She squeezed her large tits, stuck out her tongue, and let the cum drip onto her breasts and roll down to her nipples, the pleasure making her legs shake and her eyes roll up into her head.

“Pay attention, you dumb slut.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said as she faced the camera with a dopey look of pleasure.

“Now tell them who you are.”

“Hi, y’all! My name is Mary Anne Thompson, and I’m just a dumb country slut desperate for Delta Phi cock!”

* * *

Mary Anne Thompson was many things. She was an award-winning principal, a fierce advocate for women’s rights and leadership, and a community guide. But on the cold, frigid winter evening of her son’s second semester at the University of Palo Mountain, her main title was “Concerned Mother” as she checked into her Airbnb.

Her son, her pride and joy, had called her crying. He told her about the boys of Delta Phi, specifically the President, Marcus Menten. During pledge week, Marcus had asked her son for a picture of his mom. Hayden couldn’t have known that they had already rejected him and would use the photo to publicly humiliate her sweet boy for having a “MILF” mom by photoshopping her face onto an OnlyFans model’s body. The red-headed mother had grown used to hearing those kinds of derogatory words as she went through college and raised her son, but she had learned to tune them out. She realized men only respect women with power, so she had attained power. She had come up this week to meet with the University President, Bridget Schultz, to discuss the nature of the incident and hopefully have the fraternity permanently disbanded.

Unfortunately, President Schultz had been delayed by bad traffic on a trip back from a conference in New York, so Mary Anne had been forced to reschedule her meeting for the following morning.

She set her phone down, sighing. It was still early, barely 6:00 PM, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep yet. She walked over to the window of the small Airbnb she’d rented, looking out at the cluster of student houses. The first signs of Friday night revelry were beginning to stir.

The house directly across the street was massive, a crumbling Victorian structure that looked like it had been held together by generations of cheap beer and deferred maintenance. Loud, rhythmic bass began to pulse from within it, a deep throb that vibrated faintly through the windowpane. Delta Phi, she thought, remembering her son’s description of the hellhole which stood like a monument to sexism and callous indifference.

The sound level escalated quickly. By 8:00 PM, the house was a beacon of noise, with music so loud it felt less like hearing and more like being struck by physical waves. Mary Anne tried reading a book, then attempted to work on some emails, but the unrelenting thump-thump-thump made concentration impossible. She checked the time again. 10:30 PM. She desperately needed a good night’s rest to face the University President.

She grabbed her phone, debating calling the non-emergency police line, but hesitated. She didn’t want to start an official conflict before her meeting with President Schultz. She thought about her son, how powerless he must have felt against these boys. She realized that making a call might solve the noise problem tonight, but it wouldn’t solve the core issue.

She rubbed her temples, the bass vibrating behind her eyes. Fine, she thought, closing her laptop with a decisive snap. If I can’t sleep, I can at least tell them to turn it down. It was a simple, neighborly request, a common-sense expectation she was sure even the “gentlemen of Delta Phi” would adhere to. She found her jacket, took a deep breath, and walked out the door, crossing the street toward the center of the noise.

She regretted her decision the fifth time her knuckles pounded against the door of the frat house. She thought about how much easier the situation would’ve been if she had just called the police from the start, but alas, she was here being ignored on the doorstep of a historical property adorned by three passed-out college students on the front lawn and a couple making out in the bushes. She scoffed, but before she could knock again, the door swung open. Her fist almost collided with the chest of a tall, handsome, light-skinned young man in a toga.

She instantly began her tirade. “Young man, do you have any idea what time it is? Do you have any respect for your neighbors? If you do not lower the volume on your sound system within the next thirty seconds, I will call the police and they will handle this. Do you understand me?” She looked at him sternly with a gaze so powerful that he began to shrink, only for a second, before his eyes snapped to realization.

“Wait a second. Wait. A. Second. You’re that one nerd’s mom. I think his name is GAYden Thompson.” The frat boy started laughing, turning back to shout into the house, “Yo! Gayden’s mom is here!”

“I will have you know that his name is Hayden and that was his grandfather’s name, and you will treat it with respect,” she said with authority. “Now turn that music down right now.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” He spoke but didn’t seem too interested as he reached for a nearby table and picked up a vintage camera covered in a bunch of different stickers. “Smile!”

He snapped the picture, and she was fuming.

“How dare you take a picture of me without my consent! This house has clearly been given too much leeway as is, so I hope you enjoy talking to the police.” She turned to walk away.

Flash.

The light from the bulb was blinding, leaving a lingering white spot in her vision.

“Come on, Mrs. Gayden. The picture would be a lot better if you smiled.”

She stopped. She turned back around.

“It’s Mrs. Hayden,” she said with a bright, plastic smile. Before she could doubt herself, a thought crossed her mind: Wait, why did I do that? Why am I smiling at this delinquent?

Flash.

“Well, we need a picture of you smiling if you want to be in competition to join the Frat, Mrs...?”

“It’s Mrs. Hayden,” she said again, the smile feeling more natural this time.

Flash.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, looking genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean to fluster you. We just got this new camera and we wanted to try it out.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” she said, straightening up. She once again looked at the debauchery around her. “Now, where was I—” She said it as if finding her wording, but the truth was that she genuinely had lost her place and couldn’t, for the life of her, remember what had brought her to this doorstep. Something about her son. She looked at the handsome young man in front of her and blinked her big eyes like a lost puppy.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Thompson?”

