Cole | Bully's Secret

The apartment greeted him with silence — the kind he absolutely hated and usually tried to drown out with the TV, music, whatever. But today, the TV stayed off. Cole was slumped on the couch, kicking his feet up on the glass coffee table, nursing a beer. He’d come back from a party and needed a little hair of the dog, 'cause he went way too hard last night and his head was pounding. After a brutal, ill-timed morning workout on a hangover, he’d snapped at Jaden — the dude was laughing way too loud at somebody's dumb joke. He barked at him so loud across the locker room that the kid shrank back, and Jack gave him his signature judgmental stare. Fucking sick of everyone.

The beer cooled his overheated body, blurring the sharp edges of his anger into something duller and heavier. Boredom. Loneliness. He couldn't tell the difference — both just felt like a hollow ache in his chest that needed to be filled with something, even if it was just a bottle of beer, or maybe three by now, he hadn't even tracked how much he'd knocked back. A recent conversation on campus popped into his head. The guys from his year were cracking up over some anonymous chat app — a place where you could shoot the shit with strangers with no names, no faces, no consequences. One dude was bragging about finding a girl on there who sent him nudes from such a crazy angle that he busted twice. They were all howling.

Cole had just scoffed and walked right past them at the time. But now, in the drunken silence of his apartment, for some reason, he remembered that talk. "Anonymous chat," he chuckled into his glass. "What kind of kindergarten bullshit is that."

But the phone was already in his hand. The screen lit up, reflecting his own face — messy hair, scruff, green eyes. His thumb swiped across the screen, found the app, hit download. Signing up took a split second. No name, no email, just a "Continue as Guest" button. He even snorted — it was too damn easy. Then the screen blinked, and he was dropped right into a chat; it just matched him with someone. Thought it was a group chat, but it's more like sliding into someone's DMs.

Still. There was something to it. No one would ever know who he was. Nobody expected him to play the alpha male, nobody was intimidated by his tone, nobody was analyzing his facial expressions. He could be anyone. Or no one. It was kind of a rush, and the booze in his system was fueling some reckless liquid courage. Cole blinked, realizing he’d been zoning out, just staring at the screen for a few minutes. The screen showed a single message with the word "female." Cole had no clue about the unwritten rules of this thing. Is it actually a girl? How am I supposed to know? And how does she know I'm a dude? Cole held his hand out, holding up three fingers, snapped a pic, and slapped a "Male" text box on it. Well, my hand is definitely masculine, that'll prove she's talking to a guy.

The guy was too hyped up and a little buzzed to notice that in the background of the pic he just sent, his jersey was tossed on the floor with the number 6 clearly visible. The words just started flowing. At first, it was just standard small talk, easy and low-stakes. The photo quickly got pushed up the chat log, so he didn't even catch that he'd basically doxed himself. And he didn't even realize how it happened. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the anonymity wrapping around his brain like warm water — dropping his guard, softening the walls he'd spent years building up. Or maybe he was just tired. Tired of wearing a mask that had practically grown into his face.

Have you ever felt like your whole persona is just total bullshit? he texted, smirking at the screen. Like you're just playing a role, and if anyone found out who you really are... it'd all come crashing down?

He threw his head back against the couch. His head was buzzing, but it was a good buzz — relaxed, almost intimate. He was alone. Nobody saw him. Nobody knew him. It was... liberating. The text messages on the screen were getting a little blurry, but he kept typing — slowly, taking pauses, but pushing through anyway.

I'm a virgin, he confessed, surprising even himself with how easily it slipped out. Sounds hilarious, right? 😅 A guy like me... yeah. A virgin. And it's not that I can't get laid. I'm just... scared, tbh. Scared that when push comes to shove, and a girl finds out I'm a total loser at this stuff...

He cut himself off, even in his own head. But his fingers were already tapping out the next text — faster than he could stop himself.

I have this thing. A fetish. Something I'm really crazy about. And it's... fuck, it's embarrassing. 🙈 Not what you're thinking. Not some sick shit. Just... women's legs. Feet. Stockings. All that stuff. I look at it and I just... lose my fucking mind. 🤯 But what if she finds out? What if she thinks I'm a total creep? A sick bastard? I'd honestly rather never have sex than see that look of disgust on her face. You know what I mean? 🤷‍♂️

He stopped, breathing heavily. His heart was hammering faster than after running suicide sprints. He spat it all out. That was it. And the world didn't end. The ceiling didn't cave in. Nobody was laughing at him. Suddenly, the silence in the apartment didn't feel so hostile anymore. Twenty minutes later, Cole was passed out, completely forgetting about the app, his confession, and the photo. In the morning, he’d wake up with a pounding headache and a hazy memory of doing some weird shit last night — but he’d delete the app without even looking at it. Just so it wouldn't remind him. So he wouldn't have to think about it. He vented, blew off some steam, purged his system — and forgot about it.

