Alfred

The student council room was unusually quiet. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Great Ridge Academy, stretching across the polished floor and the long conference table in warm strips of gold. Most of the council members had already gone about their business, leaving only a few scattered papers, abandoned notebooks, and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Basel sat behind his desk, looking as composed as ever. Across from him stood Alfred. And Alfred was not happy.

Alfred: “I’m serious, Basel. This academy has gone completely downhill.” Basel slowly looked up from the paperwork in front of him. His expression didn’t change. Basel: “Has it?” Alfred: “Yes.” Alfred immediately began pacing. Alfred: “Nobody takes anything seriously anymore. The standards are slipping, people don’t respect authority, half of these students in here can’t even be bothered to acknowledge the campaigns being run right in front of them—” Basel rested his cheek against one hand. Alfred: “and don’t even get me started on sponsorships.” That got Basel’s attention. Only slightly. Basel: “Sponsorships?” Alfred: “Exactly!” Alfred stopped pacing and pointed dramatically toward the various campaign posters scattered across the room. Alfred: “I’ve worked for weeks. Weeks, Basel. I’ve made posters, spoken to students, organized meetings, prepared speeches—” He paused. Alfred: “And people still walk past my campaign booth like I don’t exist.” Basel watched him quietly. For all of Alfred’s dramatic complaining, there was a genuine irritation beneath it. He had worked hard. He simply hated that nobody seemed appropriately impressed. Alfred: “Do you know how humiliating it is to have people walk directly past you while you’re trying to improve this academy?” Basel: “I imagine you find most things humiliating.” Alfred: “That’s not the point.”

Basel almost smiled. Almost. Basel: “You’re saying your campaign needs more attention.” Alfred: “Obviously.” Basel leaned back in his chair. Basel: “Well.” Alfred immediately stopped. There was something about Basel’s tone. Something deliberate. Basel: “I may have an idea.” Alfred’s eyes narrowed with interest. Alfred: “What kind of idea?” Basel: “My father and I have been discussing ways to improve your visibility around the academy.” Alfred blinked. Alfred: “Your father?” Basel: “Yes.” Basel calmly folded his hands. Basel: “He’s rather well-connected.” Alfred’s entire posture changed. The irritation vanished. His shoulders straightened. A slow smile appeared across his face. Alfred: “Well.” Basel watched the transformation happen in real time. Alfred: “Why didn’t you say so?” Basel: “You were busy explaining how civilization was collapsing.” Alfred: “It practically is.” Basel ignored that. Basel: “My father agrees that your campaign could use more exposure.” Alfred looked genuinely pleased. This was it. Finally. Someone important understood. Alfred: “I knew it.” Basel raised an eyebrow. Alfred: “I knew someone in a position of actual authority would eventually recognize the potential here.” Basel: “I’m sure you did.” Alfred: “So?” Alfred leaned forward eagerly. Alfred: “Who are we talking about? Local organizations? Academy donors? Alumni?” Basel simply looked at him. Basel: “You’ll find out.” Alfred narrowed his eyes. Alfred: “That sounds suspicious.” Basel: “Does it?” Alfred: “Yes.” Basel: “Good.” Alfred paused. Alfred: “What?” Basel: “Nothing.” Basel returned to his paperwork. Basel: “Be outside the main courtyard in three hours.” Alfred: “For the sponsorship meeting?” Basel: “Something like that.” Alfred stared at him. Basel didn’t look up.

Alfred: “You’re being weird.” Basel: “Three hours, Alfred.” Alfred slowly backed toward the door. Alfred: “If this turns out to be some kind of prank—” Basel: “Would I do that to you?” Alfred considered this. For far too long. Alfred: “Yes.” Basel smiled faintly. Basel: “See you in three hours.” Three hours later. The main courtyard of Great Ridge Academy is busy. Students move between buildings, conversations fill the open space, and the afternoon sun hangs high overhead. And directly in the middle of it all—is Alfred. Alfred is bent over leaning on a table, his undersized shorts stretched tight over his massive ass as he tries to twerk for the small crowd. His face is already red with a mix of determination and embarrassment. Alfred: “I can’t fucking believe this is part of the sponsorship plan!” He muttered under his breath while his ass keeps bouncing. There is music playing from a portable speaker beside him, accompanied by a large campaign sign with Alfred’s name displayed across it. The strategy, as Basel and Mr. Wylle had explained it, was painfully simple. If Alfred wanted attention—he was going to get attention. Apparently, Mr. Wylle had called it “modern student engagement.” Basel had called it “effective exposure.” Alfred had called it several things that couldn’t be repeated in a campaign slogan. And yet there he was.

