Chapter 11
Lisa’s bruises have faded, but she feels them every time she walks the corridor. The memory of them is a map, a lesson in pain and how to turn it back on whoever wants to give you more. She stretches her arms as she walks, popping each shoulder in turn. Her skin glows now, unmarred and hungry, the rawness replaced by a charge that borders on mania. If she sees Rachel in the hallway, she’ll smile instead of looking away.
Morning is always the best time for a tour of Renner Hall. Lisa takes her route slow, letting her bare feet slide over the linoleum, the silence a promise for what the day will bring. She rounds the first corner and spots two girls fighting over a yogurt in the kitchen—“fighting” as in, one has a hand in the other’s hair and the other is using the edge of a spoon as leverage against her rival’s collarbone. It ends quick, a snap of the wrist and the loser’s head bonks off the fridge. Winner licks the spoon and walks away, face triumphant, the yogurt already forgotten.
Lisa grins, gives the winner a nod of respect. She keeps moving.
The real action starts at the far end of her floor. It’s always the same room: fairy lights tangled above the door, the thrum of music leaking into the hall, a pack of girls in hoodies and pajamas camped in front. Lisa pushes through, knowing she doesn’t need to knock. She finds the ring leaders already at it.
Two brunettes, close enough to be sisters but not actually related—Lisa knows because she asked once, and the only answer she got was a tongue stuck out in her direction. Both are naked except for mismatched sports bras, bodies sleek and lined with the kind of muscle you can only build by fighting every day. They’re on the floor, on their sides, knees locked in a dead heat, legs scissored and twisting in sync. Lisa recognizes the tactic: tribbing, but not for pleasure—at least, not at first.
The goal is to force the other to cum, to break before you do. Hands are locked in hair, yanking, holding each other’s faces inches apart so neither can look away.
Lisa doesn’t announce herself. She leans against the door frame, arms crossed, letting her eyes adjust to the glare of the ring light and the way the girls writhe on the cheap carpet. The crowd is all in: three girls perched on a twin bed, two more on the desk, the rest huddled on the floor and watching like it’s the Olympics. One of them films on her phone, grinning as she alternates focus between the fight and her own legs, which rub together unconsciously.
The brunettes are snarling, hurling insults in time with their thrusts.
“You’re so fucking weak, you know that?” says the one with the ponytail, voice ragged with exertion.
“Not as weak as your pussy, bitch. You about to drip all over my leg.”
A chorus of “ooooh” from the gallery, but neither girl misses a beat. They push harder, hips jerking in counterpoint, the slapping sound of wet skin loud enough to kill the music. The one with the mole on her cheek grabs a fistful of ponytail, jerks it hard, and tries to roll her opponent onto her back. It’s a good move—dominance is everything here—but the other girl is ready. She brings her knee up, wedges it between their bodies, and uses the leverage to reverse, twisting both of them into a pretzel with no clear top or bottom.
The action is pure violence, masked as sex. Lisa feels herself get wet just watching.
They fight for another three minutes, neither willing to blink or slow down. The bed crowd starts chanting: “Finish her! Finish her!” The one with the ponytail is first to break, her body trembling, mouth open in a silent gasp. She tries to hold back, but the girl with the mole grins, yanks her even closer, and grinds harder. A spasm, then a long, keening moan—orgasm, obvious and unavoidable.
The winner holds her there, pressing in with her thigh, until her own climax hits. She shudders, hands tightening in hair, then collapses on top of the loser, both of them panting and spent.
The room erupts in applause, the kind that means respect, not mockery. The two brunettes stay tangled, neither ready to let go, their hands still in each other’s hair, eyes closed, mouths inches apart. Lisa catches the winner’s eye for a split second, and the girl smiles, sated and a little smug.
Lisa leaves, her thighs slick and her heart running a sprint. She wonders if anyone else in the world gets to live like this.
She heads for the showers, knowing the next round is always better than the last.
The steam is thick enough to hide bodies, but the noise makes it easy to find the fights. Today there are two at once: a blonde and an Asian girl in one stall, a brunette and a tanned, dirty-blonde in the next. Both pairs are already soaked, hair plastered to their faces, nails painted bright and chipped from previous bouts.