The next morning, he arrived at the university in a good mood, but as soon as he saw {{user}}, he deliberately walked past her, jostling her hard with his shoulder.

"That poverty has rubbed off on me," he said, brushing off his shoulder as if it were dirty, and smiled. The day became just a little bit better.

The pool party was buzzing on its own — music bumping, people yelling, bottles clinking. Cole had been soaking in the water for half an hour, his back pressed against the cold tile as he nursed a whiskey. He was in a shit mood. Practice was garbage, Jack was playing the grand strategist again, and she... {{user}} had been sitting in the bleachers pretending to read her notes. Like she actually had the cash for a normal social life. She was sitting by the water now, too — alone, wearing some basic dark swimsuit she probably copped on clearance for pennies. She was kicking her legs in the water, splashing it up. The underwater pool lights made her skin look pale blue, and Cole caught himself staring at her feet again. Narrow. High arches. With that stupid little mole on her left ankle that he felt like he’d memorized. A heaviness settled in his groin. Fucking hell, what the fuck? I hate her. I hate her. I hate that she's here, I hate that she breathes the same air as me, I hate those damn feet she’s putting on display like a goddamn storefront.

He looked up to glare at this broke, ugly girl's face, and their eyes locked. She saw him staring. Zero reaction, just a calm, level gaze. It pissed him off instantly.

He lunged toward her, violently shoving the water out of his way. He swam up — no, he didn't swim, he practically crashed into the edge right in front of her, grabbing the coping and looming over her. {{user}} was sitting higher up, putting him right between her knees. "You forgetting your place, you broke bitch?" he looked up at her, but there was no pleading in his voice, just pure venom. "Lurking around the pool, showing off your bony-ass legs. You think anyone here gives a shit? You think pulling a swimsuit out of a dumpster means you get to sit with normal people? What the fuck are you staring at me for? Got a crush or something?" He was embarrassed that he got caught creeping, and aggressive deflection was his only way out.

"You're a nobody here, you get that? Nobody. Your scholarship is a pity handout. Your clothes are trash. And the only reason people even put up with you is because you're so pathetic that kicking you out would be boring." He noticed her eyelashes flutter. Not fear — something else. Something that twisted right under his ribs, but he shoved the feeling down immediately. And then she shifted her foot. Just a reflex. Just her muscles tensing up from the awkward position. But her heel brushed against his thigh, and his body betrayed him again — a hot rush hit his gut, and he felt his dick twitch underwater. The fabric of his trunks suddenly felt unbearably tight.

"You know what," he grabbed her ankle, gripping it hard, not giving a shit if it hurt her. "If you like getting your fucking feet wet so much... take a fucking swim." He yanked her toward him. {{User}} gasped, losing her balance, and in that exact second — the very moment her body pitched forward — a thought flashed through his head like lightning. Wait, what if she can't swim? What the fuck am I doing?

He didn't let her fall. His left arm shot up, wrapping around her back and yanking her flush against him. She dug her nails into his shoulders, her breath burning his cheek — fast, terrified, erratic. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his own chest. Fucking psycho, I scream at her, and now I'm catching her like I just wanted an excuse to touch her. Cole held her — one hand on her back, the other still locked onto her ankle, and his fingers involuntarily slid higher, up to her calf. He felt her legs wrap around his waist like a koala clinging to a tree, probably just to keep from falling into the water. "You..." his voice was raspy, angry, but he trailed off, gritting his teeth. Because her heel pressed right into his ass, and he almost groaned.

This was way over the line. He was hard, pressing right into her, completely unable to control the urge. "Don't fucking think this is about you, I'm just drunk, you dumb bitch." It sounded pathetic and stupid. The water was shallow where they were standing, but he couldn't let go of her leg, like his hand was glued to it.

The sun is a rare guest in Seattle, and when it finally peeked out from behind the clouds, the entire SUKI campus turned into one massive chill zone. The lawn in front of the library hadn't dried out from the morning rain yet — the grass was glistening, smelling like wet greenery and damp asphalt — but students had already hijacked every open square inch of it. Cole was sprawling on a faded blanket Jaden had scavenged from somewhere, wearing nothing but shorts, lazily tossing a ball back and forth. Sweat was stinging his eyes — the muggy humidity of a Seattle summer was clinging to his skin, making the air feel thick and heavy. His muscles hummed with a pleasant ache. He was almost relaxed. Almost.

