Everest University

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<img src="images/Everest Logo title.png" width="865px" height="317px" style="float: right; overflow: visible; margin: -40px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline"> <br> <br> <br> <br> <br> Welcome to Everest University. A place where men are forged — and the weak are used in the process. Where power isn’t just earned... it’s enforced. Physically. Visibly. And if you break? That just means you were meant to serve. You applied. You got accepted. But this wasn’t your dream — it was your mother’s idea. There were no other options, and she made damn sure you knew it. Everest is an all-male elite university, training tomorrow’s world leaders — CEOs, military strategists, politicians. Dominance is bred here, submission... harvested. Some students rise. The rest become tools. Practice dummies. Obedience drills with a heartbeat. There’s a system in place. Upperclassmen don’t need to ask. And some of them are already watching you. You can already feel it — in the eyes that linger too long, in the hallways that echo with choked sounds, in the doors that close a second too late. There are rules here, but not the kind you can appeal to. The hierarchy is carved in muscle, sweat, and obedience. You’re not sure who you’ll become. A name they salute... Or a throat they use. Will you claw your way to the top — or get broken in, stripped bare, and find out you were never meant to lead? Because at Everest, everyone serves a purpose. The only question is: which one will you serve? Everret University is a twisted journey through erotic humiliation, social manipulation, and raw male power. Will you claw your way to the top — bending others beneath your will? Or will you find your purpose at the bottom, serving those more dominant than yourself? ⚠️ This is a degradation-driven gay (MM) game. Expect verbal abuse, psychological tension, physical submission, and dark exploration of kink and control. This is not a story of romance. This is a story of power. @@.str;Disclaimer@@ @@.smol; This interactive story contains explicit adult content, especially male-on-male domination, sex, and psychological themes. All characters are over 18. This is a **fetish fantasy** involving **non-consensual content, degradation, and hate speech.** The author does **not condone** rape or bigotry in real life — this is dark fiction for mature players only. If you're underage or uncomfortable with these themes, <a href="https://www.google.com" target="_blank">please exit now!</a> [[I am 18+, I understand the disclaimer, and I’m ready for intense, non-con gay content. ->Start]] <img src="images/Everest Uni Banner.png" width="865px" height="175px" style="float: left; overflow: visible; margin: -31px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline">

@@.title;Prologue – The Summit Awaits@@ The sleek black car glides to a stop at the edge of a long, cobbled drive. Beyond the windshield rises Everest University — its towering stone arches and glimmering glass facades framed by dense evergreens and an air of quiet, calculating prestige. It doesn’t look like a school. It looks like a palace built to crown kings. You hesitate, hand resting on the car door. The campus is immaculate, trimmed and sculpted like a showroom for legacy wealth. Not a blade of grass out of place. Not a single person outside without a purpose. In the driver’s seat, your mother is silent. She’s been that way most of the ride. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel — not nervously, just rhythmically. Like she’s already checking out, already ready to be done with you. @@.int;I didn’t even ask to come here.@@ You didn’t choose Everest. Your mother did. Or maybe her new husband did. After your last school made headlines for “inappropriate conduct”, you became a stain she needed to bleach out. And Everest, with its polished reputation and hard-handed discipline, offered the perfect solution: prestige and punishment in one. But Everest doesn’t just fix boys. It remakes them. @@.int;Yikes! The thought makes me cringe.@@ You open the door and step out into the chilled mountain air. The silence here is different — it doesn’t soothe, it watches. Judging. Measuring. You pop the trunk and pull out your bag. Your mother doesn’t move. You slam the trunk shut and start walking — no goodbye, no hug, just the sound of your boots clicking against the stone. As you approach the main hall, a pair of massive oak doors creak open for you. Inside is a vast atrium of marble and shadow, with a concierge desk tucked under a massive portrait of the university’s founder: Lord Dorian Everest, a man with eyes like knives and a motto beneath him that reads, “From obedience, supremacy.” A lean man in a blazer stands behind the desk, unimpressed by your arrival. "Name?" <<textbox "$you.name" "Jaiden">> [[You introduce yourself.->Introduction]]

<<di You "Thanks Pete, but I think I can manage. I'll see you around.">> Pete casually saluts and walks off, leaving me to my own devices. @@.int;Now...maybe I should try going this way.@@ After what must be fifteen minutes of aimless wandering, the silence of Everest University starts to feel *deliberate*. Like it’s watching you get lost. The halls are beautiful — dark wood paneling, golden sconces glowing like low embers — but there’s something clinical beneath it all. *Empty.* Sterile. Like the school itself has already judged you and decided you don’t belong. Your shoes click against the floor, echoing like gunshots in the marble quiet. @@.int;Where the fuck *am* I?@@ You turn another corner and—finally—see a door propped slightly open. A shortcut, maybe? You push through it and find yourself in a narrower, darker hallway. No windows. No art. Just old walls and old air. You take a step forward. And someone slams into you. You nearly fall back, but a hand grabs your arm hard—too hard—and steadies you. <<di jackson "Watch it, dumbass—">> He stops. You freeze. Your eyes drag up from the hand still gripping your bicep to the face in front of you. It’s him. @@.str;Jackson.@@ Older now. Sharper jaw, messier hair, deeper voice. That same entitled look behind his eyes — only this time, it’s more... deliberate. Controlled. Time slows. @@.int;No. No fucking way.@@ He lets go, but doesn’t step back. You’re still close. Too close. <<di jackson "...Hah. I *thought* I recognized that lost-puppy walk.">> You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Your throat clicks. <<di jackson "Still can’t speak around me, huh?">> @@.int;Say something. Say *anything*.@@ <<di You "I— I didn’t know— I thought—">> The words tumble out like broken puzzle pieces. <<di You "I mean, I didn’t think you’d— you’re *here*?">> His smirk twitches. <<di jackson "I *live* here. This school’s my fucking kingdom.">> <<di You "I-I didn’t know you were— I didn’t know anyone I knew would—">> <<di jackson "You didn’t think I’d follow you here?">> He leans in a bit — just enough that your shoulder brushes the wall behind you. <<di jackson "Or maybe... you hoped I would.">> Your breath catches. <<di jackson "Still flinchy. Still nervous. Still hard to tell if you want me to shove you or kiss you.">> <<di You "I— I don’t— that’s not—">> He watches you unravel. Watches *closely*. <<di jackson "Let’s not play the old game, yeah?">> His tone is different now. Lower. Like he’s testing the weight of a loaded gun in his mouth. <<di jackson "We both know what this is. What it’s always been.">> You swallow. Hard. <<di jackson "You act scared, you push back, but deep down?" (he shrugs) "You love when I take control. You like when someone tells you what you are.">> Your knees feel unsteady. A tightness coils low in your stomach, and your chest rises too fast. His words are a trigger — not just because of what he’s saying, but because he might be right. @@.int;No. No, I don’t.@@ But your body disagrees. Your mind flickers — back to that time sophomore year, cornered behind the gym lockers. Jackson had followed you, drunk on ego and protein shakes, flanked by a couple of his grinning cronies. They said you looked like a scared rabbit. He didn’t hit you. He didn’t even raise his voice. He just leaned in close and whispered all the dirty little things he thought you were. And worse — you remembered how hot his breath was on your cheek. How hard you got when he told you to get out of his sight like you were filth under his shoe. And you hated yourself for that. @@.int;He humiliated me. He laughed in my face.@@ But you never forgot how strong he looked that day. How confident. Unshakable. You wanted to be angry. Sometimes you were. You’d spend nights imagining all the ways you could’ve stood up to him. Told him off. Shoved him back. Shouted. But you never did. Instead, you avoided eye contact. You kept your head down. And sometimes — quietly, privately — you thought about what it would be like if he pushed you again. Except this time, you wouldn’t run. <<di jackson "So let’s start over. New rules, new place, same you.">> He steps closer — smooth and slow, like a predator making sure you feel every ounce of the decision weighing on your spine. <<di jackson "Kneel, and you’re mine. You obey me now. You stop pretending.">> You flinch as his lips graze the edge of your ear, but he doesn’t linger. He steps back, finally giving you room to breathe — but not to think. His stare pins you like a nail in soft wood. You’re not moving. Not yet. <<di jackson "Or run, and we both know you’ll spend the rest of the year chasing that same feeling in every hallway.">> @@.int;Do I want to challenge him? Or do I just want him to keep going?@@ The silence hangs thick between you. No sneers. No laughter. Just his expectation — and your confusion. He’s waiting. <div class="temp"> <<link "Fall to your knees. Accept his terms.">> <<set $sub += 5>> <<set $affection["jackson"] += 3>> <<set $you.kneelForJackson = true>> <<goto "JacksonClaimed">> <</link>> <<link "Run. Escape this before you lose yourself.">> <<set $dom += 3>> <<set $you.kneelForJackson = false>> <<goto "RunFromJackson">> <</link>> </div>

