Chapter 5
by 
Yelawolf
You choose...
To battle Betabreaker.
The moment you hit 'send' on the battle request, a thrill runs through your body. You've heard the whispers about Betabreaker—how he takes down one man after another, turning them into his obedient little playthings. As you wait for his response, you feel a mix of excitement and nerves. What kind of pictures will he send? What tasks will he demand if he gets a nine or ten?
When his message comes through, it's a simple "Accepted," with a smiling devil emoji. The anticipation builds as you wait for the battle to start. The rules are clear in your mind: 8 for questions, 9 for a task, and 10 for a chance to send another image and demand a longer task. You've been preparing for this, stockpiling the most intense, arousing content you could find, ready to overwhelm your opponents with your sexual prowess.
The chat buzzes with the first exchange. Betabreaker sends a gif—a sizzling hot scene of a brunette beauty taking it up the ass, her face a mix of pleasure and pain, her body writhing as she's pounded by a muscular stud. The screen seems to pulse with the intensity of the action, and you can almost hear her moans and gasps. As you watch, you feel a stirring in your loins, but you can't let it affect you. You have to keep a clear head to win this game.
Betabreaker's message is accompanied by a lewd remark. "Look at that slut," he types. "Taking it like a champ. You're probably just like her, aren't you?" His words are designed to get under your skin, but you remain unfazed. You've seen worse, and you're not about to let some cocky challenger get the better of you.
The gif plays out, each frame more graphic than the last. The brunette's eyes roll back in ecstasy as she's claimed by the man behind her. You can almost feel the slap of flesh on flesh, the wet sounds of the penetration filling the room. Yet, instead of being turned on, you're calculating. You know this is his opening move, trying to throw you off balance with a 9-rated image. You hover your cursor over the rating bar, smiling to yourself.
With a deliberate click, you award it a seven. Not bad, but not enough to make you crack. You know the game—keep your opponent guessing, never give them the satisfaction of knowing how close they are to winning. As you submit your rating, you dive into his profile, scrolling through his history, looking for that one thing that will give you the edge. The pictures he's rated, the battles he's won and lost, the comments he's left—anything that might reveal his tastes, his kinks, his weaknesses.
His profile is a minefield of erotica, a smorgasbord of sexual appetites laid bare. You see a pattern emerge: a fondness for scenes of domination, a clear attraction to redheads, and an occasional dip into the more **** corners of the internet. It's like you're piecing together the puzzle of his mind, finding the buttons to push, the strings to pull. You make a mental note—redheads are your trump card.