece of garbage. "Don't get the wrong idea, 'tutor.' I’m only doing this because Natalie decided to play games with her little blackmail leverage. Fine, I will let this loser tutor me, but I don't care much about anything you have to say."

The air in the gym is thick with the scent of sweat and floor wax. I’m not a gym person—never have been. My lungs are already burning just from the short walk across the court, and I have to fight the urge to wheeze as I herd her toward the practice room. My chest feels tight, and I’m painfully aware of how pathetic I must look, shuffling along with her, a guy who clearly hasn’t seen the inside of a weight room in his life.

She hates this. I can see it in every line of her body. She’s keeping a forced, exaggerated distance, her face burning with humiliation as she glances around, terrified someone might catch us together. She knows exactly why she’s here—Natalie didn't leave any room for misinterpretation when she handed over that leverage. She’s walking next to me not because she wants to, but because she’s trapped by a secret that could tear her world apart.

When we reach the cheerleading practice room, she practically lunges for the door, locking it behind us with a sharp, frantic click. She spins around, her eyes darting around the small, sterile space like a caged animal.

She doesn't even bother to hide her disgust; it’s practically radiating off her in waves. She acts as if I’m some kind of grease stain she has to endure just to get the job done. Despite the way her eyes dart around, clearly unsettled by my presence, she masks it all behind that icy, untouchable superiority. She still thinks this is her show.

"I have a schedule," she says, her voice cold and imperious, as if she’s addressing a servant. "It’s brutal, it’s demanding, and it leaves exactly zero room for errors. If you can’t keep up, you’re gone." She reaches out, her finger tracing the line of my collarbone, but her touch is devoid of warmth—it feels like a warning, a sharp reminder that in her eyes, I am nothing more than a tool to be used. "But since I have to suffer through your company, you’re going to make yourself useful. Start by getting down here—I have some knots in my calves that need working out, and I don't have all day."

She genuinely believes I’m just an pathetic inconvenience, someone she can boss around because she refuses to accept that the power dynamic has already shifted beneath her feet. She thinks she’s still in charge, completely oblivious to just how much she’s already lost.

She talks down to me, but she has no idea that one text message could destroy her life. I almost smiled at the thought. I steady myself and look her slim frame over, the cheer uniform making every line sharper, every detail harder to ignore. "You are going make arrangement to see you as I right now, the only way passing Science is if I become part of your lab team. And if that was the only course, fine. But you need high marks in English, Math, and History too — your slim cheerleader build doesn’t replace actual grades. And you will make yourself available, because Natalie gave me some alluring data not only you but also of your family. Just be fortunate, I only want your body."

She snatches the phone from my hand, her hand brushes against me causes my hand shake more, I see her looking at a single video, and her face drains instantly. The arrogance vanishes, replaced by a desperate, trembling look — like she can’t believe how quickly the ground has dropped out beneath her.

The redhead’s face falls, her earlier confidence evaporating. She looks stunned, desperate, and murmurs, “Fine… what do you want from me?”

Her confidence collapses the moment she realizes what he knows. The redhead’s posture shrinks, her voice small, her eyes wide with panic. She looks up at him like she’s already accepted her place beneath him — like she’s waiting for him to decide what happens next.

“Okay… just tell me what you want me to do,” she says, desperate, defeated, clinging to whatever mercy he might offer.

I take a step closer, my breathing ragged and heavy in the small, quiet room. The silence is broken only by the sound of my own wet, uneven inhales—a stark reminder of how little I belong here, physically, compared to her. I reach out, my hand trembling slightly, aiming for the spot where she complained of the knots. My fingers are calloused and clumsy, and as they brush against the bare skin of her calf, her entire body stiffens.

It’s instantaneous. A look of visceral, gut-wrenching revulsion contorts her face—the way someone might look if they’d just touched something oily and infested. She doesn't just pull away; she flinches violently, a sharp, gasping sound escaping her throat as she scrambles backward to put distance between us.

"Don't," she hisses, her voice thin with panic, but her eyes are glued to my hand as if it were a weapon.

In her frantic rush to escape, her heel clips the edge of the thick, heavy gymnastics mat. She loses her balance completely, her arms windmilling for a second before she crashes down onto the mat with a dull, heavy thud.

She hits the surface hard, and the force of the impact causes her skirt to ride up, exposing her. For a moment, she is frozen, her breath hitched in her chest, staring up at me. She doesn't move. She can't. The sheer mortification of the moment lands on her with more weight than the fall itself—the realization that the "tutor," the guy she considers a pathetic, lecherous stain, has just seen her in something as childish and ridiculous as bright cartoon-rabbit underwear. The look of cold, snobbish control she had seconds ago has shattered, leaving behind nothing but raw, exposed panic.

The room is silent, I have her now.