You decide not to wander alone. Pete, the boy assigned as your “mentor,” arrives at the campus fountain as promised — a slim figure in a soft blue button-up, sleeves rolled and collar undone. He’s all smiles and quick wit, walking backwards as he talks, motioning excitedly with his hands. His curly hair bounces with every step, and he seems genuinely excited to share Everest with someone new. <<di pete "Okay, so technically the administration wants me to stick to a script... but fuck that, right?">> He flashes a grin. <<di pete "If you want boilerplate history, there’s a brochure in your folder. I’m gonna give you the real tour. The dirty, unfiltered, interesting Everest.">> You can’t help but smirk. His energy is infectious. He points out various halls with offhand remarks that sound more like gossip than history. <<di pete "East Wing? All the pretty ones stay there. Avoid room 214 unless you want a stalker. That’s the science building — avoid that after hours, trust me. Coach Tor jogs around there shirtless when he thinks no one’s watching.">> He looks back at you to see your reaction, eyebrows raised knowingly. You try to stay neutral, but a flicker of curiosity must give you away. <<di pete "Aha! I knew you were paying attention. Come on, I’ll show you something even better.">> He veers toward a maintenance corridor you’re pretty sure students aren’t supposed to use. Pipes line the ceiling, and the scent of sweat and industrial soap thickens the air. Pete leans closer as you walk. <<di pete "This wing’s usually off-limits. Training facility. Coach Tor and some of the more… intense students practice here. Don’t make a sound. Trust me, it’s worth it.">> He presses a finger to his lips and guides you to a wide, shadowy room — part gym, part dojo. You crouch behind a stack of unused mats, eyes peering over the edge. What you see makes your breath catch. Weihao, shirtless and barefoot, is circling Coach Tor in a sparring ring taped crudely onto the padded floor. His bronze skin glistens with sweat, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths. His abs flex with every movement, lean and sculpted like they were etched into him with purpose. A faint scar cuts across his hip — a reminder that this boy fights for real. Across from him, Coach Tor towers like a carved monument of pain and precision. He’s bigger, broader, older. His body is pure, terrifying power — defined arms, sinewy shoulders, each inch of him honed by violence and purpose. His tank top clings to his sweat-slick frame like a second skin, revealing everything. Weihao lunges. Tor counters. The sound of their bodies colliding echoes like thunder — fists against flesh, shins against forearms. Their grunts are animalistic. Primal. You can't look away. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You feel yourself getting hard, shame burning hot behind your eyes. <<di pete "Hot, right?">> Pete’s whisper is low and teasing beside your ear, his lips almost brushing your cheek. You flinch, not because of the contact — but because he’s right. It’s hot. The most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. Tor grabs Weihao’s wrist, twists, but the boy flips out of it with effortless grace. They’re smiling now. Enjoying the fight. Performing. Their bodies gleam under the overhead lights like living gods made of bronze and sweat and lust. Then they stop. Still. Breathing hard. Both of them turn their heads — eyes locked on you. Your stomach flips. They saw you. Weihao smirks. Tor licks his bottom lip. They both start walking your way, not running, but fast enough to freeze you in place. Pete stays low, watching with mild interest. <<di tor "Fresh meat.">> <<di weihao "You like what you see?">> Their voices overlap. Deep. Confident. Challenging. You try to stand, to speak, to do something, but your mouth moves without sound. Weihao steps forward and throws you a towel. <<di weihao "Ah, you're blushing.">> Pete snorts behind you. You hadn't even noticed. <<di tor "Why don’t you step into the ring, pretty boy? Show us what that body can take.">> You swallow hard. Weihao’s eyes glint with something between hunger and cruelty. <<di weihao "Or you can run. Won’t blame you. You’re probably more mouth than muscle.">> Weihao winked. They’re taunting you, but it doesn’t feel cruel — it feels expected. Like you’re meant to prove something. You glance to Pete, unsure. He just shrugs. <<di pete "Up to you dude. But if you do fight… don't lose">> <div class="temp"> <<link "Take the challenge. No way I’m backing down now.">> <<set $you.duelWeihao to true>><<set $dom += 5>> <<set $affection.weihao += 3>> <<set $affection.tor += 3>> <<set $affection.pete += 3>> <<goto "DuelWithWeihao">> <</link>> <<link "Fuck that. I’m out of here.">><<set $you.duelWeihao to true>><<set $dom += 5>> <<set $affection.weihao -= 3>> <<set $affection.tor -= 3>> <<set $affection.pete -= 3>> <<set $you.duelWeihao to false>> <<goto "StormOut">> <</link>> </div>

<<di You "I'm $you.name.">> After enduring a mechanical orientation speech from a man who introduced himself as Mr. Kray, you're handed a sleek black folder containing your schedule, rules, and an embossed campus map. <<di kray "You're not here to find yourself, Mr. $you.name. You're here to lose who you were.">> He didn’t look up once while delivering it — just recited policies in a bored monotone, like he’d already decided you wouldn’t last the semester. <<di kray "Follow the rules, or I'll personally ensure you regret it.">> Then he waved you off, pointing vaguely toward the East Residential Wing. You're left alone to navigate a sprawling marble labyrinth, each hallway identical: dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows, and cold iron sconces flickering with soft white light. No signs. No voices. Just you, your bag, and the pressure pressing in from all sides. Occasionally, a statue or oil painting interrupts the monotony — great men in robes, medals, or power suits, immortalized in stone or canvas. Their eyes follow you. Judging. You take your third wrong turn and stop. @@.int;I wonder what life here will be like. Could I actually become a better man?@@ Your mother certainly didn’t think you could be. That much was clear from the look on her face as you walked away. But maybe this place deserves the version of you she’s always feared — the one who doesn’t fall in line, the one who talks back. Maybe it’s time to stop trying to prove her wrong… and start making her right. @@.int;Who am I kidding. I've never been rebellious. Why is now any different.@@ You adjust your bag and keep walking — slower this time, sharper eyes. If Everest wants to shape you, it's going to have to work for it. @@.int;A voice calls out behind you.@@ <<di pete "Hey, you look a little lost. I'm Pete. I was told I'm supposed to be your mentor or whatever. Want a private tour, or are you one of those ‘independent types’?">> <div class="temp"> <<link "Explore by yourself">> <<set $you.explored to "solo">> <<replace ".temp">> <<include "Explore by yourself">> <</replace>> <</link>> <<link "Explore with Pete">> <<set $you.explored to "withPete">> <<replace ".temp">> <<include "Explore with Pete">> <</replace>> <</link>> </div>

<img src="images/side menu.png" width="230px" height="181px"> by Candied.Pecan <hr> You are $you.name

<<set $you = { name: "Jaiden", explored: false, ranaway: false, juststroked: false, kissdick: false, provokedmarky: false, worejockstrap: false, lovefeetfood: false, Posed: false, PoseFlex: false, PoseGrab: false, PoseAwkward: false, PoseDeer: false, PoseDown: false, PoseAss: false }>> <<set $pete = { jerkedyou: false, lickedcum: false }>> <<set $sub to 50>> <<set $maxsub to 100>> <<set $affection = { jackson: 0, stephon: 0, weihao: 0, pete: 0, isham: 0, kray: 0, tor: 0 }>> <<set $slurs = true>> <<slur `["faggot", "fag", "homo"]` "bitch">> <<slur `["faggots", "fags", "homos"]` "bitches">> <<slur `["faggotry"]` "behavior">> <<slur `["faggy"]` "bitchy">> <<slur `["FAGGOT"]` "BITCH">> <<slur `["faghood"]` "bitchhood">> setup.ImagePath = "images/";

<<widget "di">> <<set _imgName to $args[0].toLowerCase() + ".png">> <<set _imgTag to '<a data-passage="m-characters" style="all:initial;position:absolute;bottom:-2px;left:0px; cursor: pointer"><img class="diag" height="72" width="72" src="' + setup.ImagePath + _imgName + '" onerror="this.style.display=\'none\'" /></a>'>> <<print '@@.' + $args[0] + '.di;' + _imgTag + $args[1] + '@@'>> <</widget>> <<widget "showPic">> <<set _fileName to $args[0].toLowerCase()>> <center> <<= '<img src="' + setup.ImagePath + _fileName + '" class="portrait" height="200" width="200" onerror="this.style.display=\'none\'" />' >> </center> <</widget>> <<widget "msgto">> <div class="msg to"><<= $args[0] >></div> <</widget>> <<widget "msgfrom">> <div class="msg from"><<= $args[0] >></div> <</widget>> <<run setup.templates = {}>> <<widget "slur">> <<set _template_names = []>> <<if typeof _args[0] === "string">> <<set _word = _args[0][0].toLowerCase() + _args[0].slice(1)>> <<run _template_names.pushUnique(_word, _word.toUpperFirst())>> <<set setup.templates[_word] = {}, setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()] = {}>> <<run setup.templates[_word].sub = _args[1], setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()].sub = _args[1]>> <<if _args[2]>> <<run setup.templates[_word].def = _args[2], setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()].def = _args[2]>> <</if>> <<elseif Array.isArray(_args[0])>> <<for _i, _entry range _args[0]>> <<set _word = _entry[0].toLowerCase() + _entry.slice(1)>> <<run _template_names.pushUnique(_word, _word.toUpperFirst())>> <<set setup.templates[_word] = {}, setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()] = {}>> <<run setup.templates[_word].sub = _args[1], setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()].sub = _args[1]>> <<if _args[2]>> <<run setup.templates[_word].def = _args[2][_i], setup.templates[_word.toUpperFirst()].def = _args[2][_i].toUpperFirst()>> <</if>> <</for>> <</if>> <<if _template_names.length !== 0>> <<run Template.add(State.temporary.template_names, function () { const output = document.createElement("span"); output.classList.add("slur"); output.dataset.content = this.name; if (settings.slurs) { output.textContent = setup.templates[this.name].def ?? this.name.replaceAll("_", " "); } else { const capital = (this.name === this.name.toUpperFirst()); output.textContent = capital ? setup.templates[this.name].sub.toUpperFirst() : setup.templates[this.name].sub; } return output; } ) >> <</if>> <</widget>>

