Chapter 18
by 
Yelawolf
Does the jock agree?
Yeah
You are confident that he would be unable to perform under the influence of your mind control, you offer him the challenge.
"Alright, you got yourself a deal," he sneers, his face reddening with anger. His friends jeered, egging him on, while the blondes looked at each other with a mix of excitement and concern.
The music in the frat house grew louder as the crowd gathered around the makeshift beer pong table, a sea of plastic cups and sticky beer foam. You took a moment to appreciate the scene, the anticipation in the air thick with the scent of cheap booze and sweat. The jock picked up the ping pong ball, his hand shaking with frustration, and took his position. His first shot sailed wide, smacking into a nearby chair. The audience roared with laughter, and the blondes giggled nervously, their eyes darting between you and their topless friend.
"One down, nine to go," you said with a smirk, leaning against the table with your arms crossed. The jock took a deep breath and tried to compose himself, his eyes never leaving your face. His second shot was closer, but still missed the cup by a mile. The room's energy was palpable, a mix of disbelief and excitement that had everyone on edge.
7 shots later, he has only one more to go. He's sweating now, the pressure is on, and he's visibly agitated. His friends are getting nervous, their jeers have turned to whispers of doubt. The blonde's eyes are glued to the game, her breathing quickening. She's biting her bottom lip, her mind racing with thoughts of what might happen if he fails.
On his ninth shot, the jock's aim is all over the place. He's lost all his bravado, and the room is absolutely silent. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. His arm swings back, and with a grunt, he tosses the ball. It arcs through the air, looking like it might actually hit a cup. For a brief moment, the room holds its breath, but then the ball hit the lid bouncing up and falling to the side.
You have won. The jock's failure is met with a mix of cheers from those who had bet on you and groans from his supporters. He stands there, defeated, his eyes still locked on yours.
The blonde whose top he had ripped off is frozen, her face flushed with embarrassment and anticipation. You saunter over to the jock, a smug grin plastered on your face. "Looks like you owe me, buddy," you say, slapping him on the back.