Day 4: Helena (Making Arrangements)

You show up ten minutes early, but Sabine’s already there.

The Disability Services lounge is quiet at this hour—too early for most drop-ins, and far enough from the main campus to feel like another country. The coffee machine hums in the background. Someone's typing behind a frosted-glass office door, but whoever it is doesn’t look up when you enter.

Sabine is parked in the corner, her wheelchair angled slightly toward the sunlight spilling in through the floor-length window. She’s scrolling on her phone with one hand, a travel mug of something minty-smelling balanced in the other. Sunglasses hang from her collar, and her hair is tied back in a practical bun. She looks... composed. Like this is a negotiation, not a trap.

You sit across from her.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just your heart doing laps behind your ribs and her eyes watching you, cool but not unkind.

“So,” she says, not looking up from her phone, “are you going to ask me to do a challenge?”

You blink. “What?”

She finally looks at you. “You said this thing is competitive, and that I’m involved even though no one asked me. My aunt did a sex challenge at the faculty Halloween party this year. She told me about it. Don’t look shocked, it’s not the first time we’ve talked about the game. So I put two and two together when some random guy messages me asking to talk about something weird. What I want to know is—are you about to ask me to strip, suck, bend over, or pretend to like it?”

Your throat’s suddenly dry. “No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

Her expression shifts a little. It’s not relief. More like... irritation. “Why not?”

You fumble. “Because… that’s not what I want. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“You didn’t make me feel anything,” she cuts in, voice still even. “But you came to me. You’re part of this game. I’ve heard enough to know how it works. You show up, play your hand, and try to win. So why are you hesitating now?”

You shift in your seat. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.”

You swallow hard. “Because I’m not going to act like a pervert toward someone in a fucking wheelchair.”

The slap comes so fast you don’t see it. Just feel the sting.

And then the silence.

She pulls her hand back, eyes wide—not with regret, but restraint. “Sorry,” she says, quietly. “But no. Don’t do that.”

You rub your cheek. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know exactly how you meant it,” she says. “You think you’re being noble. You think not hitting on me is a sign of decency. But what you’re really saying is that I’m not a person you could want. That I’m off-limits because I’m broken.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You breathe in. Try again. “I just thought you already deal with so much. It felt wrong to—”

“To objectify me? Because I’m disabled?” she interrupts. “Let me guess—you don’t want to see me as a fetish. You want to see me as a person. But right now, you’re doing the opposite. You’re only seeing the chair. You’re not seeing me at all.”

The words settle between you like dust.

She exhales. “Do you think I’m not a sexual being? That I don’t get horny? That I don’t want people to flirt with me, desire me, fantasize about me like they would anyone else?”

You don’t know how to answer. You don’t know if there is a right answer.

Then she leans forward slightly. “Here’s the part you missed: I want to be challenged. I want someone to want me enough to try. To figure it out. To earn it.”

You blink. “Wait… you want to do a challenge?”

“I don’t know,” she says, frowning. “Not like that. Not… performatively. I want you to want it. I want to be chosen, not pitied. So if you come up with something—something real, something thoughtful—maybe I’ll say yes. But don’t come back here with that look on your face, like I’m a fucking guilt trip in a cardigan.”

You laugh despite yourself. It’s a hollow, breathy sound. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

She tilts her head. “What cards do you have left?”

You hesitate.

“No bullshit,” she adds. “If I’m going to be in this, I want to know what the options are.”

You pull out your phone and show her. “I still have “kiss”, “blow job” which really means any oral, regular sex and anal sex.” The screen feels heavier than it should.

She nods slowly, not fazed. “Jesus. That’s a lot of sex.”

You shrug.

“I’m not promising anything,” she says. “But… if you make a good argument, I might listen.”

You nod. “And if I don’t?”

“You have to ask? If you CAN’T make a good argument, if you can’t find a way to turn me on just enough to get me at least a bit interested, don’t come back.” She glances at the clock. “I have a meeting in ten. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You stand. “Yeah.”

As you walk away, your head’s spinning. Not just from what she said. From the realization that she’s right. You weren’t treating her like a person. And now that you are… you’re not sure what you feel anymore.

She calls your attention once more before you open the door. “Don’t assume. Just remember, if my aunt and I talked about this… I might not be the hardest challenge you’ll have to face.”

You’re back at Rebekah’s place by 1pm, clutching the last third of a tuna wrap and wearing a stare like you’ve just walked away from a philosophical firing squad. The kitchen’s dim, save for a shaft of light slashing across the table like a strike from a sabre. Rebekah’s on the floor, surrounded by a graveyard of game tokens and dice, halfway through building something that looks like a Jenga tower with delusions of grandeur.

She doesn’t look up. “How’d it go?”

“Complicated,” you say.

“That’s not an answer.” She stands, brushes her palms off on her jeans, and finally looks at you. “So what’s her position?”

You drop into the couch. “She’s figured it out. Knew about the game. Her aunt’s been in it. She asked if I was going to challenge her.”

“And?”

“I told her no.”

Rebekah’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t speak. She waits. You keep going.

“She called me out. Said I was only seeing the chair, not her. That if I wanted her in the game, I should want her in it. Like a real player. Like she matters. I told her I didn’t want to objectify her, didn’t want to be one of those assholes who turns disability into a fetish—”

“Jesus Christ,” Rebekah interrupts. “Did you listen to her at all?”

You blink. “I mean—”

“No,” she cuts in, sharp now. “You didn’t. You were too busy trying to protect your own precious sense of virtue to hear the actual woman sitting in front of you.”

You shift in your seat, but she’s not done.

“She wants to be desired. She wants to be treated like any other girl in the game. And you’re sitting here acting like that’s beneath you? Like treating her with equality somehow makes you the bad guy?” Her voice is rising, her eyes gleaming with that same battle-hardened fire you’ve seen when she’s dissecting footage of a rival’s bad play.

