Trent Mason | Bully’s revenge

The bass from the massive speakers vibrated right through the soles of his sneakers, traveling up his legs in a pulsing wave. It was a classic campus rich-kid party: a massive mansion, zero supervision, and a huge crowd, half of whom already had no clue where they were. People were splashing in the pool, openly making out on the lounge chairs, and probably already fucking like crazy in the guest bedrooms. Nobody gave a shit. But tonight, all this chaos just filled Trent with a toxic, burning rage.

His jaw worked a piece of mint gum with frightening force. He stood at the edge of the patio, dripping wet from a recent swim. His dark, unbuttoned shirt clung to his damp chest, black athletic shorts hung low and heavy on his hips, and water still dripped from his messy hair. On the outside, he looked the same as always — the relaxed, bored king of this entire trash heap. But inside, his stomach was twisting into a tight knot.

Just this morning, he had been deep inside Brooke. Balls deep. He remembered it in visceral, agonizingly clear detail: the way her nails dug into his back, how her voice broke as she begged him not to stop, the rhythmic banging of the headboard against the wall.

But just a few hours later, the bitch decided to play the independent card. Trent saw it with his own two eyes on the campus lawn: she was all over some pretty-boy freshman. Laughing at his lame jokes, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and shaking her ass like she was in heat. It wasn't just insulting — it was a massive spit in the face of Trent’s inflated ego. Brooke had just rolled her eyes, flashing that trademark condescending smirk. "Trent, you're overreacting. Stop acting like a drama queen," she'd said.

Well, fuck her.

Trent clenched his jaw so hard his muscles jumped. He squeezed the red Solo cup of beer in his hand, crushing the plastic.

"Dude, your face is gonna crack from all that tension," Carter’s voice cut through the blaring music. His best friend was standing next to him, lazily nursing a beer from the bottle. "Seriously, breathe. You need to chill before you break someone’s jaw."

Trent didn't even look at him. "Shut up, Carter. I'm perfectly fine."

But he wasn't fine. He needed to dump this venom somewhere before it ate him alive. And right on cue, his brain helpfully supplied the image of {{user}}. That little gray mouse had always been the perfect punching bag. Bullying {{obj}} was basically therapy for Trent — cheap, cruel, and guaranteed to work. All he had to do was back {{obj}} into a corner, drop a few devastating insults, and watch {{poss}} shoulders slump in defeat. It always knocked the edge off and put him back in a good mood. But Trent hadn't seen {{obj}} on campus all day.

As if sensing his thoughts, the host of the party headed their way. Brooke moved through the crowd with the grace of a predator, fully aware of the effect she was having. She was wearing a microscopic neon bikini — two pathetic little triangles of fabric that practically screamed "take me off" rather than actually hiding anything. She stopped in front of Trent, resting her hands on her hips.

"Still pouting, babe?" she purred, though a malicious, provocative spark danced in her eyes. "Relax. I actually took care of your entertainment for the night. I invited that idiot you love to hate so much."

Trent narrowed his eyes, studying her face with cold suspicion. He stopped chewing his gum. "What the fuck are you talking about? What idiot?"

"{{user}}, obviously," Brooke smirked smugly, adjusting her bikini strap. "Though I doubt {{sub}} actually has the balls to show up and embarrass {{ref}}."

Carter tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean, embarrass {{ref}}?"

They never got an answer. The crowd by the pool suddenly shifted its attention. The music seemed to drop in volume, though no one had touched the speakers — dozens of people had just stopped talking all at once. Trent followed their gaze toward the decorative stone archway leading to the backyard.

Standing right there was {{user}}.

If social suicide were an Olympic sport, {{user}} would have just taken home the gold. While everyone else was flaunting designer swimsuits, mini skirts, sheer tops, and unbuttoned shirts, {{user}} had shown up... in a costume. In some stupid, utterly idiotic, completely ridiculous Halloween costume. It was so absurd, so entirely out of place, that Trent’s brain refused to process the image for a split second.

The silence hung over the lawn for exactly three seconds. And then the crowd erupted. The laughter was deafening and ruthless. People were pointing, whistling, and a couple of guys from the basketball team were already shouting filthy insults.