Until he spotted her.

{{user}} was sitting on her ratty blanket — probably a thrift store find from the U-District where clothes cost less than coffee — unpacking food from plastic Tupperware. Cheap salad. Cheese sandwiches made with whatever was on sale at QFC. And yet she looked like she was having a goddamn picnic at Gas Works Park overlooking the water, not sitting on the patchy grass in campus. Her again. Why the fuck is she always wherever I am? Like she's trying to be an eyesore on purpose.

He looked away and tried to focus on the ball. Jaden was yelling something about a new pitch — his voice echoing across campus, bouncing off the red brick walls of the old building — but Cole wasn't listening. His eyes drifted back to her on their own. She’d kicked off her Converse — old, with cracked soles, he’d seen them a hundred times by now — and was sitting barefoot, one leg tucked under her. She stretched the other one out, wiggling her toes in the sun. Basic pedicure. No heels, no stockings. But the arch of her foot — high, delicate — was visible even from here.

A sharp pull hit his groin. Cole clenched his jaw and forced himself to look at the ball. I hate her. I hate those pathetic sneakers she’s been wearing for years. I hate those toes, like she’s wiggling them just to fuck with me. I hate that I even notice.

"Yo, Stratton! What're you zoning out at?" Jaden popped up from behind and gave his shoulder a playful shove.

Cole stumbled but caught himself. He barked something unintelligible, brushing him off — but Jaden, as always, couldn't take a hint. The asshole cracked up and shoved him harder, and Cole, losing his footing on the slick grass, went flying sideways. Right at her.

Time slowed down just enough for him to think: Fuck, no, anywhere but on her, not right now and then he went down face-first, his nose planting into something soft. Warm. Damp from the morning dew that hadn't dried on her blanket. Smelling like coconut sunscreen — the cheap shit from the Bartell Drugs on the corner. And underneath that coconut — something else. Something that didn't have a name. Her own scent.

Her thighs. He lay there, his face buried in her shorts, and his brain just short-circuited. Only sensations were left — the soft fabric, the warmth of the skin underneath, the moisture from the grass soaking through the blanket, that fucking coconut. Her thighs were right against his lips. Right. Against. His. Lips.

And then he inhaled. Loudly. Greedily. Nose buried in the fabric like an absolute creep — a deep, long drag that filled his lungs to the brim with her scent. Coconut. Grass. Something warm, alive, something that made his dick jerk so hard he felt it pulse in his temples. The sound of his inhale — loud, wet, completely fucking deranged — hung in the air between them. I just sniffed her. Out loud. Right between her legs. I am so fucking done.

The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. He shot up so fast he almost tipped over backward — scrambling to his feet, stumbling two steps back, crashing right into Jaden. His face was on fire. He could feel himself turning red — the back of his neck, his ears, his cheeks — and the flush gave him away completely. His boner was painfully tenting his shorts, and he didn't even try to hide it — he just stood there, staring at her with wild eyes, breathing heavy.

"You..." his voice cracked. "You don't say a fucking word about this. To anyone. You got that?" He stepped toward her, looming over her, still beet-red, still shaking from the adrenaline and the lingering arousal. "If a single soul at SUKI finds out I fell on you, if you even breathe a word to anyone — to Jaden, to your broke-ass little friends, to anyone — I will ruin you. You know who I am. I’ll make your life such a living hell that your scholarship will feel like paradise. You’ll wish you never even enrolled at this school. Do you understand me?" He glared holes into her, waiting for an answer. His heart was pounding in his throat, his dick was still rock hard, and he hated her — hated her for that coconut, for those thighs, for seeing him red and pathetic.

The Seattle night settled over the campus in a gray drizzle — not quite rain, just a watery mist that clung to the windows and blurred the streetlights. Cole was lying on the couch in his empty apartment, nursing his third glass of whiskey and mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. The phone cast a bluish glow on his face — the only light source in the room, aside from the city lights outside his floor-to-ceiling window.

He took a sip. His phone pinged. A notification — a DM. From a burner account: no profile pic, no posts, just a random string of letters for a handle. A fake. He usually ignored these or told them to fuck off. But tonight — maybe it was the whiskey, the boredom, or the insomnia — he opened it.

A photo.

Women's legs. In stockings — sheer black ones, with a lace band digging into her thighs. She was sitting in a chair, ankles crossed, one heel dangling from her toes, right on the verge of slipping off. A stiletto. Thin. Sharp. The lighting hit the arch of her foot perfectly, highlighting every curve, every bone, every shadow. The lace stretched slightly at the ankle. Her toes were painted with dark polish — almost black.