The blonde and the Asian girl are locked in a bear hug, arms slippery and glistening. They stand chest-to-chest, the blonde’s arms wrapped around the other girl’s back, fingers digging in just above her ass. The Asian girl has a hand in the blonde’s hair, pulling her head back, the other clamped tight on her opponent’s shoulder. They sway, rock, then suddenly slam together, breasts mashed so tight the flesh bulges out the sides. Neither speaks, but the grunts are brutal. Lisa watches as they stumble, the blonde nearly falling, then righting herself with a snap of her neck that makes the other girl yelp in pain. They fight dirty—elbows, knees, the occasional stomp on bare toes. At one point, the blonde gets her hand between their bodies and pinches the Asian girl’s nipple, twisting until the skin goes white. The Asian girl bites her lip, then retaliates by lifting the blonde off the ground and slamming her against the wet tile.
Lisa stands just outside the glass, hands on her own stomach, breath coming fast. She watches as the girls grind each other down, neither giving up an inch. It ends, finally, when the Asian girl pulls the blonde down to the floor, straddles her face, and sits, using her weight to smother and pin her opponent. The blonde taps out, but the other girl doesn’t move. Instead, she grinds harder, forcing the blonde to lick her until she cums. Only then does she roll off, leaving the loser gasping and red-faced on the floor.
In the next stall, it’s even meaner.
The brunette has a foot braced on the tile and both hands tangled in the dirty-blonde’s hair. The dirty-blonde is smaller but wiry, and she uses it to her advantage—biting, clawing, never letting the brunette get a clean hold. The fight is more personal: they snarl insults at each other, most of them about ex-girlfriends or stolen hookups.
“You wish you could fuck as hard as you fight,” the brunette spits, shoving her rival against the wall.
“At least I don’t cum in thirty seconds like you,” the dirty-blonde snaps, then jams her knee up between the other girl’s legs.
It’s ugly, all scratching and screaming. The crowd outside the stalls—maybe five girls, towels clutched or dropped, hands moving between their own thighs—cheers and moans in turn. Lisa slips her own hand under her shorts, not caring who sees.
The fight spills out of the stall, both girls tumbling into the open, still locked together. The dirty-blonde gets the upper hand, twisting the brunette’s arm behind her back and forcing her to the ground. She sits on her, pins her wrists above her head, and then leans down to bite the brunette’s nipple, hard enough to draw blood. The crowd hisses, loving it.
The brunette tries to bridge up, but she’s stuck. The dirty-blonde grinds her pussy onto the other’s stomach, riding out the fight until the brunette stops struggling, defeated. Then, as a final fuck-you, she slaps the loser’s face and stands, arms raised in victory.
Lisa cums as she watches, the orgasm sharp and electric. She lets her fingers linger, savoring the aftershocks.
She wipes her hand on the inside of her shorts, grins, and leaves the showers behind. She’s missed this—the chaos, the violence, the absolute certainty of living at maximum volume.
She walks back to her room, detouring twice to watch minor skirmishes. In one, a girl with a pixie cut gets pushed down the hallway in her towel by two upperclassmen, who then trip her and spank her ass until it’s bright red. In the other, A freshman in a Renner Hall t-shirt challenges another girl to a fierce arm wrestling match in the common area. The two sit across from each other at a table, their hands clasped tightly, muscles tensed and ready. The surrounding crowd leans in, eager to witness the showdown. With a loud clap, the match begins. Both girls strain against each other, faces flushed and determined, elbows digging into the table as they push with all their might. The tension builds, cheers erupting around them, but it’s clear the other girl has the upper hand. Just as the freshman starts to falter, she grimaces, eyes wide, but her opponent slams her wrist down with a victorious shout. The freshman’s face flushes with embarrassment as she recoils, realizing she’s lost not just the match but also her dignity, the crowd erupting in laughter and playful jeers.Every fight is a lesson. Lisa logs them all, makes a note of who’s hungry and who’s just pretending.
At the door to her own room, she pauses. The last fight of the morning is happening right in front of her: Kelly, her roommate, and a girl Lisa doesn’t know, both in sweats, both bare-bellied and snarling. Kelly is grinning, all teeth, her hands locked on the other girl’s wrists, the two of them circling like dogs.
“You going to tap, or should I just break your arm?” Kelly taunts, her voice full of joy.
“Try it, bitch,” the other girl fires back, her face a mask of concentration.
Lisa leans against the wall and watches. Kelly goes for a trip, but the other girl pivots, grabs Kelly’s ankle, and yanks. They go down together, a heap of limbs and hair. Kelly recovers fast, gets her arm around the other girl’s neck, but the grip is loose. The other girl slips free, then rolls on top, pinning Kelly’s shoulders with her knees.