[[Stats|m-stats]] [[Characters|m-characters]]

@@.int;You are@@ @@.pin;<<print $sub>>% Submissive@@ <div id="horizontalhealthbarbkg" class="hzbarbkg"><div id="horizontalhealthbar" class="hzbar"></div></div> <<script>>$(document).one(':passagerender', function (ev) { Health2(State.variables.sub, State.variables.maxsub, "horizontalhealthbar", true, ev.content); });<</script>> @@.int;How much these Everest boys beat off thinking about your tight perky ass.@@ <<nobr>> <table style="width:100%"> <tr> <td><<di "jackson" "Jackson: <<print $affection.jackson>>">></td><th> </th> <td><<di "stephon" "Stephon: <<print $affection.stephon>>">></td> </tr> <tr> <td><<di "weihao" "Weihao: <<print $affection.weihao>>">></td><th> </th> <td><<di "pete" "Pete: <<print $affection.pete>>">></td> </tr> <tr> <td><<di "isham" "Isham: <<print $affection.isham>>">></td><th> </th> <td><<di "kray" "Mr. Kray: <<print $affection.kray>>">></td> </tr> <tr> <td><<di "tor" "Tor: <<print $affection.tor>>">></td><th> </th> </tr> </table> <</nobr>>

/* Sub 0 to 100 */ <<if $sub gt 100>> <<set $sub to 100>> <</if>> <<if $sub lt 0>> <<set $sub to 0>> <</if>> <<set $maxsub to 100>> /* Characters Lust */ <<if ndef $lkray>><<set $lkray to 0>><<endif>> <<if ndef $lisham>><<set $lisham to 0>><<endif>> <<if ndef $ltor>><<set $ltor to 0>><<endif>>

<<if $you.tastedcum is true>> I tasted cum <<else>> Did not taste cum <</if>> <<if $you.explored is true>> I explored <<else>> Did not explore <</if>> <<if $you.ranaway is true>> I ran away <<else>> Didn't run away <</if>>

<table style="width:100%; text-align:center;">  <tr> <th><img src="images/YouM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="You"></th> <th></th> <th><img src="images/JacksonM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Jackson"></th> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.titleyou;$you.name@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.titlejackson;Jackson@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.int;Quiet. Smart. Obsessed.@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.int;Arrogant. Rich. Conflicted.@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>Quiet nerd who always had a crush on Jackson—despite the constant bullying and humiliation. He can't help but want him.<br><br></td> <td></td> <td>Popular student from a wealthy family. Starved for attention, he bullies others—especially the MC—but secretly wants him too.<br><br></td> </tr>  <tr> <th><img src="images/StephonM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Stephon"></th> <th></th> <th><img src="images/PeteM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Pete"></th> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.titlestephon;Stephon@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.titlepete;Pete@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.int;Strong. Fast. Hung.@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.int;Witty. Flexible. Devious.@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>Black and well-endowed alpha. School sports king and proud of it. Dominates effortlessly on and off the field.<br><br></td> <td></td> <td>The nerd everyone wants. Pete is popular, brilliant, and can be submissive or dominant—depending on who he's up against.<br><br></td> </tr>  <tr> <th><img src="images/WeihaoM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Weihao"></th> <th></th> <th><img src="images/IshamM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Isham"></th> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.titleweihao;Weihao@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.titleisham;Isham@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.int;Focused. Fluid. Brutal.@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.int;Pious. Cruel. Unrelenting.@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>Top martial artist. A dominant, kinky foreign exchange student. Believes BDSM should be educational... and painful.<br><br></td> <td></td> <td>Middle-Eastern transfer who sees gay men as wicked and in need of punishment. He's determined to discipline them harshly.<br><br></td> </tr>  <tr> <th><img src="images/KrayM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Mr. Kray"></th> <th></th> <th><img src="images/TorM.png" width="392" height="371" alt="Tor"></th> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.titlekray;Mr. Kray@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.titletor;Tor@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>@@.int;Strict. Cold. Merciless.@@</td> <td></td> <td>@@.int;Savage. Ruthless. Addicted.@@</td> </tr> <tr> <td>President of Everest University. Enforces discipline with a perverse sense of justice. No punishment is too extreme.<br><br></td> <td></td> <td>Ex-Muay Thai fighter. Now coach. He thrives on tormenting weaklings after practice—for pleasure, not performance.<br><br></td> </tr> </table>

You simply stay put, looking at him with begging eyes. You want this too, even though you don't quite understand why. Rationally speaking, it grosses you out. Piss is his body's waste. It's smelly, acrid, and all-around disgusting. However, you long to be marked by Tyler. It's something that defies your own expectations for what this night had in store. You came into it hoping for a knight in shining armor to save you from the Big Bad Walsh and ended up ready to be marked as property by your Master. It's wild and you'll probably regret it as soon as the night is over, but for now, you cannot wait for his stream to wash over you. You shiver in anticipation – or cold – until Tyler's piss hits you straight in the chest. The heat surprises you, it's as hot as the water coming from the shower. The smell invades your nose immediately, but it's not as bad as you expected. It's acrid but faint. The liquid is also not as yellow as it could have been. It seems that Tyler kept himself hydrated, diluting his pee to the point that it is not as nasty as it could be. @@.int;Did he plan this as well? Is he trying to ease me into this?@@ You have a feeling you're being manipulated at every corner. You're probably right. Tyler points the stream downward, hitting your hard dick's head. It pulsates at the sensation. He bites the tip of his tongue, eyeing you with bedroom eyes; the blonde is enjoying this far too much. It must be a serious power trip pissing on a willing dude. You, on the other hand, are feeling a new level of submission. There's something about being branded this way that makes you feel even lower than you usually do in the ranks of manliness. You're pretty sure he now truly believes you are his property. You believe it too. Tyler pisses for a long time. He hits every part of your body from your neck down. You're grateful that he avoided your face and your hair. It's wild that he knows just how far he can bend you before you'd break. The smell has now grown stronger since there's so much of it. You realize that you smell like a urinal at a bar or something. You shiver with disgust. You're not cold because his piss is keeping you warm. Finally, the stream slows down to a trickle, until the few last drops mix with the shower's water down his cock. You're marked. You're property. You're Tyler's. <<di ty "Rinse it off and dry me.">> Tyler suddenly steps out of the tub and leaves you alone in it to rinse his piss off your body. You feel like soaping yourself once again, but that might anger him, so you just make sure to wash it all off with as much water as you can. By the time you're pee-free and out of the tub, both your hard-ons have deflated. <<include "SubTrainingTylerSleep">>

You lift yourself, getting out of the tub as quickly as possible. Tyler looks at you, impassive and quiet. He releases a stream inside the ceramic, his yellowish piss mixing with the water coming from the showerhead. You're now getting cold; your boner starts to deflate. So does his, especially after the peeing. He steps out of the tub and looks at you expectantly. @@.int;Oh, I'm supposed to dry him too.@@ <<include "SubTrainingTylerSleep">>