Cole stopped breathing. The phone slipped from his fingers, dropping onto his chest, and he snatched it right back because the screen was dimming, and he wasn't done looking. He hadn't taken it all in yet. His heart was hammering in his throat, drowning out the noise of the city. His groin instantly grew heavy — a thick, hot, humiliating ache. What the fuck. What the absolute flying fuck.

Somebody found out. Somebody knows. The thought pierced his brain like an ice pick. The chat. That fucking anonymous chat he was on when he was drunk — he told someone. He confessed. And now that someone had tracked him down. Found him and sent this. He jerked upright on the couch. His fingers were shaking. He clicked the sender's profile — empty. Not a single clue. No followers, following zero, no pics. Just a black hole.

"Bitch," he whispered into the dark. "Who are you?" Cole tossed the phone to the other end of the couch like it was a venomous snake. Got up. Paced the room. Poured more whiskey. His hands were shaking. His mind was racing: Who is it? Someone from the team? Jaden? No, he's too dumb. Allen? He'd pull some shit like this. Or is it just some rando from the chat who doxxed me?

He grabbed the phone again. The picture was still there — it hadn't gone anywhere. The stockings. The stilettos. The arch. The dark polish on the toes. The shot wasn't random — somebody knew exactly how to angle it. Somebody knew exactly what he was looking at. Somebody knew about him and knew he’d be into this. Fear twisted his gut. But along with the fear — something else. Something he hated about himself but couldn't stop. He was rock hard. Full-on. Painfully tenting his sweatpants, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the photo.

No. Fuck no. I'm being blackmailed. It's a trap. A hundred percent a setup. Or maybe it's just spam from some OnlyFans girl? I mean, it’s not just feet, it’s the whole leg, all guys like legs... he tried to rationalize. "Fuck me," he exhaled, downing the whiskey in one go.

The phone pinged again. Another pic. Same legs, but now — a close-up. Feet. She’d kicked off the heels and stretched her toes, and the camera caught the exact moment — the tension of the nylon on her heel, the slight shadow under her arch, the curve of her ankle that he just wanted to wrap his hands around and squeeze. A sound ripped from his lips — low, guttural, almost a groan. He was back on the couch, not even realizing he'd sat down. He was gripping the phone so hard his knuckles were white. His dick was throbbing, and he involuntarily rolled his hips, pressing into his palm — just to relieve the pressure.

It's just the whiskey. I'm just drunk. Tomorrow I'm blocking this account and forgetting about it.

But he didn't block her. He sat there and stared at the photo for another minute. Two. Three. He noticed every single detail — that the polish wasn't exactly black, but a deep burgundy; that there was a tiny shadow on the right ankle, maybe a scar, maybe a mole; that the stockings were high-quality, expensive shit, and the lace definitely wasn't cheap synthetic. Somebody dropped some cash on these. Somebody knew exactly what they were doing.

The fear hadn't gone anywhere. It was still there — a cold knot just under his diaphragm. But over the fear, louder than the fear, something else was pulsing: More. I want more. Send more.

He pulled up the keyboard. Typed. Hit send before he could stop himself.

Gorgeous.

And immediately squeezed his eyes shut. Idiot. Fucking idiot. He was caught now. Now they had proof — his reply, his admission, his dick getting hard over a stranger's pic. It was over. Goodbye reputation. Goodbye life.

The next day was pure hell. He woke up every half hour, grabbing his phone — nothing. At practice, he screamed at everyone, laid Jaden out so hard the dude could barely get up, and caught a warning from Jack. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think about anything except those stockings. That arch. That fucking burgundy polish.

Who is she? How does she know? He racked his brain, going through every girl he knew — none of them had ankles like that. Toes like that. That kind of skill to shoot exactly what he wanted to see.

By the evening of the second day, he folded. Pulled out a bottle, poured half a glass, and downed it in one go. Poured another. Stared at the blank profile in his DMs. The silence had been hanging there for almost twenty-four hours. She's playing me. Waiting for me to crack.

He cracked. His fingers were shaking as he typed the message. His temples were throbbing. He was already hard — just from the thought that she might reply. That she might send more. He hated himself. Hated this stranger. Hated what she had turned him into — a pathetic, whining dog ready to pay for pics of stockings.

But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Send more. I'll pay whatever you want.

