A parlay

The roar of the Sigma Epsilon Xi frat house kitchen, still sticky with spilled beer and the aftermath of a raucous championship, was abruptly cut short. Quinn, her curly black hair a slightly wild halo around her head, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her voice, usually quiet and easily drowned out, somehow sliced through the din, clear and authoritative.

“Rule 28, Section B,” she stated, looking directly at Fred, who still clutched the leather-bound rulebook like a holy relic. “Regarding ‘Parlay.’ It says, quite distinctly, 'The results of a lost competition can be parlayed into another competition. Noting that the new competition has to be agreed to by both sides.' ”

Fred, momentarily flummoxed, blinked. He attempted to flip through the heavily thumbed pages, his brows furrowed in concentration. The crowd, sensing a new turn in the evening’s festivities, hushed expectantly. After a few beats of fumbling, during which a few impatient murmurs started to ripple through the room, Fred sighed and snapped the book shut. “Alright, alright, she’s right. Quinn’s right. A parlay it is.”

A chorus of scattered cheers erupted, quickly overshadowed by Chad, the frat’s unofficial leader and lacrosse team’s Co-star, who sauntered forward, a smirk plastered on his face. “Alright! Whatever! Let’s make it interesting. New competition? I say we see who can bench press the most!” He puffed out his chest, doing a double bicep flex that stretched the fabric of his polo shirt, earning a round of appreciative laughter from his cronies.

Noah stepping in, ever the stickler for rules, “Hold on, Chad. The rule book actually has a list of approved parlay competitions.”

“W-the-what?!” Chad exclaimed, his smirk faltering. He snatched the thick book from Fred’s hand, rifling through the pages with an exaggerated groan. His eyes scanned the list, his face a parade of increasing disappointment. “’Trivia contest?’ ‘Greek singing?’ ‘Egg toss?’ ‘Cupcake baking?’ Are you kidding me? These are lame duck competitions! What kind of frat is this?” He tossed the book back to Fred in disgust.

But then his eyes caught something else, a line lower down on the page. His frown slowly morphed into a wicked grin, a predatory glint entering his eyes. He snatched the book back, holding it closer. “Hold on… what’s this? ‘Masturbation-a-thon’?” He cleared his throat dramatically, enjoying the sudden silence and rapt attention of the crowd. “Description reads: ‘A neutral, willing woman will be picked to service a frat brother. He who cums first loses.’ ”

A collective gasp, then a ripple of excited chatter, spread through the kitchen. Quinn, despite her slight frame, stood her ground, her expression unreadable behind her glasses.

Chad’s gaze locked onto her, dripping with smug condescension. He dropped the book, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, and grabbed his crotch, giving it an exaggerated squeeze. “So, Quinn,” he drawled, his voice thick with challenge, “you really think your little shrimp dick can outlast my monster?”

The comment hit its mark, eliciting a wave of snickers and hoots from the crowd. Quinn, however, didn’t flinch. She simply met his gaze, her voice calm and steady. “And who,” she asked, ignoring the taunt, “will be the girl?”

The question hung in the air. The instant Chad had mentioned a “willing woman,” a significant portion of the women in the crowd had taken a subtle, almost imperceptible step backward, creating a small, open space around the two competitors. No one wanted to be that girl.

Then, from the back of the newly formed gap, a familiar figure emerged. Violet, Chad’s girlfriend, her perfectly coiffed blonde hair catching the dim light, pushed her way to the front. This was her moment, a spotlight opportunity she rarely passed up. Her lips, glossed a vibrant coral, curved into a triumphant smile.

“I’ll do it!” Violet announced, her voice pitched to carry over the remaining murmurs. A cheer erupted from the crowd, mainly the male members who were already envisioning the spectacle. Violet preened, soaking in the attention. “No man has ever lasted more than three minutes with my amazing blow job skills,” she declared, her chest puffing out slightly. She then held up her perfectly manicured pinky finger, a glint of malicious anticipation in her eyes as she looked at Quinn. “I bet I can make Quinn’s shrimp dick cum in less than one minute!”

The crowd roared its approval, a mixture of disbelief and eager anticipation filling the air. This was going to be epic.

Quinn, however, remained unfazed by the renewed taunts and Violet’s braggadocio. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her expression still unreadable. “And what does she win?” Quinn asked, her voice cutting through the noise like a surgeon’s scalpel.

Fred, remembering his duties as rule-keeper, nodded. “She’s right, Chad. For the parlay to work, you need to table something for Quinn to win. Something new.”

Chad’s triumphant grin faltered. He hadn't considered that. He stammered, his eyes darting around the room, trying to think of a suitable prize. What could Quinn possibly want? He racked his brain, coming up blank.

Violet, sensing Chad’s hesitation and ever eager to reclaim the spotlight, stepped forward again, a sly smile playing on her lips. “On the off chance,” she began, her tone dripping with mock generosity, “that the dick girl actually wins… she’ll get a quickie with me!”

Another explosion of cheers, even louder than before, reverberated through the kitchen. The absurdity of it all, the sheer audaciousness of the challenge and the prize, had the entire frat house in an uproar.

Chad and Violet exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement passing between them. There was no way Chad losing, and certainly no chance of Quinn winning. They had this in the bag. The game was on.