somerealnerd

  The day to head back to the academy finally rolled around, and John’s chest buzzed with a restless thrill. College meant fresh meat—gorgeous girls everywhere, especially those female professors who’d haunted his daydreams. His mind conjured one up on the spot: a refined beauty, all poised and elegant, adjusting her gsses with a delicate flick. The motion grazed her chest, those massive tits jiggling under a blouse too tight to tame them, the fabric straining at every seam. A peek of bck ce bra slipped through the gaps between buttons, teasing him raw. She stepped forward, her pencil skirt hugging so close she could barely move, each tiny stride funting legs wrapped in sheer bck pantyhose—long, sleek, and begging to be stared at. Tired from hours in heels, she slipped one foot free, massaging her ankle with a soft knead.

  Goddamn, I’d kill to suck on those pantyhose-cd feet, he thought, practically drooling.

  No surprise there. The past few days had been a dry spell—no Miko. Right after they’d set up a pantyhose-py date for the next day, her daughter came home for a break, killing his pns dead. All that pent-up heat, those fantasies swirling in his skull, left him aching—pantyhose stuck on repeat, a word he couldn’t shake.

  Fair’s fair, though—even without Miko, pantyhose owned his brain.

  But beyond the usual horniness, John had another reason to grin. He’d finally face those bullies again—especially that nightmare couple from his past. Old John’s poison, new John’s candy. He smirked upward, Watch me, kid—I’m settling your score.

  He was mid-stride toward the academy gates when the system’s voice cut in, sharp and sudden.

  [Got some good news for you, my man.]

  John jolted, nerves sparking, "my man? what the fuck?" But good news sounded promising—he bit down his irritation to hear it out.

  [All that unprotected fun you’ve been having with Miko? You know, the raw stuff? Goddess decided to bless you with a perk: no knocking up any women. Now you can go fucking wild, no strings, no worries—just bang away them however you want!]

  John’s face twisted, brows crashing together. Not a trace of joy—just a slow, simmering scowl. No wonder this smug-ass system was kissing up today. Its “good news” was the goddess snipping his balls, turning him sterile. What a load of horseshit.

  Sure, no condoms meant freer fun in this reward world—convenient as hell. But protection? That wasn’t some impossible chore. Pills, suppositories, whatever—this world had options. And if a kid happened? He’d not be over the damn moon, but he would embrace it happily still. After 100-plus years, it’s hard for him to not want that—his own blood, a piece of him to carry on.

  Most of all, this wasn’t his decision. It was another high-and-mighty move from the goddess, all for “her show,” right?

  The system caught the storm brewing in his head, paused, trying to be frank with its host, then tossed out its own take.

  [If you popped out a kid here, it’d shake things up, right? Big picture? The Y-chromosome’s been degrading in this timeline—your spawn might stop that. Which means the audience loses their little… “special program.”]

  John snapped back, course I fucking get it! Pissed didn’t cover it—he roared in his skull for the system to shut up and fuck off. Stomping toward his cssroom, he grumbled under his breath, bitterness spitting out with every word.

  “Oh I’ll fucking breed if I want to breed. I’ll even breed you one day, you fucking goddess.”

  The cssroom buzzed with chatter, students clumped in twos and threes since css hadn’t kicked off yet. But the ones who stole the spotlight were a couple smack in the middle. The guy, Anthony Vanderbilt—yeah, a name dripping with old money—was a tower of a man, at least six-foot-three, shoulders broad as a linebacker’s, chest puffed out like a damn wall. His thick, muscled arms bulged from a white short-sleeve shirt, flexing with every move, framed by a crop of golden hair that gleamed under the lights. His face was all chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, blue eyes glinting with a cocky edge—handsome enough to make half the room swoon and the other half jealous. Anthony had been old John’s walking nightmare, the king of the pack, adored by guys and girls alike. He’d hooked up with more girl students than anyone could count, but he had a main squeeze: Brittany “Britt” Maddox, the hottest girl around. She was a petite firecracker, barely five-foot-three, with skin tanned a deep bronze and long, golden curls cascading down her back. Her E-cups—way too big for her frame—strained against a low-cut blouse, buttons barely holding, fshing half her girly bra. The schoolgirl skirt she wore clung tight, doing nothing to hide her massive ass, swaying with every step. Bck pantyhose hugged her legs, slick and shiny, paired with ft leather shoes that clicked softly. Funny thing? Old John had a crush on her once—till she joined the torment parade.

  John paused at the doorway, eyes locking on them and their little posse of suck-ups. This couple had led the charge in bullying old John, with their cronies piling on, always tossing around some dumbass wager like it was the joke of the century.

  “How does anyone come up with something that stupid?” John muttered, shaking his head at their grinning faces as he stepped inside. A pn was already brewing in his gut—he’d make them pay.

  Sure enough, Anthony spotted him and swaggered over, his crew trailing like pdogs. “What happened to my little pig, not a fat fuck anymore?” he jeered, voice booming. “Where’s all that grease—feed it to your mom or what?” He cracked up, his buddies joining in like it was comedy gold.

  John just stared, half-amused. Really? Dragging moms into it with a fat-drinking punchline? Lame as hell.

  This new John facing Anthony now? Zero sweat. Sure, the guy was a hulking sb of muscle, but John had his speed and power. Muscles were merely weights in the face of a trained fighter—that's some his life experience from the previous 100 years.

  But John wanted it the other way. Beating him up was simply too dull. He needed Anthony to trot out that idiotic wager again. His brain raced, flipping through old John’s pybook—how’d that kid handle this crap to fall for that shit?

  Again, why not just beat the shit out of him? Nah. After 100-plus years, one of John’s biggest regret was jumping straight to violence with his enemies, and ending the show quickly. Revenge like that was not a good option, not the hate of it—he loved that part. No, he regretted not figuring out sooner how to really break someone, to shred their mind, flip their whole damn world upside down.