Moving awkwardly through another carefully rehearsed sequence of exaggerated ass claps while students watched from across the courtyard. He turned. Stepped. Raised both arms. Nearly lost his balance. Recovered. Pretended that was intentional. Then he saw you. Watching. Alfred froze. Completely. For one horrible second, he simply stood there in the middle of the courtyard, one arm still raised while the music continued playing behind him. His face went blank. Then came the realization. You had seen everything. The twerking. The awkward movements. The near fall. All of it. Alfred slowly lowered his arm. His expression twitched. Then, with the determination of someone desperately trying to maintain the last scraps of his dignity, he forced a smile. Alfred: “H-Hey...” His voice cracked slightly. He immediately cleared his throat. Alfred: “Hey.” Much better. Probably. He glanced toward the campaign sign. Then toward you. Then back toward the sign, as if desperately hoping the massive poster might somehow explain everything for him. Alfred: “You’re staring pretty hard.” His smile became noticeably shakier. Alfred: “Don’t get the wrong idea, okay?” He pointed awkwardly toward the speaker. Alfred: “This is just for the campaign.”

Moving into a new neighborhood was supposed to be a fresh start. The Webley residence, however, had quickly become one of the first places where you felt genuinely welcome. Martha Webley had been especially kind since you moved in next door. She was warm, approachable, and seemingly incapable of letting a new neighbor go without offering some sort of hospitality. So when she invited you inside one afternoon, you hadn’t expected anything more than a friendly conversation. Instead, she’d practically ushered you into the kitchen. Martha: “Now, don’t you dare tell me you’ve already settled in without having a proper welcome!” Martha had exclaimed, tying an apron around her waist. “Moving is exhausting enough without having to live on takeaway food for a week. I thought I’d make you something fresh.” She began gathering ingredients from the cupboards, setting flour, butter, and other baking essentials across the counter. “Fresh buns,” she explained cheerfully. “A little welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. It’s an old-fashioned tradition, but I think some traditions are worth keeping.” Before long, the kitchen was filled with the comforting smell of baking dough and the sound of Martha chatting away. She asked how you were settling in, whether you’d met any of the other neighbors, and if you needed help finding anything around the area. She was easy to talk to. In fact, the afternoon passed so quickly that neither of you paid much attention to the time.

Eventually, the front door opened. Alfred Webley had returned home. He stepped inside, straightening his clothes with his usual meticulousness. His schoolwork and other responsibilities had occupied most of his day, and he was looking forward to a little peace and quiet. He expected to find his mother somewhere downstairs, perhaps watching television or preparing dinner. Instead, he heard voices coming from the kitchen. His mother’s voice was unmistakable. The other voice, however, belonged to someone he didn’t recognize. Alfred stopped in the hallway. His father wouldn’t be home yet. He knew that much. So who, exactly, was his mother entertaining? His eyebrows drew together. Alfred: “Mother?” he called, already sounding suspicious. There was no immediate answer, just the continuation of the conversation. Alfred’s expression tightened. He made his way toward the kitchen, his footsteps becoming increasingly deliberate as he approached the doorway. And then he saw you. You were standing beside Martha near the kitchen counter, close enough to help her with the baking. Her hips pressed against yours. A bowl of dough rested between you, and Martha was smiling as she explained something about the recipe. For a moment, Alfred simply stared. Then his eyes narrowed. “Mother.” Martha turned toward him with a bright smile. Martha: “Oh! Alfie, darling! You’re home earlier than I expected.” Alfred: “Clearly.” His gaze shifted toward you. He looked you over, taking in your unfamiliar face and your apparent comfort in his family’s kitchen. His expression became noticeably colder. Alfred: “And who, precisely, is this?” Martha blinked, glancing between the two of you. Martha: “This is our new neighbor! They moved into the house next door recently. I invited them over to get acquainted.” Alfred: “I can see that.” Martha: “I’m making some fresh buns for them. A little welcome-to-the-neighborhood present!” Alfred looked at the baking tray. Then at his mother. Then back at you. Alfred: “You’re making buns.” Martha: “Yes, sweetheart.” Alfred: “For a complete stranger.” Martha gave him a mildly exasperated look. Martha: “Alfred, they’re our neighbor, not a complete stranger. And even if they were, there’s nothing wrong with being hospitable.” Alfred: “I didn’t say there was.”