They glare at each other, breathing hard.
“Draw?” Kelly offers.
“Yeah. For now.”
They untangle, both grinning, both alive.
Kelly spots Lisa and winks. “You’re next,” she says.
Lisa just shrugs, walks into their room, and closes the door behind her. She lets the silence settle, then sits on the bed and breathes out, slow.
Her phone buzzes. She reads the group chat, already filling with gifs and memes from the morning’s matches.
She thinks of Rachel, the last fight, the flaw she found in that iron fortress.
She opens a text to Tina: “Basement gym. Tonight. I need to train.”
She stands, methodical now, every move precise. She packs her gym bag: water, spare sports bra, the old volleyball shorts, and, most important, the athletic tape for wrists and ankles—where Rachel had exploited her last time. She wraps the tape tight, lets the squeeze remind her what it means to get better, to refuse to break the same way twice.
The last thing in the bag is the green thong. Not for luck, but as a message. She wants Rachel to see it next time, and know exactly what’s coming.
Lisa zips the bag, checks her reflection in the window, and grins at the girl she sees there.
She’s ready.
-----
The basement gym is a box of static and mildew. Lisa’s eyes squint against the fluorescent lights—harsh, white, merciless. They make everything look both too real and a little off, like a police interrogation room or the set of a cheap reality show. The only other sounds are the slap of her bare feet on the mat, the wet squeak of the old vinyl, and the metallic groan of the pipes overhead.
Tina waits at the center of the mat, already stripped to just her shorts. She’s rolling her ankles, her face blank. When Lisa walks in, Tina gives her a nod, nothing more. No how-are-you, no “good to see you.” Just business.
“You warmed up?” Tina asks, her voice even.
Lisa shrugs out of her sweatshirt, wipes her palms on her thighs. “Good to go.”
Tina motions her down. “Start in turtle.”
Lisa drops to her hands and knees, arms locked in front, back curved. She feels Tina’s weight settle behind her, one knee on each side of her hips. Tina’s hands clamp onto Lisa’s wrists and pull them tight against her chest.
“Rachel’s favorite setup,” Tina says. “Watch.”
Tina shifts her weight to her right, just a little, and Lisa feels the tilt. In a split-second, Tina hooks an arm around Lisa’s neck, rolls her to the side, and has her flat on her back, legs locked. The motion is fluid, impossible to stop. Lisa gasps, the wind knocked from her chest.
“Again,” Tina commands, releasing.
They reset. This time, Lisa tries to brace for the roll, but Tina is faster, more precise. She shifts left, then fakes right, and Lisa is on her back again, the world upside-down.
“Do you see it?” Tina asks, her breath close to Lisa’s ear.
Lisa nods, face burning. “You shift every time. To your right.”
Tina nods. “Rachel does, too. She always has to use her dominant side. She thinks it’s invisible.”
Lisa files that away. “So how do I stop it?”
Tina sits back, arms folded, legs crossed like a chess player considering the board. “You have to bait her. Make her think she’s got you, then break the sequence.”
They run it again. And again. Each time, Lisa lasts a second longer, a fraction more control. Sweat beads on her temples, then pours down her face, soaking her breasts. Her arms ache. Her abs start to cramp. Tina never slows down, never gives Lisa a break.
“Better,” Tina says once, after the twelfth go-round. “But not good enough.”
Lisa grits her teeth. “Show me again.”
Tina demonstrates. Her body is a lesson in minimalism: every motion tight, efficient, no wasted movement. She shows the flaw, the way the hips telegraph the roll. Then she shows the counter—a twist of the wrist, a drop of the shoulder, and suddenly Tina is the one on top.
Lisa tries. The first time, she misses the window and ends up with her face mashed into the mat.
“Wider base,” Tina says, nudging Lisa’s knee with her own.
Lisa resets, tries again. She gets closer, but Tina still reverses.
“Don’t think so much,” Tina says, but she doesn’t say it to hurt—just fact.
They go for another ten minutes, every repetition harder than the last. The smell of the mats is overpowering, rubber and old sweat. The hum of the ventilation rattles through the pipes, filling the silence when Lisa is too out of breath to speak.
“Again,” Tina says. It’s the only word she seems to know.