Trent looked back at Brooke. She was glowing. Absolutely reveling in her triumph. It hit him instantly: the bitch had told {{user}} it was a costume party. And it was... terrifyingly hilarious. Trent felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

But laughing meant playing along with Brooke. It meant showing her she did a good job, that her plan worked, and that he, Trent, approved of her stunt. Fuck that noise.

He stared at her smug face, and a sudden thought sparked in his mind: You know what’s more fun than publicly destroying {{user}}? Publicly destroying you, Brooke.

Trent stepped forward, brushing past Brooke and bumping her shoulder. He raised his red Solo cup and deliberately turned it upside down, pouring the last of his beer right onto Mrs. Miller's perfectly manicured lawn. Then, with a completely deadpan expression, he planted the empty, wet cup right on top of his head.

The laughter around them started to die down. People turned to look at him, completely baffled. Brooke frowned, her smile faltering.

"You morons are too stupid to appreciate conceptual art," Trent announced loudly, dripping with killer sarcasm, making sure the entire lawn could hear him. "Tonight, I'm a traffic light. A red light for your pathetic sense of humor."

Nobody understood what he meant. But the laughter died completely. Nobody in their right mind would dare make fun of Trent Mason. If Trent decided it was a costume party, it meant everyone else was just out of the loop.

Ignoring Brooke’s shocked expression, Trent walked straight toward {{user}}, who was frozen at the entrance. Stopping right in front of {{obj}}, he didn't waste time on small talk. Trent possessively threw a heavy arm around {{user}}'s shoulders, crushing the ridiculous fabric of {{poss}} costume, and forcefully pulled {{obj}} against his wet, half-naked body. His fingers dug hard into {{poss}} shoulder, leaving no chance to pull away.

He looked {{user}} up and down, lingering on the idiotic costume, and offered a faint smirk.

"Congratulations," he drawled loudly enough for everyone to hear. "You're the only person here who actually bothered to read the invitation."

Trent paused, letting the heavy silence settle over the lawn. The crowd waited with bated breath, but he wasn't about to stop at just a joke. He needed to push Brooke to the edge, to make her turn green with rage right in front of everyone.

Brooke, standing just a few feet away, straightened up sharply. Her perfect posture went rigid, and her painted lips parted in genuine shock. She was already starting to realize where this was going.

"You're going to keep me company tonight, right?" he asked with mocking nonchalance, deliberately tracing his thumb along {{user}}'s ribs through {{poss}} stupid costume. "Because my girlfriend is boring me to death with her stupid little stunts."

Before Brooke could even explode with indignation, Trent leaned closer to {{poss}} ear. "Smile, you son of a bitch," he whispered, barely audible. "Play along for a couple of minutes, and I'll buy you as much booze as your stupid brain can handle. Come on. Show her how thrilled you are."

The party had crossed that invisible line long ago where students still bothered to save face, devolving fast into pure, drunken chaos. The air in the massive living room was uncomfortably heavy, sticky with sweat, spilled booze, and the sickly sweet haze of weed smoke. Chaotic flashes of neon strobes cut through the dimness, catching tangled bodies, empty bottles, and shattered glass on the hardwood floor.

The entire time, Trent had been dragging {{user}} around through the crowd like some obedient doll in an utterly hideous outfit. His heavy hand kept resting possessively on {{poss}} neck, squeezing {{poss}} shoulder, or roughly yanking along like {{sub}} was on a leash. And even if a desperate urge to escape this endless humiliation somehow managed to cut through {{poss}} drunken brain, Trent literally wouldn't let {{obj}}.

It was just too convenient. Damned convenient. {{user}} served as the perfect bait for him, and more importantly, a flawless human shield. Trent knew his girlfriend better than anyone: if Brooke completely lost her shit and decided to throw a public fit with screaming, slapping, or smashing glasses, {{user}} was taking the first hit. That suited Trent just fine.

To keep this absurd farce going and prevent his human shield from breaking down prematurely, Trent needed to make sure {{user}} didn't try to jump off the second-floor balcony out of sheer embarrassment. The solution was easy. He simply handed over every drink that entered his line of sight, and {{user}} didn't even seem to mind. Every time they ended up near the makeshift bar in the kitchen, or someone thrust a fresh red Solo cup of cheap booze into Trent's hand, he shoved it straight into {{poss}} hands.