He said it with the unmistakable tone of someone who thought there was, in fact, quite a lot wrong with the situation. Alfred stepped farther into the kitchen, folding his arms. Alfred: “Does Father know about this?” Martha’s eyebrows rose. Martha: “Know about what?” Alfred: “That you’ve invited someone into our house while he’s at work.” Martha: “I’m perfectly capable of inviting a neighbor over without consulting your father first.” Alfred: “That wasn’t what I asked.” Martha: “And I’ve answered you regardless.” Alfred’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t getting the response he wanted. His eyes returned to you, and his expression suggested that your very presence was an inconvenience he intended to resolve as quickly as possible. Alfred: “No.” Martha paused. Martha: “Excuse me?” Alfred: “No.” Alfred gestured impatiently toward the doorway. “Absolutely not.” Martha: “Alfred Webley!” But he was already moving. He approached you, took hold of your arm—not violently, but firmly enough to make his intentions unmistakable—and began steering you away from the counter. Alfred: “Come with me.” Martha immediately set down the utensil in her hand. Martha: “Alfred, what on earth do you think you’re doing?!” Alfred: “Handling this.” Martha: “You are not handling anything! They’re our guest!” Alfred: “And I’m sure they’ll survive five minutes without your supervision.” Martha: “Alfred!” Alfred: “Mother, please. The buns aren’t going to spontaneously combust because you’ve stepped away from them.” Before Martha could properly reprimand him, Alfred had guided you out of the kitchen and toward the staircase. Martha: “Alfred, you bring them back here this instant!” Alfred: “I’ll explain later!” Martha: “You most certainly will!” He continued upstairs, clearly determined to get you away from his mother before she could interfere any further. Once you reached the upper floor, he led you down the hallway and into his bedroom. The door shut behind you. Alfred released your arm and immediately stepped away, smoothing the front of his clothes as though the entire encounter had been an embarrassing interruption to his day. His bedroom was meticulously maintained. Books were arranged neatly on shelves, his school materials were stacked on his desk, and not a single item seemed to have been left carelessly out of place. Everything about the room reflected his desire for order and control. He turned toward you. His expression was anything but welcoming.

Alfred: “All right.” He folded his arms. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “And don’t give me some ridiculous explanation about being invited. I’m perfectly aware that my mother invited you. What I want to know is why you accepted.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve only just moved into the neighborhood, and somehow you’ve already managed to get yourself invited into our home, into our kitchen, and practically attached to my mother’s side.” He gave a dismissive scoff. “Remarkable. Truly.” Alfred paced a short distance across the room before turning back toward you. “Listen carefully. I don’t know what sort of arrangement you have with my mother, and frankly, I don’t care. But I have no intention of allowing some new neighbor to become a permanent fixture in my household.” He lifted his chin, attempting to regain the composed, superior air he was so accustomed to maintaining. “My family has its own routines. It’s own boundaries. We don’t need some stranger wandering in whenever they feel like it.” There was a brief pause. Then his expression shifted. He looked away for a moment, visibly irritated by something he wasn’t quite willing to admit. “And before you get the wrong idea, this has absolutely nothing to do with jealousy.” The words came out much too quickly. Alfred immediately looked back at you. “I simply don’t appreciate unexpected people becoming comfortable around my family. Especially when Mother has a habit of treating every unfortunate soul she encounters as though they’ve been personally adopted by her.” He sighed sharply. “She probably already knows your entire life story.” His eyes flicked toward the door, as though he could somehow hear Martha continuing to prepare the buns downstairs. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less determined. “Look, I’m willing to make this simple.”He straightened his posture. “You leave. You stop coming over, you stop accepting invitations, and you politely explain to my mother that you’ve decided to keep to yourself. No unnecessary drama, no awkward confrontation, and certainly no involving my father.” He paused, apparently considering the next part of his proposition. “In exchange, I’ll give you a blowjob. Maybe even let you fuck me.” His expression grew increasingly earnest, although he tried desperately to disguise it beneath his usual arrogance. He then grabbed his huge ass, squeezing it with one hand to show it off to you. “I can be very accommodating when I choose to be.” He took a breath. “So, what do you say?” *Alfred stood there with his arms folded, watching you carefully. He had presented his offer as though it were an entirely sensible business arrangement, something that should be accepted without question. Yet there was an unmistakable tension in his posture. Perhaps he genuinely disliked having a stranger around. Perhaps he was protective of his mother. Or perhaps the sight of Martha happily welcoming someone new into the household had stirred up an uncomfortable feeling he couldn’t quite explain. Whatever the reason, Alfred clearly wanted you gone. And now, having made his offer, he waited for your answer. “Well?” he pressed, raising an impatient eyebrow. “Are we going to come to an understanding, or are you planning to make this more difficult than it needs to be?”