You grab a fluffy white towel from the rack and you start to dry Tyler. He raises his arms and spreads his legs helpfully. You dry him quickly; this is a good towel, not the regular crap that you've seen in the school so far. Of course, Tyler has upgraded towels. You make sure to finish by drying between his toes properly. He puts on his slippers and leaves the bathroom. You swiftly dry yourself, happy to not be dripping anymore. You were cold. Then, you put on your pink fluffy slippers. @@.int;My slippers? Why do I have slippers in Tyler's room? How far ahead did he plan this night?@@ You shouldn't jump to conclusions or assume he's being nice to you. Now that your dick isn't hard anymore, the rose-tinted glasses are fading. You're starting to process how being attracted to Tyler was messing with your head. You leave the room to find Tyler totally nude, sitting at the edge of his bed. You forget all about being mindful. The messy hair looks so good in him. He should definitely wear it like this. <<di ty "Stop staring. Dress me.">> You blush. Why do you keep staring at him? Tyler looks cold, but he's not dressed. There are pajamas and underwear impeccably set over the bed. @@.int;Why didn't he dress himself?@@ You walk to him; he gets up. He raises a leg and you pull his underwear over it. You do the same with the other leg until the black material covers his privates. <<di ty "Adjust my cock inside.">> You blink at the request. You're dressing him like a servant did a king in the olden days, only a thousand times more degrading. At least he's helping you by raising his legs and arms. You slip your hand inside his boxer briefs, adjusting his soft dick to the side like you're used to doing to yours. You also lift his balls so that the lycra in the fabric supports them. Tyler seems happy with your job because he raises his arms so that you can put on the pajamas' t-shirt on him. Finally, you dress him in gray shorts. The gray offsets his blue eyes and the silky fabric hugs his thin body very well. @@.int;He looks gorgeous even going to bed.@@ He smiles at you like he read your mind just now. You blush once more. Tyler cocks his head to the twin bed that's almost hidden in the corner, behind the armchair. Apparently, that's where you're sleeping. There are also pink pajamas spread over it; you notice something's written on the shirt. @@.hand;Property of Tyler@@ You accepted the position. Now, you must broadcast it in your sleepwear. You're cold, tired, and ready to sleep. So you just put it on. It's better than wearing nothing. It's such a small thing; after everything that happened tonight, you don't feel like creating a hassle over this. A voice in your head nonetheless warns you that small deferences like this might come back to haunt you. Small choices do add up to big consequences. Whatever. You look over at Tyler, who has his head buried in his phone. That probably means he's done with you for the night. Since you don't have your phone, you just lay on your bed thinking about your night. @@.int;Fuck. How did I end up becoming property? Fuck my life... Marky was right. I am a fairy. I guess I deserved everything they said about me. Look at me now... proving them right.@@ And so your night ends: mentally abusing yourself. You feel like crying, but you hold it in. @@.int;Not in front of Tyler.@@ You hold onto that last tiny shred of dignity. Luckily, it isn't long before he orders you to turn off the lights. [[You both drift into sleep.->FourthDay]]

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You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Jackson’s stare sinks into you — hungry, knowing, patient. Your knees wobble beneath the weight of shame, of want, of the voice in your head screaming don’t do it. But something stronger takes hold. Something you've never had the courage to name. You kneel. Not in protest. Not in defiance. You kneel for him. Jackson exhales — slow, triumphant. A heat blooms in your cheeks. Your knees press into the cold marble. Your breath is shallow. Something in you breaks—and it feels disturbingly like relief. Jackson inhales sharply. <<di jackson "Holy shit.">> He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t jeer. For once, he’s quiet. Like even he didn’t expect you to do it. Then he crouches, his hand settling on your shoulder like it belongs there. <<di jackson "You really are mine now, huh?">> The guilt hits almost immediately—flashes of the past, the bruises on your locker, the names he used to hiss in your ear. "Fairy." "Toy." "Nothing." You hated him. You hated him. So why are you trembling for his approval? <<di jackson "Get up. We’re not doing this in a hallway.">> He guides you—no, steers you—down a corridor and into an old faculty lounge, long abandoned. Dusty leather chairs. Stained glass windows. A scent of varnish and dust and history. The moment the door shuts behind you, you feel the air change. Jackson stands between you and the exit. <<di jackson "Hands behind your back. Eyes down.">> You obey before you can think better of it. His voice has that old edge to it—sharp, smug, predatory. But now, it doesn’t just scare you. It ignites something low and traitorous inside you. <<di jackson "I used to push you around just to see if you'd crack.">> He circles like a hawk. Not touching. Not yet. <<di jackson "But look at you now. On your knees, no one making you.">> He stops behind you. You hear the rustle of his clothes—not removal, just a shift. A lean. <<di jackson "You know what I always wanted to do? Really own you. Break you properly.">> You swallow hard. <<di jackson "But you don’t need bruises. Do you? You just need someone to remind you what you are.">> A moment of silence. Then: <<di jackson "Open your mouth.">> You hesitate, pulse pounding, and obey his command. <<di jackson "You want to prove you're mine? Prove it.">> You look up. His face is flushed, eyes hungry, lips parted. He leans in—slowly, intimately—and spits. The warm trail hits your tongue before your mind even registers what’s happening. It’s filthy. Degrading. Exactly what he wanted. Exactly what you needed. <<di jackson "Swallow.">> You do. And something deep inside you shifts. Not broken. Not ruined. Just... his. <<link "Continue...">> <<goto "JacksonRules">> <</link>>

Your heart still hasn't settled. Kneeling for Jackson felt like crossing some invisible threshold — not just giving in, but being claimed. And now, here you are… standing in the narrow stairwell behind the dorms, breath fogging in the cooler air, as Jackson leans back against the brick wall like he owns it. Like he owns you. He smirks. <<di jackson "First rule: you belong to me.">> You open your mouth to speak, to push back, but nothing comes out. Just a dry swallow. <<di jackson "That means your time, your focus, your fucking body—">> He pauses, eyes sweeping over you slowly, like he’s memorizing his new property. <<di jackson "—exist to serve me now. You okay with that?">> You don’t answer. Not out loud. But your lack of resistance is loud enough. He circles you once, slow, casual. <<di jackson "Second: I protect what’s mine.">> The words hit you with more weight than expected. There’s something terrifying and… comforting in the way he says it. <<di jackson "There are other alphas here who’d chew you up. Use you up.">> His voice darkens, gaze locking with yours. <<di jackson "But if you stick to my rules? They won’t touch you. Not unless I say so.">> Your stomach twists. It's not exactly safety he’s offering — it’s ownership. And he’s enjoying every second of your reaction. <<di jackson "Third rule. You don’t get to say no.">> You flinch, but he steps in — not to strike, but to lift your chin with two fingers. <<di jackson "Whatever I want. Whenever I want it. That’s the deal.">> You’re painfully aware of how close he is. Of how your knees tremble, not just from fear… but from something else. <<di jackson "Think you can handle that, sweetheart?">> He tilts his head. <<di jackson "You’re free to walk away. Right now.">> His hand drops. The space between you widens — but somehow, his presence still clings to your skin. He’s waiting. <div class="temp"> <<link "I accept. No conditions.">> <<set $sub += 6>> <<set $affection.jackson += 6>><<replace ".temp">> <<include "JacksonRulesAccept">> <</replace>> <</link>> <<link "I... I need some limits. Please.">> <<set $sub += 3>> <<set $affection.jackson += 3>> <<replace ".temp">> <<include "JacksonRulesNegotiate">> <</replace>> <</link>> </div>

You nod. <<di You "I accept.">> The words leave your mouth before you even realize they were forming. They taste strange. Bitter. Heavy. Like you’re giving something away that can’t be returned. Jackson’s smile blooms slowly, the way a fire eats through paper — steady and inevitable. He steps forward, casting a shadow over your kneeling body. <<di jackson "Of course you do. You were made for this.">> You brace yourself, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He just walks — circling, studying, like a sculptor evaluating a blank block of marble. <<di jackson "I want this moment to stick. I want you to remember the exact second you stopped being yours.">> His voice lowers, like he’s telling a secret. <<di jackson "Something no one else will know… but you’ll feel it every time you think about me. About what you are now.">> He stops in front of you. Looks down. His eyes burn with glee and cruelty. <<di jackson "Take off your backpack. Put it down.">> He steps back, watching you follow his orders while he undoes his belt. <<di jackson "Good. Now—open your mouth.">> You freeze. Eyes wide. Every nerve in your body goes silent at once — like the world is holding its breath. @@.int;He wouldn’t. He can’t possibly mean…@@ But he does. <<di jackson "No questions. Just obedience.">> He’s slowly unzipping. Relishing the agony on your face. <<di jackson "You’re mine now.">> With Jackson's pants fully unzipped, your heart races with a mix of fear and anticipation. As his huge, 20 centimeter, veiny cock pops out, your mouth feels even more parched. He has one hand casually stroking his leaking shaft. <<di jackson "You want to be owned by me.">> You could only nod, your eyes fixed on the magnificent display before you. <<di jackson "Let’s start your training. Make sure to swallow every drop.">> Jackson took a step closer, his massive member now just inches from your face. He paused for a moment, looking down at you with a smug smile. <<di jackson "Stick your tongue out further. I want to see how eager you are for this.">> You obeyed mindlessly, your tongue hanging out as you looked up at him with submissive eyes. Your lips parted, trembling. You don't know why you're obeying. Only that not doing so feels... impossible. <<di jackson "Good boy, no questions. Just obedience.">> You nod once, barely. The room seems to tilt. Time slows to a crawl. And then— Heat. A sudden stream, forceful, searing, endless. It splashes against your tongue, bitter and sharp — the taste so acrid it makes your eyes sting. You choke, briefly — not out of refusal, but surprise. Jackson doesn’t pause. Doesn’t waver. The flow continues. Steady. Commanding. Claiming. @@.int;God, how can there be so much?@@ @@.int;It’s like he’s emptying everything he is into me.@@ Your throat works on instinct. Swallow. Swallow again. The liquid burns all the way down, flooding your belly with shame, heat... and something more confusing. You don’t dare close your mouth. Not while he’s still going. Not until the very last drop. Finally, after what feels like forever, the stream stops. The air feels thick. Stifling. You can taste him on your tongue, feel him inside you in the most degrading way possible. Jackson zips up with a casual hum, like he’s done nothing more significant than toss away a used tissue. <<di jackson "Now you'll never forget who you belong to.">> He fixes his pants, casually, like nothing just happened. Your lips, slick and parted, still tremble. There’s a bit of dampness on your chin. You don’t wipe it away. You can’t. He crouches down again — not out of intimacy, but inspection. <<di jackson "Look at you. Full of me. You’ll walk the halls with my taste still in your throat. And that ache in your belly?" (he smirks) "That’s mine too.">> He taps your cheek — affectionate and demeaning all at once. <<di jackson "Now we both know what you really are.">> He stands. <<di jackson "You think Everest is cruel? You haven’t seen what I’m like when someone disobeys. But you’ve been good. Today.">> He crouches down to your level — close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. <<di jackson "You’ll be safe… as long as you keep making me happy.">> He taps your cheek once more, like a pet. You're still kneeling. Heavy. Branded. Not with ink or metal… But something far more personal. Far more invasive. [[Find your dorm->RoomTransition]]

