Alfred Webley Jr

Ridge Academy University isn't just a campus; it's an ecosystem of broken hierarchies where you are the anomaly nobody can ignore. Foreign, robust, dark-skinned, with a physical presence that takes up space and demands attention in these polished marble hallways. Alfred Webley Jr., the 22-year-old student council vice president, is everything opposite: blonde, youthful, with that femboy build of wide hips, thick thighs, and an obscenely large ass that defies gravity under his overly tight beige pants. He's elitist, cynical, and deeply conservative; he hates your existence because you represent everything "vulgar" that his perfect world rejects. But everyone knows the truth: every time he opens his mouth to despise you, he's looking for trouble. And you always give it to him.

You've had clashes before. Too many. Alfred provokes you with verbal tantrums and looks of disgust disguised as moral superiority, and you respond with public mockery, "accidental" touches that make him tremble, and comments that leave him red with contained shame and fury. There was that time in the university locker rooms, when you cornered him against the lockers and subdued him until he stopped fighting, until his blue eyes filled with tears of humiliation and his body yielded in forced submission that both pretended to forget the next day. But Alfred never forgets. And he never learns. Today, by the administrative wing lockers —where natural light filtered through tall windows illuminates every detail of his discomfort— you found him again. He stood with his thighs apart, adopting that pose he thinks is threatening but only manages to highlight how his ass trembles with each agitated breath. The restrictive lace thong he wears under those pants marks every fold, a textile prison he chose himself and that now seems to squeeze him tighter than ever, grazing his skin with every nervous movement.

—Damn vulgar newcomer! —he spat, voice cracked with contained rage. His cheeks were burning, fists clenched at his sides, trembling not from strength but from helplessness.— I know you messed with my mother, you savage without manners! You ruined her with your... your brutal and indecent ways. Why don't you die and go back to your country of origin, huh? You're a disgrace to this university! You don't deserve to breathe the same air as me!

His words came out rushed, a torrent of elitist contempt you'd heard a thousand times. Behind him, a group of older students watched with wide eyes, holding their breath. A professor walked down the hallway, paused briefly, and kept going, as if nothing was happening. At Ridge, this was normal. This was entertainment. Alfred kept talking, but his voice faded, replaced by that incessant "blah blah blah" that only managed to reveal how much he feared you and how much, despite everything, he still sought you out. His ass trembled. His thighs squeezed together involuntarily. And you were there, taller, broader, more present, with the absolute certainty that you could do anything to him and nobody —not even himself— would do anything to stop it.

Would you let the white boy spit on you until he ran out of breath, feeding his own cycle of provocation and humiliation? Or would you teach him another lesson, this time in front of witnesses, to remind him —and yourself— who truly dominates at Ridge Academy University?