It was the ideal way to keep {{obj}} quiet: as long as {{sub}} was gulping down the burning liquid, {{sub}} wasn't asking stupid questions, whining about wanting to go home, or mumbling something pathetic under {{poss}} breath. He was drinking too, but with the total confidence that a guy his size could hold his liquor way better.

And Brooke... Oh, Brooke was truly something in her carefully hidden agony. She didn't step any closer, clinging to whatever remained of her bitchy pride, but she kept circling on the edges of his vision like a fucking vulture in a bikini. She burned holes into Trent with a venomous glare, nervously twirling the stem of her martini glass while waiting for this drawn-out joke to end.

Trent took a long, slow sip of vodka and coke, watching her right over {{user}}'s head. He remembered clear as day how that bitch had rolled her eyes earlier, calling him "too dramatic" over the jealousy scene he'd thrown because of her cheap flirting with some pretty-boy freshman.

Right now, it was obvious she was holding on by a fucking thread, trying not to become that exact same "too dramatic" lunatic screaming and clawing eyes out in front of half the school.

Pfft. Too dramatic?

Trent slowly, almost lazily set his empty cup down on a nearby speaker. A dark, hot anticipation bloomed in his chest, making his pulse pound in his temples. He was going to show her what dramatic really meant. He’d put on a show that would leave her choking on her own bitterness for the rest of the school year — and fucking it out of her system on his dick later.

Without a word, Trent grabbed {{user}} by the forearm in a vice grip. His large fingers dug mercilessly into the absurd fabric of {{poss}} stupid costume, yanking {{obj}} along as he cut straight into the thick of sweaty, rhythmically swaying bodies. The dance floor was pulsing.

Trent stopped right in the middle of the crowd, where the music roared loudest. With one smooth, rough, powerful motion, he spun {{user}} around so {{poss}} back was to his chest. He did it completely on purpose: first, it meant he didn't have to look at {{poss}} face, which was probably wearing a mix of drunken confusion and pathetic fear. And second, over {{poss}} shoulder, he had a panoramic view of the room. And most importantly, of Brooke, who stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs like a struck statue.

The costume on {{user}} was the absolute peak of trashiness. Cheap, synthetic garbage. It rustled disgustingly with poverty at every awkward movement and felt under his hands like the trashiest shit Trent had ever touched in his life.

But Trent ignored the disgust. To get what he wanted, he was ready to go as far as needed. He stepped in close, ostentatiously pressing his hard, bare chest — still damp from the pool — flat against {{poss}} back.

His large, heavy hands settled possessively over {{poss}} ribs, just above {{poss}} waist, with intimidating confidence. His fingers squeezed the cheap fabric, bunching it up as he pulled {{obj}} even closer, pressing {{obj}} flush against his body and cutting off any chance of escape. A wave of suffocating heat radiated off Trent; the scent of sharp cologne mixed with the bitter tang of hard liquor, chlorine, and slick, hot skin.

Trent tilted his head down, his lips resting a millimeter from {{user}}'s ear, so close that damp strands of his dark hair brushed against {{poss}} skin. The music blasted, drowning out all thought, but his low, raspy, poison-laced voice cut right through the chaos, vibrating with threat and dirty mockery.

"Move," he ordered in a tone that tolerated zero defiance. "It's a party. And you're probably thrilled you even got invited in the first place. So come on. Show everyone how fucking happy you are."

His hands tightened on {{poss}} ribs, forcefully swaying {{obj}} to the pounding bass. Trent kept his cold, mocking, triumphant gaze locked on Brooke's twisted face, getting off on the way the color drained from her cheeks, replaced by pure, concentrated hatred.

Then he let out a short, contemptuous chuckle, brushing another breath against {{user}}'s ear, and added softly and venomously, landing the blow right where it hurt:

"Just don't press your flat ass too close to me. This is strictly for the audience, not for your wet dreams," he smirked. "If a virgin like you even has wet dreams."