  The wager was his ticket. So he’d py meek, swallow the bile, step back.

  Plus, this wager would definitely give him a fuck today.

  “Sorry, Anthony,” he said, pitching his voice to match old John’s timid whine. “Just… just been jogging some, y’know, to… recover.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Anthony’s eyes narrowed. Something was off—John wasn’t the same quiet mouse today. He was talking more, even meeting his gaze dead-on. John caught the flicker of doubt on Anthony’s smug face. Shit, overpyed it. No way he’s biting on his own now—time to push.

  Inspiration hit. “Doctor said jogging might help with my…uh…y'know...” He trailed off, eyes darting away, throwing in a twitchy shuffle for good measure.

  What, too fake? Too soft? Sounded like a pussy? Didn’t matter—point was, it’d get him a good revenge soon, good fucks too .

  Anthony pounced on the hesitation like a dog on a bone. “Help what? Your manhood kick in? Get you hard for once? Ha!” He roared, loving it.

  John squirmed on cue, mumbling, “Doc didn’t… uh… exactly say it like that.”

  “Nah, he did! Bet he did!” Anthony was practically bouncing, cackling louder. John kept the act up, but inside, he grinned. Hook, line, sinker—this spoiled prick bit fast.

  One more little push, Anthony’s stupidity would fall right into John's pn like fucking gravity.

  “No, no, please no! He didn't say anything like that,” all panicking and even sweating a bit, John covered his crotch area, looking all defensiveness.

  “Oh you little pig log, you are coming with us.” Then Anthony grabbed one of John's arms, and started dragging towards their destination—that room no one went to but them. “Let's py your favorite little game again, little piggy.”

  Committing to the act, John showed an expression mixed of desperation and fear, even murmuring “help” to the people passing by them, but his mind simply couldn’t stop smirking.

  “Gotcha, asshole. Seems you'll be traumatized quite a bit today.”

  And that's just a friction of the reward.

  His mood brighter than the sun, an intense fuck, if he pnned right, was literally waving at him. Best part is? She’s wearing pantyhose, bck.

  The equipment room was a grimy staple every school had, but for John, it was the backdrop of every damn nightmare that’d ever cwed its way into his sleep. This was where the bullies cooked up their twisted little game—a sick wager old John could never win. You’re into Britney, huh? Anthony would crow, all fake generosity. He’d sic Britt on him, letting her tease him to the edge of sanity—pushing every limit she could. She’d strut close, blouse unbuttoned low, those D-cups spilling out, swaying in front of him as she leaned in, whispering filth in his ear. Her skirt would ride up, barely covering that massive ass, bck pantyhose stretched tight over thighs she’d grind against him, slow and deliberate.

  The rules? Simple: get hard, and Britt’s yours—do whatever you want with her. Anthony swore he wouldn’t care, even promised to “talk her into it” if she balked. But lose, and John was their toy for the day—punched, scribbled on with markers, the usual shit. Worst times, they’d pull out a women’s “toy,” waving it in his face.

  “Can’t use it yourself, huh, little log? Guess it’s gotta use you,” Anthony’d sneer, his favorite opening line.

  The whole thing was a rigged circus—John always the punching bag, the wager just a cruel gag. Old John didn’t stand a chance at getting it up, not with that crowd jeering, not with his innate fw.

  When Anthony got really into it, he’d clear the room, leaving just John behind, then drag Britt in for a “live demo”, just to illustrate his “man power”. He didn’t give a damn if she wanted to really strut her stuff in front of John—he got off on the power trip, that smug high of flexing something John could never touch. Most of the time, he’d lock eyes with him, drinking in the mess of colpse, shame, and hopeless want twisting across John’s face.

  But today’s John? Brand fucking new.

  Watch this, kid, he growled in his head. After today, this equipment room wouldn’t be their pyground—it’d be John’s paradise, their hell.

  The game kicked off, same stakes, same pybook. Britt sauntered over, smirking, popping a button to let her bra-ed tits perking out, then pressed it right up against him, dragging slow. She hiked her skirt higher, straddling his leg, grinding his thigh through her pantyhose till the air felt electric.

  John’s pants got yanked down, and he stood there, head bowed, hands cupped over his goods—damn near a carbon copy of old John’s shaky routine.

  Except this time, he was hiding a raging hard-on. Head down wasn’t fear—it was him fighting the heat, keeping that beast tucked so it wouldn’t blow his cover and spoil the win.

  Anthony didn’t catch a whiff, too busy cackling and slinging insults. “Still a limp little pig, huh?” John stayed quiet, head low, letting it roll off. Then Anthony dropped the line he’d regret for years: “Move your hands, Johnny-boy—let’s see that mighty manhood of yours, hahaha!”

  John’s voice slid out, cool as ice with a bite of mockery: “You sure about that, Mr. Anthony? Or maybe young Mr. Vanderbilt suits you better?”

  Anthony lunged, “what the fuck?” ready to wrench John’s hands away and expose whatever trick he was pulling. But John beat him to it—dropped his grip, and that little brother of his sprang up like a damn fgpole, standing tall and proud for all to gawk at.

  The room froze. Jaws hit the floor. This couldn’t be John—the John, medically stamped impotent, a textbook happy log. Miracles didn’t happen to guys like that—everybody knew it.

  John didn’t give a shit about their gaping faces—all he cared about was pinning this wager down, making it stick whether they liked it or not. He knew Anthony’d squirm out if he could, but John wasn’t asking. He snapped his eyes to Anthony’s, a hard, unyielding stare slicing through the room, daring him to try weaseling away.

  “Your move, asshole.”