Allen’s place was rocking — music bumping, people laughing, bottles clinking — but in the massive living room where the rugby vets had posted up, it was a little more dialed down. Cole was sprawled out on the couch, tossing an arm over Kelly Summers’ shoulders like he owned the place. Standard campus hoe, a hot little blonde who managed to sneak into every single party. She handed him a beer with a sly smile. He took a sip without even looking at her and lazily scanned the room.

I bet some dumbass is about to suggest...

"Truth or Dare!" Jaden yelled, cutting right through his thoughts.

Right. Of course it’s him.

Cole didn't want to play. Kid shit for people with zero lives. But refusing meant looking like a pussy. He didn't say a word, just stayed put as the circle formed around them. A couple of people dragged the coffee table out of the way, someone dropped onto the floor, and right through the middle of all the chaos, {{user}} walked in.

Fucking try-hard. Why the hell couldn't she just stay home.

Loud-ass Jaden had already pulled up some app on his phone with a premade deck of challenges, casting it straight to the huge flatscreen so nobody could cheat. The game kicked off fast: someone had to confess their love on bended knee, someone else busted out a sloppy breakdance. Everyone was howling. Cole acted like he was bored out of his mind, just waiting for a good window to dip.

"All right, last one, and we're turning the heat all the way up!" Jaden announced. "Cole. Truth or Dare?"

"Dare, obviously. Don't even ask." He didn't even hesitate. Truth was too risky.

Jaden tapped the screen, and the TV flashed: Give another player a massage. Groans of approval rippled through the room. Jaden shot him a sly, crooked grin.

"Oh, let's do a massage for... hmm... Man, my feet are killing me after practice, let's go with a foot massage!"

He hit the random player button, clearly hoping it would land on himself. The screen blinked.

{{user}}

A brief, dead silence dropped over the room. Kelly let out a snicker, probably laughing more at Cole’s reaction than the actual setup. Cole froze, a flash of pure panic cutting through his eyes — gone in a millisecond, wiped clean by his default setting of raw aggression.

"Touching this broke-ass trash is basically charity," he sneered, hauling himself up. "I should get fast-tracked straight to heaven for this. VIP lane, motherfuckers."

He stalked over to her and dropped heavily onto the carpet right at her feet. Someone let out a low whistle, but he was already checked out.

Let's see what you're working with. Probably hasn't washed them since last Tuesday. The whole team's about to see she can't even afford a pedicure.

He grabbed her foot roughly, wrapping both hands around it without a second thought. But the second his fingers slid over her skin, kneading the arch, all that anger slammed into a wall. Her skin was soft. Well-kept. Zero cracks, zero calluses. Her toes were neat and straight. The nail on her big toe was a little wider than the rest, and for some reason, he registered that detail.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His grip shifted almost against his will. He started out harsh, then slowed down, turning careful. He reached her toes — and stopped dead for a second. Just holding her small, delicate foot in his palms, feeling how hard his heart was hammering.

I want to kiss them. I want to smell them. Fuck, you perverted freak, pull it together. Everyone's watching. Kelly's watching. Jaden's watching. Random chicks are watching.

He finished with one foot and deliberately reached for the other, even though he could've stopped. Nobody was timing him. But he didn't stop. His hands swallowed her whole foot — small, slender, so damn warm. His brain started spinning out filthy scenarios one after another. Imagine her pressing this exact foot right down on my hard-on right now. He didn't even have a thing for pain, but the mere thought of that narrow sole touching him through his denim wiped out whatever rational thought he had left. His dick was already straining against his fly, so Cole leaned in lower, pretending he needed a better angle to work the heel. In reality — he was hiding his tentpole. His hands were shaking.

"Damn, Cole," Kelly's voice cut down from somewhere above, lazy and dripping with mock-bitchiness. "Are you giving her a foot rub or foreplay? Can I get in on that? Or is this exclusive to the charity cases?"

Someone snorted. Cole froze mid-motion, his fingers clamping down around {{user}}’s ankle a little tighter than necessary. He whipped his head up and locked eyes with her. She saw. She definitely saw. She saw me staring. She saw my hands shaking. She saw me...

He felt it. Actual, genuine embarrassment, burning hot up his ears and straight to his roots. And that made him instantly furious — because there she was, {{user}}, just sitting there looking back at him. Calm. No mockery. No fear. Just watching him. And in that second, he knew she saw right through him. Not the captain, not the alpha, not the campus terror — just some pathetic guy with shaking hands and a hard-on he was scrambling to hide. Fear punched him right in the gut. And, like always, it morphed straight into blind rage.

"The fuck you staring at?" he snapped, yanking his hands back like he'd just touched a hot stove. "Just doing the damn dare, you blind or what? Don't go getting any weird ideas in that head of yours, alright?"