@@.titleyou;Your Dorm, Finally@@ You’re not sure how long you were walking before you ended up here. The air feels different now — still sharp with Everest’s chill, but calmer. As if the storm that brought you here has quieted, just for a moment. You stand before your room. 340. The number feels weighty now, like it’s been waiting for you. Like the door knows what you’ve seen, what you’ve felt. What you’ve done. Your hand lingers on the handle, a second too long. @@.int;No turning back now.@@ You enter. Inside, it’s exactly what you expected: sterile bedding, neutral tones, a desk with a lamp that flickers when switched on. But the black folder from orientation is here too — placed neatly on your bed, like it’s been waiting. You sit. Flip it open. Schedules. Maps. Rules. But the pages blur. Your mind drifts back to earlier: footsteps echoing in marble halls, eyes watching you from every direction, voices… commands… heat. Shame. Power. All of it is still with you. Everest doesn't wait for anyone to catch up. You're already behind, already marked, already bound in ways you didn’t see coming. Your room is quiet — but your heart isn’t. The night has only begun. [[Continue->YourRoom]]

<center> <h2>🏗️ Work In Progress</h2> <p>Thank you so much for playing this early version of <strong>Everest University</strong>.</p> <p>This section is still being written, but your feedback means a lot.</p> <p>If you'd like to shape what happens next, please fill out the short anonymous form below:</p> <p><a href="https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeD4hsPep-VFeHZhuqWLwHxGGN8mqnAdSRrV-8ColnE2fV1Nw/viewform?usp=dialog"> 📝 Suggest Content or Give Feedback </a></p> <p>More scenes and secrets are coming soon...</p> <p>Until then, stay curious. Stay submissive. Or don’t.</p> </center>

<<di You "No—no, I can't.">> The words leave your lips as a whisper, but your body moves like you’ve been shot from a cannon. You run. Hard soles slap against polished stone, breath catching, arms pumping as you twist down one unfamiliar corridor after another. You don’t look back — not at Jackson, not at the decision you just made, not at what you might've thrown away. You just run. @@.int;Why the fuck am I running?@@ But deep down, you know. You're not ready. Not for *him*. Not for *this place*. Not for what it's already starting to awaken in you. You stumble into a shadowed hall, narrower, colder. Dust lines the corners. The sconces here flicker dimmer. You’re not sure where you are, only that you needed to not be *there*. Then you hear it. A slap. Wet. Sharp. Echoing. You freeze mid-step. Another. Then a low, commanding voice — not shouting, just... *cutting through*. Smooth. Confident. A voice used to obedience. <<di stephon "You said you'd be good.">> Curiosity pins your feet in place. Slowly, carefully, you edge closer to a velvet curtain drawn halfway across an archway. You peer around it. It takes a second to register what you're seeing. A boy — slim, light-haired, wearing only boxers and a shirt that's been tugged halfway over his head — is kneeling on the floor. His arms are behind him. Voluntarily. Submissively. There's a dazed look in his eyes, like something inside him has shut off. And above him — no, *looming* over him — is Stephon. You've seen him before. Everyone has. The school's golden god. Broad shoulders, carved abs, thighs like tree trunks. The kind of athlete you’d expect on a recruitment poster — except there's nothing wholesome about the look in his eyes right now. Predatory. Playful. Power-drunk. He has one hand on the boy’s jaw, tilting it upward just enough to meet his gaze. <<di stephon "Open wider. I said wider.">> He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. The boy obeys. @@.int;Oh my god...@@ You feel like you shouldn't be here. Like you’re violating something just by watching. But you can’t stop. Stephon takes a step back and crosses his arms, cocking his head like he’s evaluating a piece of art. His sweat shines under the low light. It runs in beads down his pecs, catching in the grooves of muscle before dripping silently onto the stone floor. <<di stephon "Look at you.">> He crouches slightly, leveling his gaze with the kneeling boy. <<di stephon "You *needed* this, didn’t you?">> The boy nods once. Barely. As if he’s embarrassed by the truth of it. Another *crack* — this time it’s his palm, swatting somewhere out of view. The boy winces, but doesn’t flinch away. And then... something stranger happens. The boy turns, for just a second, his glassy eyes catching yours. He sees you. He *knows* you’re watching. And instead of recoiling, he *holds your gaze* — mouth open, flushed, almost proud. @@.int;He’s letting me see this.@@ @@.int;He *wants* me to.@@ You stagger back a step, suddenly breathless. You’re hard. You hadn’t even noticed. It’s shameful. It’s undeniable. You press yourself deeper into the shadows, heart pounding in your throat. Stephon’s frame moves like a storm—broad, assured, and relentless. Every inch of him exudes authority, dominance, and the kind of unfiltered confidence that makes lesser boys crumble. The other student—leaner, nervous, already stripped of his pride—braces himself against the stone bench as Stephon circles him. Not a word is exchanged. Just the sound of breath and submission. @@.int;He doesn’t even need to speak. His presence is enough.@@ Stephon’s hand finds the boy’s shoulder and pushes. Not roughly, not cruelly—just with purpose. The boy obeys. Without hesitation. Like it’s instinct. Like this was always meant to happen. Then Stephon leans in and whispers something in his ear. You can’t hear what it is, but the effect is immediate: the boy trembles. Not from fear… from something deeper. Expectation? Anticipation? @@.int;Why can’t I look away?@@ The boy’s face twists—pain and pleasure intermingling in ways you’ve never dared let yourself imagine. Stephon keeps a hand on him the entire time, steady, possessive, like he’s reminding him: You’re not in control anymore. And you—crouched in the shadows—can’t move. Can’t breathe. A part of you knows you should go. That you’ve seen too much. But another part… Another part aches to be seen the same way. To be handled the same way. @@.int;What is wrong with me?@@ The encounter continues, rhythmic and intense, like some obscene ritual carved into Everest’s very stone. And you… you keep watching, knowing that this—this—is what Everest really is. Raw. Unforgiving. Addictive. You’re still. Hidden. Barely daring to breathe. But you hear everything. The sharp slap of flesh echoes off the stone walls. It’s not just loud—it’s purposeful. Controlled. Like each strike is being delivered with precision, meant to train as much as punish. Then a choked gasp. It’s not pain, exactly—it’s something more tangled. The kind of sound a body makes when it’s overwhelmed… by sensation, by surrender. You don’t have to see the expression to know the boy is unraveling. Another smack. Louder this time. Followed by a low, drawn-out groan. Stephon says something in a voice so low it’s nearly a growl. You can’t make out the words, but the tone alone makes your spine tighten. The punished boy whimpers—a high, helpless sound—then moans again. It’s soft, almost involuntary. You imagine his fists clenching, his back arching, his resolve breaking a little more with each breath. The rhythm is unmistakable: the repeat of force, the faltering exhale, the guttural approval from Stephon. Then, silence. Just for a second. And in that pause, you hear the boy panting. Raw. Open. Like all his defenses have been stripped away. Then—slap. Harder. Deliberate. And Stephon laughs. A low, knowing sound, full of amusement and dominance. @@.int;He's not just disciplining him. He's enjoying it.@@ You press yourself further into the shadows, heat crawling up your neck. You shouldn’t be listening. But you can’t turn away from the sounds of someone being completely, absolutely… claimed. [[Keep watching->StephonsClimax]]