Lisa’s arms shake. Her shirt is soaked through, clinging to her chest. She can barely grip Tina’s wrist for the next round.
But this time, when Tina shifts her weight, Lisa waits. She lets the roll start, then hooks her leg around Tina’s thigh and pushes, hard, at the moment of imbalance. Tina topples. For a split second, Lisa is on top. She holds it, breathless.
Tina doesn’t react. She just says, “Good. Do it again.”
Lisa does. Two more times, then three. She gets the reversal. The pride that burns in her chest is almost as strong as the exhaustion.
Finally, when her arms won’t hold her weight anymore, Lisa collapses onto the mat, gasping. The sweat pools in the hollow of her throat, trickles down her spine.
Tina sits back on her heels. “Tomorrow. Same time?”
Lisa nods, unable to talk. Her lungs burn, but she’s smiling.
Tina stands, offers her a hand, helps her up.
The world feels sharper now, every edge more defined.
Lisa heads back up the stairs, body wrung out and raw, but mind already turning over every move, every flaw, every way she’s getting closer.
Tomorrow, she thinks, she’ll be even better.
-----
They clear the furniture in under sixty seconds. Kelly throws the beanbag on top of the dresser and shoves the desk to the far wall. The bed is already up against the radiator, the sheets barely covering the mattress from last night’s crash. Their room is now a ten-by-six box of unyielding tile and bad lighting, but Lisa wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Kelly cracks her knuckles and bounces on her toes. Both of them already naked, every muscle visible and twitching with anticipation. Her hair is high and tight, her mouth set in a smile that promises pain. Lisa rolls her own neck, then drops to a wrestler’s crouch, eyes locked on Kelly.
“You want to call the rules?” Kelly asks, grinning.
“No rules,” Lisa says, and the words feel right in her mouth. “Just win.”
Kelly’s eyes sparkle. “God, I love you.”
Then they’re on each other, a blur of movement. Kelly feints left, then pivots and tries to shoot low for Lisa’s legs. Lisa sprawls, counters with a sprawl of her own, and manages to catch Kelly’s waist as she comes up. They slam into the wall together, Lisa’s shoulder pressed into Kelly’s ribs, the air knocked out of both.
Kelly recovers first. She hooks her ankle around Lisa’s and uses the leverage to spin them, reversing their positions so Lisa’s back is to the door. She tries for an arm drag, but Lisa knows this game now; she tucks her elbow and yanks free, then grabs for Kelly’s wrist.
They break, circle, neither giving an inch. Sweat is already blooming under Kelly’s arms, glistening on her collarbones.
“Rachel will try to overpower you,” Kelly pants, darting in for another shot. “You have to be faster—like this.”
She demonstrates, shooting in for Lisa’s legs again, but this time Lisa anticipates, drops her hips, and stuffs the move before Kelly can get a grip.
“Good,” Kelly says, “but not good enough.” She dances away, light on her feet. Lisa wonders if she’s ever been still in her life.
They go again, bodies colliding in the middle of the room. Kelly wraps an arm around Lisa’s neck, tries to crank her down into a headlock. Lisa brings her hand up, digs her fingers into the soft skin just under Kelly’s ribs, and squeezes. Kelly yelps, loosens the hold. Lisa uses the opening to twist, then tries to trip Kelly backwards.
They tumble onto the bed in a heap, both laughing, breathless. Lisa feels the edge of the mattress dig into her thigh, but she ignores it.
“You fight dirty,” Kelly says, approving.
Lisa wipes sweat from her brow. “I learned from the best.”
They reset, this time on the bed, the springs creaking with every shift. Kelly tries a classic scissor, wraps her legs around Lisa’s waist and squeezes. The pain is real, but Lisa remembers Tina’s advice—bait the move, then break the sequence. She waits, lets Kelly think she’s got it, then hooks her arm under Kelly’s knee and rolls, reversing the position so she’s on top, pinning Kelly to the sheets.
Kelly’s eyes go wide. “That’s new,” she says, not mad, just impressed.
Lisa grins, presses down harder, using her whole weight. “Tina’s been teaching me.”
“Fucking traitor,” Kelly laughs, but there’s pride in her voice. She tries to buck Lisa off, but Lisa holds steady, letting the moment last.
Kelly finally taps out, three quick slaps on Lisa’s forearm. “Okay, you win. For now.”