“I’m not trying to be an ass,” you say, quietly.

“No,” she says. “You’re not trying. But you’re succeeding. Right now you’re not being noble, you’re being an ableist prick.”

That lands. Hard.

She folds her arms. “She’s already fighting every damn day to be seen beyond the chair, and you stroll in like a white knight offering her pity dressed up as principle. This isn’t about her needing your validation. It’s about you needing to stop flinching long enough to see the person instead of the wheelchair.”

You stare at the floor.

Rebekah softens, just a fraction. “Look, obviously she doesn’t want fetishizing, sure. And she doesn’t want you coming at her like you’re throwing her a sympathy fuck or just expect her to put out because who else would want her either. You’re not totally off base with that. She probably has been treated that way by a bunch of fucking idiots. So be different! She wants to be treated normal. And if that means she’s willing to play, then good. That’s a powerful card. But you don’t get to half-ass this. She asked for effort. You give it. And you stop making this about your own discomfort.”

“…Right.”

“You want to play this game? Play it. You want to treat her with dignity? Then treat her like someone who can beat you at it.”

She turns back to her whiteboard, already erasing something with the edge of her sleeve. You sit there a while longer, chewing on your wrap and your own guilt, both going down like stale communion wafers after failing to admit your sins. Then your phone buzzes.

You glance at it—it’s Sabine.

The message says: “Do you still just see the chair?”

There’s a photo attached. It’s not explicit. Not even suggestive by most standards. But it’s… stunning. Sabine’s in her chair, yes—but that’s not what you notice first. It’s the bow and arrow she’s holding pointing directly at the camera. Beyond that, it’s the deep red lipstick, the confidence in the slight tilt of her jaw, the way her tank top slips just enough off one shoulder to tease intention. The steady way she stares along the arrow traps your gaze. The lighting’s soft. Deliberate. It’s a portrait of a powerful woman, a woman you’d be lucky to let you fuck her. It’s an invitation wrapped in self-respect.

Rebekah catches the flicker on your face. “What?”

You hesitate, but hold the phone up.

She studies the image. Nods once. “There she is.”

You say nothing. Just let the moment breathe.

Rebekah lowers the phone. “So. Are you done playing savior now?”

You look at the image again. Then close it. Pocket the phone.

“…Ok,” you say, quietly. “So how do we do this?”

She doesn’t smile. But her voice lightens just a fraction. “Now that,” she says, “is the question worth asking.”

You’re halfway through checking the stats on your phone when there’s a knock at the door. Jada calls from the hall that she’ll get it, leaving the two of you to continue planning. A moment later Helena strides in like she owns the air around her. She’s dressed down in cutoff jeans and a hoodie draped off one shoulder, hair damp like she just got out of the shower. She tosses her bag onto the table like it’s a duffel of contraband and grabs one of your fries without asking.

Rebekah raises an eyebrow from her perch by the whiteboard. “Update?”

Helena chews, swallows, and wipes her hand on a napkin. “Delilah’s not going for it.”

You already half-suspected it, but it still hits like the GPA points you’re dropping as you focus on scoring in the game. “She say why?”

Helena shrugs. “She did, but I should have seen this coming before offering to help. Look—Delilah gave Graham West a naked kiss, barely. The man’s a billionaire, board member, and walked into her space like she was a squatter. You think she’s going to drop her panties for a freshman who can’t even ask her himself?”

You feel the heat rise in your face. “So having you make the first move was a mistake.”

“Yes, turns out that way.” She says it without venom, just accuracy. Then she grins. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a plan.”

You wait.

“We break into the pool.”

You blink. “The pool.”

“Sunday night,” she says. “I already texted Daddy. He’ll get me the key—don’t ask how, just know he will. Delilah and I go in first. Skinny dipping. Girl fun the college won’t approve of. She’ll love it. It’s transgression with a lighting budget.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Helena says, leaning closer, “you show up. Strip down. Walk in slow. Set the tablet up poolside to record. Then get in behind us and reach for her swimsuit. Lean in and whisper in her ear ‘You can say no, but if you don’t—I’m recording what happens next.’ That’s it.”

You stare at her. “You want me to surprise her? While she’s naked?”

“Not surprise,” Helena corrects. “Pressure. Tension. Drama. She wants to feel like she’s surrendering to something bigger than herself. That she chose it, even though it was inevitable. And she will choose it. If you act like you mean it.”

You shift. “But I need permission—”

Helena waves a hand. “Did I say don’t get permission? Just don’t ask for it. That’s the whole point. Don’t kneel, don’t beg, don’t pull out a clipboard. Tell her she can say no, but if she doesn’t then you’re taking her. Give her the power to say no. But make her want to say yes. Make her feel the edge. If she says stop, you stop. I’m there remember, so if I even think she’s going to say no but **** I’ll stop it. But when she doesn’t?”

Her smile turns wicked. “Then you make your play. And I film it. Hot. Daring. Performance art with pelvic thrusts.”

Rebekah snorts softly in the corner. “You know, I was going to object. But I can’t. That’s… actually kind of brilliant.”

Helena tosses her a wink, then turns back to you. “So, lover boy. You up for it? Or should we just stick to safe words and spreadsheets?”

You swallow. Hard. “Sunday night?”

“Sunday night,” she says, standing to leave. She gives Rebekah one devilish look before winking at you. “Better start practicing your entrance.”

As the door closes behind Helena your mind spins with the implication of what she said. Practice your entrance. You remember fucking Rebekah over the hood of her car with music blaring. You remember sirens after you were done. Somehow you doubt that’s an entrance you’ll ever forget, no matter how you try. It still makes you blush.