You’re hidden just behind a half-open supply closet, peeking through the narrow sliver of light spilling into the hallway. The sound of breathy moans and sharp grunts echo off the marble walls — rhythmic, heated, escalating. Stephon’s muscular frame towers over the trembling boy, his grip firm, posture commanding. The boy’s hands brace against the wall, knuckles white, his head hanging low. <<di stephon "You take what I give you, boy. That’s the rule.">> A loud slap punctuates the air — the sound sharp, echoing. Another. Then another. Followed by the boy’s muffled gasp, and a desperate moan swallowed by the corridor’s stillness. <<di stephon "Louder. Let everyone know who owns you now.">> The boy whimpers, and the pace quickens. The hallway becomes a chamber of noise — skin against skin, gasps tangled with low, guttural growls. The atmosphere thickens with heat, like steam rising off asphalt. <<di stephon "Yeah, that's right. Take it.">> Lastly a final, drawn-out grunt from Stephon breaks through — low, primal, vibrating through your chest even from this distance. Hhnnnnnng—! The sound reverberates like a slow thunderclap, followed by a gasp of spent breath. Silence falls. You don’t dare move. Not yet. <<di stephon "That’s how you learn, boy.">>There’s a pause. Breathing. Rough and uneven. The sounds of dominance echoing through the abandoned wing like a secret you were never meant to hear. You press your hand to your chest. Your heart is racing — not from fear, but something darker. Something deeper. A part of you knows you should leave. Another part… doesn’t move. You swallow hard, heart pounding in your ears. Your legs feel weak. You didn’t intend to stay this long. But you couldn’t look away. There’s a pause. Breathing. Rough and uneven. The sounds of dominance echoing through the abandoned wing like a secret you were never meant to hear. You press your hand to your chest. Your heart is racing — not from fear, but something darker. Something deeper. A part of you knows you should leave. Another part… doesn’t move. Time passes — minutes, maybe more — and still you don’t move. The boy’s soft breaths begin to slow, quiet gasps turning to shuddering inhales as he gathers what’s left of his strength. You hear the rustling of fabric, the unsteady scraping of sneakers on tile. He tries to stand. Fails once. Tries again. @@.int;He can barely walk…@@ His legs wobble, like he’s forgotten how they work. Each step forward is a wince, a tremble, a soft grunt of pain that he tries — and fails — to silence. His spine stays curled, body tilted like he’s trying to take pressure off his lower half. You don’t have to see his face to know it’s burning with humiliation. And something else, too. Something darker. Something more accepting. Behind him, Stephon stretches. Rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Breathes deep, loud and satisfied. His stance is relaxed now — loosened, at ease — like a man after a workout, not a conquest. He zips up, adjusting his belt with casual grace. Then he smirks, watching the boy’s limp retreat with something almost paternal in his expression. <<di stephon "Now that’s how you teach a lesson.">> His voice is low. Measured. Pleased. He stands tall for a beat longer, just admiring the aftermath. Then he turns. Heavy boots echo down the corridor — slow, deliberate. You’re still frozen in the shadows. You think you’re hidden. But Stephon’s gaze cuts to you anyway. There's no surprise. No curiosity. Just that slow, heavy-lidded stare of someone who already owns the outcome. He strides past — and just before disappearing around the corner, stops. He steps close. Too close. A warm, sweat-slicked hand presses down firmly on the top of your head — not gentle, not casual. A claiming gesture. His fingers linger a moment too long, heavy with meaning. <<di stephon "That one was practice.">> He gives the side of your head a light tap, like closing a book — then walks off, his shadow stretching long behind him. You're still on your knees, breath shallow, body tight, unsure what you've just witnessed… or what you've just been marked for. Then he's gone. No further words. No backward glance. Just the echo of power… and the long, slow fade of footfalls disappearing down the hall. You exhale — finally. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. Your hands shake. Your jeans are tight. And your thoughts are a mess of confusion and heat. Not just fear. Not just shame. Something worse. Something closer to envy. Something that makes your skin burn. <div class="temp"> <<link "Eventually, you pull yourself together and find your room.">><<set $affection.stephon += 6>><<goto "RoomTransition">> <</link>> </div>

Jackson watches you with that maddening mix of patience and possession — like a lion waiting to see if the antelope will bolt or kneel. <<di jackson "So you don’t want to be broken in. Not completely.">> He says it like he’s indulging you. Like it amuses him that you think there’s a difference. <<di jackson "Fine. I’ll give you an out. Sort of.">> He steps closer, and the air thickens. His body language relaxed, but dominant — like he owns the space between you before you even give it up. <<di jackson "You want to keep your dignity? Cool. Then earn your leash.">> You flinch, and he grins. There’s no apology in his tone, only calculation. <<di jackson "I’m offering a deal. You serve. You follow. Not as my plaything... yet. Just as mine. In a way everyone can ignore.">> He ticks the tasks off like chores on a whiteboard: <<di jackson "Clean my room. Carry my bag. Fetch my meals. Give massages when I ask. Take notes, do my essays when I’m bored. And you do it all without complaint.">> He leans in slightly — not touching, but close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. <<di jackson "You want the pressure off? You work for it.">> His tone isn’t cruel. It’s worse — reasonable. <<di jackson "No leash. No collar. Just responsibility. And my favor.">> You hesitate, your pulse pounding in your ears. The idea makes your stomach twist. But beneath the shame… a flicker of relief. This isn’t public humiliation. This isn’t full surrender. It’s… manageable. Almost normal. And yet, still servitude. @@.int;Do I really want this?@@ @@.int;But he’s giving me a chance. Something softer. Something survivable.@@ @@.int;I swore I wouldn’t be someone’s errand boy. But… I remember what it was like when Jackson had his eye on me before.@@ @@.int;He never looked at anyone else the same way. Not with that hunger.@@ Jackson straightens. <<di jackson "Clock’s ticking. You want a place in my world, or not?">> He doesn’t push. He doesn’t threaten. He just waits — like he knows the answer already. <div class="temp"> <<link "…Fine. I’ll serve. I’ll do whatever you ask.">> <<set $sub += 6>><<set $affection.jackson += 6>><<set $you.jacksonDynamic to "ServiceSub">> <<goto "JacksonServiceBegin">> <</link>> <<link "No deal. I’m not your servant.">> <<set $dom += 3>> <<set $affection.jackson -= 3>> <<goto "JacksonRulesDecline">> <</link>> </div>

Jackson studies your expression, and for the first time since this encounter began, his smirk falters — not from anger, but from something closer to disappointment. <<di jackson "Your call.">> He says it evenly. No bite. No threat. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Like a door softly closing. He steps back. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t look over his shoulder as he walks away — just disappears around the corner, leaving you alone in the silence he created. You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your knees ache slightly from standing so rigidly still. @@.int;That could’ve gone worse… right?@@ But still, your heart’s pounding. Your thoughts, swirling. You collect yourself and continue your exploration — quieter this time, your thoughts heavier than your footsteps. The shadows of Everest seem just a little darker now… but at least they’re yours to walk through. For now. Eventually, after taking in a few more quiet corners, art-lined corridors, and half-heard whispers behind old doors, you check the time. Orientation is long over. You reach for the sleek black folder they gave you. Room 340. East Wing. @@.int;Time to find out what kind of hell I’ll be sleeping in.@@ [[To your room->RoomTransition]]

You lower your gaze. <<di You "Okay... I’ll do it. But not everything. I’m not some toy.">> Jackson tilts his head, that smirk returning like a storm cloud easing back over the sun. <<di jackson "Not a toy. Got it.">> He walks slowly around you, hand brushing your shoulder — not quite affection, more like inspecting a tool. <<di jackson "Then you’re something useful.">> <<di jackson "Good. I like useful.">> He stops in front of you again, and this time, his tone flattens — more serious, more… businesslike. <<di jackson "You’ll clean my dorm. My boots. My gym gear. You’ll do my reading when I don’t feel like it, and my writing when I don’t have time.">> He pauses. Watches your reaction. <<di jackson "In return, I don’t break you.">> You flinch. But there’s no threat in his tone. Just certainty. @@.int;This is insane.@@ @@.int;But it’s real.@@ @@.int;And somehow... better than nothing.@@ Jackson keeps going. <<di jackson "You’ll check in every night before curfew. Bring me anything I ask for. And if I call? You answer.">> You swallow, nerves buzzing in your fingertips. <<di jackson "Some of the things I’ll ask will feel beneath you.">> <<di jackson "That's where you belong. Beneath me.">> You try to respond, but your voice catches in your throat. A lump of something unspoken sits heavy in your chest — not fear, exactly. Not yet. But something close. He sees it. <<di jackson "But hey, you wanted leniency, right?">> He shrugs. <<di jackson "This is me being nice.">> You hesitate. But you nod. He places a hand on your head — not tender, not rough. Just… claiming. <<di jackson "Then we’re good.">> He gives your hair a slow pat before pulling away. <<di jackson "Get up. We’re going to my room. You’re overdue to start pulling your weight.">> He doesn’t wait for you to speak again. Just walks, expecting you to follow. You do. The trek to his dorm isn’t far, but each step echoes like a countdown. You imagine what it’ll look like — leather furniture, vintage posters, maybe something impressive. What you get is... worse. He pushes open the door, and you're immediately hit by a wall of heat and stench. @@.int;What the hell is that smell?@@ The room reeks of sweat, unwashed laundry, and something sour you can’t quite place. Piles of clothes spill from open drawers. A crusty towel hangs from the radiator. Half-eaten protein bars and empty soda cans clutter every surface. A sneaker lays on the desk. A jockstrap on the windowsill. <<di jackson "Welcome to your new after-school job.">> He turns to you, expression unreadable. Then he grins. <<di jackson "Hope you brought elbow grease. I don’t do tidy.">> You stand frozen just inside the doorway, overwhelmed. @@.int;This is punishment.@@ @@.int;No… this is training.@@ @@.int;This is Jackson testing how far I’ll go.@@ And somehow, you already know the answer. You step forward. <div class="temp"> <<link "Start cleaning his room">> <<set $sub += 5>> <<set $affection.jackson += 3>> <<replace ".temp">> <<goto "JacksonRoomCleaning">> <</replace>> <</link>> </div>