They collapse side by side, both sprawled on their backs, breathing hard. The ceiling is a haze of shadows from the streetlight outside, but Lisa doesn’t care. She feels every inch of her body alive, every nerve singing.
They lie in silence for a moment, sweat cooling on their skin.
“You might actually have a shot,” Kelly says, voice soft but sure.
Lisa turns her head, looks at her roommate. “You think so?”
Kelly nods, then punches Lisa in the shoulder, just hard enough to sting. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Lisa laughs, then closes her eyes, letting the exhaustion and triumph wash over her.
She’s never been more ready.
-----
By noon, the entire dorm is a beehive. The air vibrates with anticipation. Girls stalk the halls, giggling and whispering, shoulders tight with the promise of something worth seeing. There’s a new poster on every floor, each one cruder than the last: LISA VS RACHEL—REMATCH! FIGHT NIGHT. Girls sign their names beneath “Team Lisa” or “Team Rachel,” some in Sharpie, some in glitter pen.
Lisa walks through it all like she’s in a parade, but she knows she’s the only one marching. Heads pop out of doorways when she passes. Some girls flash her a thumbs-up, a wink, a not-so-subtle lift of their shirt. Others just glare, sizing her up, waiting to see if she’ll crumble before the main event.
She keeps her face blank, but inside she’s on fire.
On the second floor, two girls argue over a stack of dollar bills. “No way Rachel loses,” says the one with the pixie cut, voice loud enough to carry. “She’s never even been knocked down.”
“She got close last time,” the other retorts, eyeing Lisa as she approaches.
Lisa walks past them, chin high, and doesn’t look back.
In the lounge, Kelly and Tina are at the center of a knot of upperclassmen, making odds and talking strategy like they’re ESPN analysts. Kelly sees Lisa and grins, beckons her over.
“You ready for the stare-down?” Kelly asks.
Lisa shrugs. “I’ve been ready.”
Tina studies her, lips pressed in a line. “Remember, she’ll come out hard. Expect it.”
Lisa nods, then heads for the main lounge. The crowd is thicker than she expected—every couch, chair, and beanbag is packed, and girls stand along the walls, arms folded, eyes hungry.
Rachel is already there. She stands in the center of the ring—an actual circle of duct tape someone laid down on the carpet—her green robe cinched tight, arms crossed, face unreadable. There’s a space around her, a respect radius, and nobody dares step inside.
Lisa enters, and the room goes silent.
She steps forward, stopping just inside the tape. She feels every eye on her, every breath in the room waiting for what comes next.
Rachel stares at her, then lets her mouth curve in the tiniest of smirks. “You sure you want this?”
Her voice is low, but everyone hears it.
Lisa doesn’t hesitate. “I want a rematch.”
The crowd exhales, a collective shiver of excitement.
Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
Lisa unties her robe, but lets it hang loose, her body straight and unflinching. “I learned yours.”
Rachel’s eyes flicker, just for a heartbeat, and Lisa knows she saw it. Rachel unties her own robe letting it hang loose and steps closer to Lisa, their bodies now touching, faces nose to nose.
“Same stakes?” Rachel asks, her tone casual, almost bored.
Lisa shakes her head. “Loser eats, but this time, when I win, you admit I’m the best. In front of everyone.”
A ripple through the crowd. Someone whistles. A few girls hoot and slap the furniture.
Rachel laughs, short and sharp. “And if you lose?”
Lisa leans in pressing her body into Rachel’s. “Then I say it. Public. No excuses.”
There’s a beat of silence. Rachel studies her, then glances at the crowd, as if weighing the value of her own reputation. She nods, once. “Deal.”
The room explodes—girls shouting, clapping, some chanting “Lisa! Lisa!” while others counter with “Simmons! Simmons!” It’s chaos, but the only sound Lisa hears is her own heartbeat, steady and hard.
Ms. Hughes appears from the shadows, clipboard in hand, stopwatch dangling from her lanyard.
She cuts through the crowd and stands at the edge of the duct-tape ring, her voice clear as a bell. “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock sharp. I’ll ref. Rules are the same. Winner gets the title.”
Rachel gives Ms. Hughes a nod, then turns back to Lisa. Their eyes lock, the room fading away.
“See you tomorrow,” Rachel says, voice like a dare.
Lisa smiles, sharp and bright. “Count on it.”
Neither looks away first. Not for a second.
They stand there, locked in the center of the universe, while the rest of the dorm goes wild.
