I Made the Jock Submit in Front of Everyone

For almost my entire first year at university, I learned how to make myself small. I walked hugging the walls, ate alone in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, and kept my eyes down every time I crossed the central courtyard. My name is Lorena, I’m twenty-three, and I study literature, and back then I was the kind of person nobody notices until they need someone to laugh at.

For Damián, that someone was me.

Damián came from money. His surname was engraved on a marble plaque at the entrance to the new building, beside the list of donors who had funded the library. That gave him a sense of impunity he wore on his face like a mark. He was nearly six foot three, played rugby on weekends, and had the habit of moving through the hallways as if the whole place belonged to him. In a way, it did.

With me, he was methodical. He used to drop my photocopies on the floor when he passed me. He’d leave obscene notes in my locker—crudely drawn open cunts, lines like, “Hungry little bitch, I’d make you scream.” Once, in the middle of medieval literature class, he stood behind my chair pretending to look for a book on the shelf and rubbed his swollen cock against my shoulder, pushing his hips forward two, three times, until I could feel the hard bulge throbbing against my collarbone. He snickered when he was done, and the professors did what they always did: looked the other way. Nobody wanted trouble with the family paying for the roof repairs.

I cried at home. Silently, with my face buried in my pillow, because I lived in a residence with thin walls and I didn’t want anyone else to know how worthless I felt. Until one night, while I was watching an old afternoon movie, I saw a scene that stuck in my head.

A man cornered a woman against a wall. Instead of screaming, she drove her knee between his legs. The man folded like a puppet with its strings cut. The camera lingered on his wrecked face, on the way all his arrogance evaporated in an instant.

I had always seen it as a screenwriter’s trick. A cliché. It had never occurred to me that it could be real.

I didn’t sleep that night. Something had lit up in me, a small and dangerous idea that grew with every hour. I was tired of dying a little every day. If I had to go down, I’d rather go down fighting.

***

The chance came on a Tuesday, in the central courtyard, during the dead hour between classes. The sun was beating down and there were dozens of people spread over the benches and the grass. Damián was in the middle of it, surrounded by his usual entourage, harassing two first-year girls who were trying to get out of the conversation and failing.

I looked at him. Not out of the corner of my eye, like I always did, but straight on, right in the eyes, for a second longer than was prudent.

That was enough.

—What the fuck is your problem? —he snapped, breaking away from the group.— You want a picture?

The first-year girls took the chance to disappear. I didn’t move. I slowly raised my hand and flicked him off, holding back the tremble in my legs. I needed him close. I needed him angry and careless.

It worked better than I expected.

—Goddamn hungry little bitch —he spat, coming closer, chest puffed out while his friends cheered on every word—. You’re nothing but a pathetic library rat. You probably don’t even get laid, do you? You probably don’t even know what a cock feels like inside you.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. One of the girls still nearby whispered for me to leave, that it wasn’t worth it. But I didn’t leave. I stayed rooted to the ground, waiting.

Damián grabbed my shirt with both hands, yanking the fabric up until he lifted me half an inch off the ground. His face was inches from mine, red, sweaty, sure he had total control. And that was where he made his mistake.

He was wearing thin gym pants, the kind that hide nothing, and he never wore underwear because he liked showing off the bulge. I’d seen him strut around like that a hundred times, swinging his dick through the hallways so we’d all stare at his crotch. This time, that vanity was going to cost him.

I dropped my hand without warning and closed my fist around everything I found between his legs. The cock, the balls, all of it. I grabbed the whole thing, feeling the warm, heavy bulge through the thin fabric, the soft skin of the balls beneath the dead weight of his dick, and squeezed with every finger at once, digging in my nails.

The change was instant.

The strength drained out of his arms like water through his fingers. He let go of my shirt in a rush and his hands flew to mine in a clumsy attempt to pry my grip loose, but I squeezed harder, twisting my fist a quarter turn as if I were opening a jar, feeling his balls shift between my fingers and the weight of his body lurch forward, searching for relief. A thread of saliva slipped from the corner of his mouth.

—Let go —he gasped, his voice breaking on a note I had never heard from him before.— Let go, please, you’re crushing my balls, please.

Please. Those two words, in his mouth, gave me a dizzying rush I hadn’t expected. Something warm and electric shot up my back, dropped hard between my legs, and I felt, with a sharpness that surprised even me, my panties getting wet. It wasn’t just relief. It was power, pure and concentrated, and in that second I discovered I liked it far too much, that I was getting soaked from having his cock strangled in my fist in front of everyone.

The shouting drew people in. Within seconds a circle was forming around us, phones held up, murmurs spreading. The guys in Damián’s entourage, who had been laughing a minute earlier, were now clutching their own crotches in reflex, unable to watch head-on as I crushed their leader’s balls.

—On your knees —I told him, and my own voice sounded strange to me, deeper, steadier.— On the ground. Now.

I guided him downward by tugging just enough on his cock for him to understand that the only possible direction was obedience. Damián dropped to his knees on the concrete, doubled over, his forehead beaded with sweat and his eyes full of water that wasn’t sadness but pain in its purest state.

***

I could have let him go there. It would have been enough for anyone. But a year of humiliation doesn’t get erased by a ten-second scare, and I had a long, exact memory.

I kept the pressure and leaned over him, close enough that only he could hear me under the noise.

—Do you remember medieval literature class? —I asked.— When you rubbed your cock against my shoulder and laughed about it all week? When you told me one day you were going to make me suck you off in the library bathroom? I do.