@@.int;What the hell is that smell?@@ <<di jackson "Get used to it. This is where you'll serve.">> He barely glances at the mess before throwing himself onto the bed with a smirk. <<di jackson "Start with the laundry.">> No instruction on how. No tools. Just expectation. He peels off his shirt and flings it at you. It lands on your chest, still warm. Then his fingers slip into the waistband of his gym shorts. He pushes them down, letting them fall, revealing damp briefs clinging tight to his thighs. <<di jackson "Don’t forget these.">> He hooks a thumb into the waistband, slides the underwear down — and then flicks them directly at your face. The damp fabric hits your forehead, then slides down over your nose. <<di jackson "Oops.">> He smirks, slow and smug, like he’s just fed a dog a treat. You peel them off your face quickly, face burning. But he’s already moved on, collapsing into his bed, lounging in nothing but silk-like black robe, one leg bent, the other extended. Controller in hand. No shame. No acknowledgment. You begin collecting the rest of his laundry, gathering socks from every corner, pulling shirts out from under the bed, even grabbing what looks like an old towel from beneath a weight bench. Everything reeks of sweat, musk, and... him. You carry the bundle to his en-suite bathroom. It’s massive — clearly not standard housing. There’s a laundry machine tucked in the corner beside a walk-in shower and marble sinks. @@.int;He doesn’t even have a roommate. Of course he doesn’t.@@ You load the clothes and start the machine. When you return, he’s exactly where you left him, abs flexing slightly as he shifts with the game. <<di jackson "Still a mess in here. Floor, desk, closet — everything. I want it clean. No excuses.">> So you get to work — scrubbing, organizing, wiping down sticky surfaces. You dust under his gaming chair, realign books and bottles, even organize his protein stash. Jackson doesn’t watch you directly. But occasionally, you feel him glance over. Like he wants to see how far you’ll go. <<di jackson "Get under the bed too. No cutting corners.">> You nod and obey. Every inch you scrub feels like surrender. Every whiff of his scent clinging to the air and fabric presses a little heavier against your thoughts. Shame and something else knot inside you. @@.int;Is this what I agreed to? Why does it feel…@@ You shake your head and keep going. Eventually, the room is spotless. The air still carries a masculine charge, but it’s cleaner — tamed. Like Jackson gave you a piece of chaos to control, and you did. He doesn’t say "good job." <<di jackson "Good. You’re useful, at least.">> That smirk again. That tone. Like he owns the ground you kneel on. And you still haven’t decided how you feel about that. Just then the laundry machine chimes. @@.int; Thank God he has a two-in-one laundry machine.@@ Mindlessly, you remove the clothes and begin to fold. ou finish folding the last pile of Jackson’s laundry, slipping the still-warm clothes from the dryer into a neat stack. The scent clings to your hands — a potent mix of fabric softener, sweat, and something unmistakably his. You try not to dwell on it. Jackson lounges on his bed, now in nothing but tight, navy boxer briefs. His bare chest rises and falls slowly as he mashes buttons on a game controller, focused and utterly unbothered by your presence. <<di jackson "You're not done. Not even close.">> He doesn't look up. You hesitate, already sore from scrubbing, arms tired, head foggy. <<di jackson "Bathroom’s next. And don’t half-ass it. I want it shining.">> You nod silently and move toward the bathroom door. You get to work, kneeling beside the tub, scrubbing the porcelain as the echo of the TV and Jackson’s voice bleeds faintly through the closed door. Just as you're rinsing the sink basin, the door opens. Jackson steps in casually, brushing past you. You flinch instinctively, but he says nothing. He lifts the toilet lid and, without ceremony, begins to relieve himself. The sound is sudden. Sharp. Almost aggressive. It reverberates off the tiled walls and momentarily drowns out everything else. You freeze. Heart pounding. Back still turned, pretending to focus on the smudges on the mirror. <<di jackson "Keep going.">> He says it like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t strange. Like this is just what you do now. So you keep scrubbing, cheeks burning. The water runs. The toilet flushes. He leaves. And you’re left alone again — with the echo of sound, the sting of humiliation… and a strange, electric heat buzzing just under your skin. After what feels like forever, you finish the bathroom. Your hands are pruned from the water, your knees sore from scrubbing tiles. Every surface now gleams — a silent testament to your obedience. You step back into the main room, unsure if you're finished or just between tasks. Jackson is sprawled out on his bed again, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily tossing a stress ball in the air. He doesn’t even glance at you. <<di jackson "Foot of the bed. Hands ready.">> You blink. <<di jackson "You’re massaging me. I’ve had a long day of not cleaning.">> There’s no arguing. Not now. Not after everything. You kneel beside the bed and begin. Shoulders first. Then back. Then arms. The tautness of his body, the occasional soft groan of approval — it’s hard not to notice how into it he is. Every so often, his leg twitches, or his breath catches. He makes no attempt to hide his arousal… or the satisfaction of watching you serve. Eventually, the tension leaves his body completely. His breathing slows. His grip on the controller loosens until it slips to the carpet. He’s asleep. Just like that. You're left kneeling beside him — heart pounding, hands still warm from touching him. And then… opportunity. You rise carefully, quietly gathering your things. The door creaks as you slip out into the hallway. No one stops you. No one sees. At last, you’re free to find your own dorm. <div class="temp"> <<link "Slip out while Jackson sleeps and find your room.">> <<set $sub += 5>> <<set $affection.jackson += 6>><<goto "RoomTransition">> <</link>> </div>

You step out of the dim maintenance corridor into a high-ceilinged gym that seems both too large and too quiet. Light spills in through long, grimy windows, casting golden lines across the scuffed mats below. The smell hits first — musk, rubber, a sharp tang of sweat. Then the heat. It's warmer here, like the walls have absorbed the exertion of every body that's passed through. At the center of the space, two figures dominate the mat. Coach Tor — broad, tall, and carved from pure aggression — stands shirtless, his torso thick with power. His fists rest loosely on his hips, veins raised along his forearms like winding rivers. Every movement, even stillness, seems deliberate. Dangerous. Weihao — shorter but honed like a blade — moves with precise grace, his back slick and glowing under the hazy gym light. His breathing is calm, but his posture coiled. His abs flex subtly as he shifts from one foot to the other, eyeing you like a puzzle he already knows how to solve. They both turn as you enter, as if they sensed you watching. Pete trails a few steps behind, having followed silently since your detour into the maintenance hall. He says nothing, but there's a curious edge to his expression — like he’s trying to decide whether to be amused… or impressed. <<di weihao "You finally done hiding?">> His voice is crisp, with a playful lilt that doesn't quite hide the challenge buried beneath it. You try to answer, but your throat feels sandpaper dry. <<di tor "New meat wants a lesson, huh?">> Coach’s chuckle rumbles deep, amused. He rolls his neck slowly, and his thick shoulders creak audibly as he does. Weihao steps forward, stopping barely an arm’s length away from you. Up close, he's smaller than Tor, but not by much. Compact muscle beneath smooth, unmarked skin. His eyes burn with the same fierce light you saw while he sparred — half discipline, half hunger. <<di weihao "You ever fight before?">> You hesitate. Then: <<di You "Wrestling. When I was younger.">> Weihao tilts his head, assessing. Behind you, Pete clicks his tongue softly. <<di pete "Wrestling, huh? That might make it worse for you.">> Your stomach flips. Your mind spirals back — years ago, when you first felt this kind of tension. Back then, on wrestling mats not unlike this one, when your body had pressed against another boy’s, skin slick and close. The weight of him. The heat. The confusion that followed when your pulse quickened for all the wrong reasons. You'd chalked it up to adrenaline. To proximity. You'd never unpacked it — only buried it. But now, as Weihao grins with predatory calm and Tor chuckles low behind him, it’s all rushing back. You feel the memory in your limbs. In your breath. <<di weihao "Good. Then you know how to lose.">> You blink. <<di You "...What?">> He drops into a low stance, bare feet sliding over the mat like a dancer’s. His shoulders are relaxed, but his center is solid — unshakable. <<di weihao "Wrestle me. Right here. Right now.">> He flashes a sharp smile. No malice. Just control. <<di tor "Don’t worry. He won’t break anything important. Probably.">> You look around the gym, searching for a way out, a reason to say no. But Pete just shrugs, arms crossed. No one's stopping you — and no one's going to save you either. Weihao flexes his fingers. <<di weihao "Take your stance.">> You swallow, slowly stepping forward. You can feel the mat's warmth through your shoes. The air buzzes with anticipation — and something else, too. Something like... pressure. Expectation. You meet his eyes one last time. There's no mocking in them. No doubt. Just certainty. And that somehow makes it worse. <div class="temp"> <<link "Step forward and begin the match.">> <<set $dom += 5>><<set $affection.weihao += 3>> <<set $affection.tor += 3>> <<set $affection.pete += 3>><<goto "DuelWithWeihao2">> <</link>> </div>

You drop into position, knees braced on the mat, hands loose but ready. Across from you, Weihao is still — poised. Focused. There’s a serenity in his stance that only makes the moment feel more dangerous. Coach Tor raises a hand. <<di tor "Begin.">> Weihao moves like water — no wasted effort, no hesitation. Within seconds, he’s pressed close, one arm looping around your back, the other hooking your leg. You grunt from the contact, scrambling to resist, but your balance is already gone. He doesn’t slam you — he places you. Like setting a piece into position on a board only he knows how to play. His forearm braces across your chest, his hips shift behind you, and your shoulders hit the mat with a soft thud. The gym lights spin briefly above your head. Your pulse hammers. He adjusts again — fast, fluid — and now his knees are planted on either side of your ribs, pinning your arms. His torso hovers above you. Dominating your line of sight. You try to buck up. Fail. <<di weihao "Your struggling’s cute.">> His voice is low. Calm. Teasing, but not unkind. That might be the worst part. He shifts forward. Now his full weight presses down, and your face is uncomfortably close to his body — hips leveled inches above you, the fabric of his gym shorts pulled tight. The smell hits you: warm, musky, undeniable. Not overpowering — but raw. Intimate. You suck in air that tastes like sweat and exertion and him. Your cheeks burn, not from the strain, but from how aware you suddenly are of everything. The scent floods your head. It’s not clean. It’s real. You squirm, but that only pushes you closer. Your body gives a subtle twitch. You pray he didn’t feel it. <<di pete "You’re pinned, dude. That’s game.">> His weight doesn’t let up. Weihao leans in slightly, his face unreadable. <<di weihao "Say it.">> You blink up at him, chest rising and falling too fast. <<di weihao "Say 'yield.'">> Your pride clings to the silence. But your body — betrayed by heat, confusion, and memory — is already giving in. You twist, straining against Weihao’s grip — but it’s no use. With fluid, practiced strength, he counters every move you make and finally pins you flat against the mat. His chest heaves from exertion. Your wrists are pinned above your head, his knees locking you in place. His body hovers just above yours — firm, warm, imposing. You can feel the weight of his control in every taut muscle, every inch of his deliberate pressure. Coach Tor lets out a sharp whistle. <<di tor "Match!">> But Weihao doesn’t move. Not immediately. He stays where he is — eyes locked on yours, lips pulled into a faint, unreadable smirk. You try not to notice how close he is. Or the slight warmth radiating from his body. Or the faint scent of sweat, sharp and heady, that hits you with every breath. He leans in just a little closer. <<di weihao "You said you wrestled.">> He cocks his head. <<di weihao "You sure about that?">> You open your mouth to respond — but no words come out. You're caught somewhere between humiliation and something harder to admit. Pete’s voice cuts through from the sidelines, nervous and half-laughing. <<di pete "Okay, okay! You won! Let him up, champ.">> Weihao finally releases you with slow, deliberate movements. He stands tall, brushing nonexistent dust from his shorts, then offers you a hand — more out of custom than kindness. You hesitate, then take it. The moment lingers. You feel it in your chest, your skin, the pounding of your heart. Not just the sting of losing — but the strange feeling that something unspoken just began. [[Continue ->MatchAftermath]]

You wipe your palms on your pants, still flushed from the match. Your body aches — but it's your pride that stings more. Pete jogs over with a wide grin, clearly entertained. <<di pete "Well, that went exactly how I thought it would.">> He claps you on the back — hard enough to make you stumble. <<di pete "Don’t worry. Most guys don’t make it past 30 seconds with him. You lasted, what, two?">> You want to say something. Anything. But your throat feels tight. Weihao strolls past, towel slung over his shoulder, calm and composed like he hadn’t just manhandled you in front of an audience. <<di weihao "You should workout more. Might keep you from folding like paper.">> He doesn’t even glance back as he says it — the words tossed out like an afterthought. @@.int;Folding like paper.@@ You feel it in your gut. The burn. The humiliation. But worse than the sting is something deeper — something you don’t want to name. Weihao disappears into the locker room without another word, towel swinging casually behind him. Coach Tor begins cleaning the floor with slow, practiced strokes, as if the whole match was just another part of the routine. Pete checks his phone. <<di pete "Welp. That’s about all I’ve got for the tour. You’ll figure the rest out. Eventually.">> He flashes a wink, already walking backwards toward the exit. <<di pete "Try not to get too lost. Or pinned again.">> And with that, he’s gone. You’re alone. Again. The dojo is quiet now, except for the soft squeak of Tor’s mop and the echo of your own heartbeat. You grab your things — still warm with the sweat from earlier — and head for the dorms. Time to find your room. [[Find your room->RoomTransition]]

You don’t care if it’s rude. You turn on your heel, grab your bag tighter, and storm out of the dojo without another word. The burn of humiliation crawls up your spine. The match. Weihao. Pete’s smirk. It’s all too much. <<di you "Fuck that. I'm out of here.">> Footsteps echo behind you. <<di pete "Hey—wait up! I wasn’t trying to—look, it’s just a joke, alright? You okay?">> You ignore him. Your legs carry you past arched hallways and quiet corridors, until the dojo is out of sight and the air feels a little less charged. Eventually, Pete slows his steps. <<di pete "Fine. Just… don’t get lost. This place eats people alive.">> He veers off at a side hall. You're alone again. At the end of the corridor, tall double doors hang open. Inside: low candlelight, red carpeting, rows of pews, and a gilded altar beneath a massive, stoic painting of St. Sebastian. Kneeling at the front, head bowed in reverence, is a student in uniform. His robe is folded neatly beside him, prayer beads in hand. His posture is rigid. Still. You’re about to back away — not wanting to interrupt — when his head lifts. His dark eyes lock onto yours. Not in curiosity. Not even surprise. Disgust. <<di isham "...This school really does let anyone in.">> His voice is calm. Too calm. Like judgment carved in stone. You freeze in the doorway. <<di isham "Are you lost… or just trespassing?">> He stands now, slowly, the rosary still wrapped around his knuckles like a weapon. @@.int;Who is this guy?@@ He takes a step forward, and though he’s not threatening — not physically — you feel like you’ve been put on trial. [[Say something->IshamConversationStart]]

His gaze sharpens as it lands on you — not curious, not surprised. Just... judging. The hush of the chapel is thick with incense and tension. A single candle flickers on the altar beside him, casting shifting shadows on his angular face. <<di isham "Men like you shouldn’t linger near sacred places.">> You shift your weight, unsure whether to speak. But the words rise anyway. <<di You "Men like me? What’s that supposed to mean?">> His lips barely move. <<di isham "You wear your softness like it’s a virtue.">> He lets that sit there, hanging in the air like smoke. A low hum of some unseen ventilation fills the space between you. <<di isham "You confuse indulgence with authenticity. Weakness with identity.">> You flinch. He sees it. <<di isham "I come from discipline. From structure. Men are made, not born. And you..." —his eyes scan your body, your posture— "you’re unshaped.">> The words aren’t loud, but they hit with precision. His tone is quiet, controlled — like every syllable is measured, intentional. <<di isham "It’s not hate I feel.">> He takes one step closer. <<di isham "It’s duty. I was taught to confront what dishonors strength. Not ignore it.">> You can’t quite meet his eyes, but you don’t look away either. He notices. <<di isham "Everyone here has a role. Yours hasn’t revealed itself.">> He pauses, voice now a whisper meant only for you. <<di isham "But if you keep flaunting softness like armor... I’ll teach you what it means to be broken down and remade.">> He turns, brushing past you with deliberate indifference. The scent of sandalwood and sweat trails behind him. You're left standing in the chapel’s dim glow, heart hammering. The silence now feels colder than before. More personal. You're left standing in the chapel’s dim glow, heart hammering. The silence now feels colder than before. More personal. Then a familiar voice breaks through. <<di pete "Hey.">> You turn. Pete is lingering just outside the chapel doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully — like he saw just enough to guess what happened, but knows better than to ask. <<di pete "Listen... I gotta head out. Already pushing curfew.">> He gives you a half-smile, something between sympathy and concern. <<di pete "You’ll be fine. Just follow the gold trim on the hallway floor. It leads to the East Wing dorms. Eventually.">> Then he's gone, footsteps echoing faintly down the marble corridor. You're alone again — but not the same as before. Now, it’s just you… and the weight of what you’ve seen, what you’ve felt, and what this place might do to you next. <<link "Head to your dorm">> <<set $affection["Isham"] += 3>> <<goto "RoomTransition">> <</link>>

<<if !$affection or Object.keys($affection).length < 7>> <<set $affection = Object.assign({ jackson: 0, stephon: 0, weihao: 0, pete: 0, isham: 0, kray: 0, tor: 0 }, $affection)>> <</if>>