I squeezed his balls a little harder to underline every word. He didn’t answer. He only made a strangled sound, a long, almost feminine moan that made several girls in the circle laugh. The same people who had looked the other way for months were now enjoying the show. The tide had turned completely, and I was the moon moving it.

With my free hand I yanked his pants down to his thighs in one hard pull. I hadn’t planned it; it happened on its own, as if my body knew exactly how to administer the punishment my head had been imagining for nights. He was exposed in front of half the campus, his cock out, and what the world saw was nothing like the swagger he liked to show off: a small, shrunken sex, drawn in tight with sheer fear, a pale little dick with sparse hairs and a glans barely peeking out from the foreskin, in almost comic contrast with the swollen, red bulge of the balls my fist was still holding, squeezed and bruised from the pressure, hanging like two ripe plums between my fingers.

—Look at the university bully —I announced, raising my voice so the whole circle could hear.— Look closely at what he was so proud of. All that macho posing for a tiny little boy’s dick.

The laughter was collective. Not the nervous laugh from before, but an open, unleashed laugh, the laugh of a lot of people who had swallowed their own rage for too long and could finally give it back. Someone shouted, “So this was the stud!” and another voice, female, answered, “It fits in a thimble!” Phones filmed the disaster between his legs in close-up. Damián shut his eyes and tried to cover himself with his hands, but I gave his balls a warning jerk and he snapped them away instantly, crossing his arms behind his neck like a prisoner. Every inch of his famous arrogance had turned into begging.

—Please —he repeated, and now he was really crying, snot hanging from his nose.— I swear I’ll never do it again. I swear it.

—Never do what? —I squeezed a little, just enough to tear another yelp out of him.— Say it. Loud. So everyone hears. So it carries across the whole courtyard.

—I’ll never mess with you again! —he shouted, face against the concrete.— Or anyone! I swear on my mother!

—More —I demanded.— Say what you are. Say it with your mouth wide open.

—I’m an asshole —he sobbed.— I’m an asshole with a shitty dick, I’m a coward, I’m nothing, please, let go of my balls, I’m begging you.

I held on one second longer, savoring the expectant silence of the circle, the feeling of having his whole fate between my fingers, sensing the wetness between my thighs become blatantly sticky. Then I loosened my grip slowly, deliberately, making sure he understood that the decision to let him go was mine and mine alone. His balls dropped limp from my hand, red, and he let out a gasp of relief that sounded almost obscene.

I left him on the ground, cock out, curled in on himself, while I straightened up and brushed the dust from my skirt with a calm I hadn’t felt in a year. Before I went, I gave him a gentle shove in the ass with my foot, almost a farewell gesture, and walked away through the circle of people opening before me.

***

Nobody ever touched me again. That same afternoon the video was already circulating through every group chat, and by the end of the week my name had become a kind of legend in the hallways. The invisible girl who had brought the untouchable one to his knees, the one who had pulled his dick out in front of two hundred people. I made friends for the first time, people who came up to me to say hello with a mixture of respect and something like pleasant fear.

Damián disappeared from the map for a couple of weeks. When he came back, he walked hugging the walls, eyes on the floor, avoiding the hallways where he knew he might run into me. The surname on the marble plaque no longer protected him from the looks and crooked smiles that followed him every step, or from the nicknames—“ball-breaker,” “little dick”—that stuck to him for the rest of his degree.

What surprised me most about all of it wasn’t the new respect, or the sudden silence from my harassers. It was discovering that that feeling—the weight of his submission in the palm of my hand, the way his balls gave in between my fingers, the way an entire body could fold under the right pressure—wouldn’t leave my head. It came back at night, untouched, warm, insistent, between my legs.

That very night, after the courtyard, I got back to the residence with my panties soaked through and threw myself on the bed without turning on the light. I hiked my skirt to my waist, yanked off my underwear in one pull and spread my legs in the dark. It took only two fingers on my cunt to realize I was dripping, a hot stream sliding down the crack of my ass to the sheet. I closed my eyes and saw him kneeling again, his cock shrunken out in the open and his bruised balls hanging from my fist, begging me to let go. I started rubbing my clit with the tip of my middle finger, slow circles, while with my other hand I slid two fingers all the way inside and curled them, searching for that spot I had barely known how to find until that night.

I fucked myself with anger, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t scream and wake the girl next door. I pushed my fingers in and out with a wet sound that filled the room, while I repeated under my breath the words I had wrenched out of him—“I’m an asshole, I’ve got a shitty dick, I’m nothing”—and with every sentence my cunt tightened around my own fingers. I imagined grabbing his balls again, this time alone, without an audience, forcing him to lick my cunt on his knees while I squeezed them to my own rhythm, punishing him every time his tongue slackened. I imagined coming on his face while he cried and begged forgiveness with his mouth full.

The orgasm hit me folded over myself, biting my pillow, hips lifting off the mattress. I felt the long, obscene contraction soaking my hand to the wrist, and I still had enough left to keep rubbing until I tore out a second one, smaller and sharper, leaving me trembling with my legs open to the room’s cold air.

I stayed like that for a while, panting, my fingers shining with my own juices stuck to my stomach. I had never come twice in a row. I had never come so hard. And looking at my wet hand in the dim light, I understood that this would be the hand with which I had learned to live differently.

I had spent a year learning how to make myself small. That afternoon, in the courtyard, I learned something much more useful: that power is not asked for, it is taken, that someone else’s humiliation can be the best aphrodisiac in the world, and that I had far more of it than I had ever allowed myself to imagine.

And I wasn’t planning to give it back.