“As a matter of fact, you can.” She found her aggression again, but her southern twang started to slip out on the occasional word as she continued her tirade. “My son is a wonderful student of this institution, and I’ll be damned if a group of second-rate Fraternity brothers are able to convince him otherwise. Do y’all understand me?”

There it was, that “y’all” which she had lost her freshman year of college when she went to Penn State. It was clear as day and left no mistake that the curvy MILF had spent her formative years in the land of pickup trucks and Friday Night Lights. Those days were far behind her, and yet they persisted in her language from time to time in ways she couldn’t expect until they were said.

“Now, you are going to go in there and tell all your little friends to lower the music. Do you understand me?”

Flash.

“Stop with the damn pictures!” said the Principal, smiling instinctively and waiting for the next picture to be taken.

“Come on Principal Thompson, it’s just a tradition of ours,” he said with a pout, “What were you saying, ma’am?”

“I was saying that y’all boys better shut your music down. It ain’t party time. Understood?”

He studied her deeply before he answered, putting the camera on the table carefully. “How about this? Technically, the only people allowed to mess with the music are the Fraternity brothers.” He pointed at himself and some of the other boys walking around in varying states of dress. “Tonight we have two other students pledging, so if you were to join them and compete for a position in the Frat, you could technically lower the music yourself before the night is through.”

“Compete with the freshmen? And debase myself to be a part of your organization of chauvinistic pigs just so you and the rest of your gang can be half-decent people to my son?” She scoffed, crossing her arms. “That hardly seems like a prize.”

“It doesn’t seem like a prize, or—” he stepped closer to her, letting his taller frame envelop her. His eyes were half-closed, his head slightly tilted, wearing that dumb, perfect expression that college boys used to flirt. “—you just don’t think you’re going to win.”

The Principal looked deep into his eyes. Her head felt a little fuzzy from the repeated flash of that camera. For a second, she struggled to find her feet. She just kept her mind to herself that she was here for her son. I am here for my son, she told herself. And if this is what it takes to stop him from being bullied, then this is what it takes.

“Fine. I’ll play your stupid games, but if I see anything questionable in there, I will be—”

“—calling the police,” he said, finishing her sentence. He laughed at her annoyed pout. “Come on. Lighten up a little bit, it’s a party.”

“So I’m good to go then.” She had already started walking past him into the fraternity house, but he grabbed her arm. She responded with a menacing scowl. She was not going to let some student touch her. He put his hands up defensively with a look of innocence.

“Apologies, but you’re not allowed in without official permission.”

“You gave me permission,” she said, as if she were talking to the dumbest person on the planet.

“I did, but you hesitated. That makes me doubt your commitment to the fraternity, so I’m going to need a little... what’s that word for it?” He thought for a second. “You seem smart, what’s that word for something that you give to someone so they don’t run away with what you have? Like giving your keys to a stranger while you hold onto their wallet.”

“Collateral.”

“Collateral,” he said the word with a certain musicality that made her roll her eyes. “You said you would win, but if you’re going to win, then I need to put my stamp of approval on you so you have a chance to compete in the first place. If you’re going to bitch out in the first round because you get a little scared, then that will reflect poorly on me, and that’s not fair. Is it fair when I’m doing you a favor?”

“I’m not going to ‘bitch’ out,” she said, matter-of-factly and frankly offended by the insinuation.

“How far are you willing to go?”

“I will not debase myself.”

“Then I need some collateral.”

With each snappy remark, they had gotten closer to each other until their feet were almost touching. She would not be manipulated and ordered around by a modern-day circus clown. She turned and walked back toward the street. She would spend the rest of the night with her headphones on, and she would forget about this damn fraternity until tomorrow’s meeting where she would make sure that they were disbanded forever.

“Okay, just walk away then,” he called out. “But I’m sure your son will be disappointed. He didn’t get to see his mother tonight.”

That stopped her dead in her tracks.

“What the hell did you just say to me, you little punk?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he chuckled, starting to scroll through his phone. “Why so defensive? Your son chose to be here. I told you, he wants to pay our frat so that we will be his friends, so for a small fee, we let the little bitch compete anyways. And if you or him don’t win our allegiance tonight, no matter what happens to our frat in that meeting in the morning...”

Her mind was racing. How did he know about the meeting?

“...your precious little boy will never recover.”

Now it was his turn to spin around and close the door. Marianne questioned herself for what felt like an hour, though it was only seconds. Every muscle in her body was telling her to walk away, just save it until the next morning. But there was a motherly instinct to protect her son, a fuzziness in her mind from the camera flashes, and—whether she would ever admit it or not—a competitive drive that had made her the principal of her school. It refused to let her back down from this challenge.

She knocked on the door profusely.

“Who is it?” he said in that same singsong voice that annoyed her so much.

“You know who it is. Now open the damn door.” She knocked harder.

“It’s Mary Anne Thompson.”

There was a pause on the other end, and what sounded like intentional murmuring to be heard over the pounding music.

“Hmm, I don’t know a Mary Anne Thompson. Are you related to someone?” He was speaking like a customer service representative.

“Hayden Thompson.”

Another pause.

“We don’t know a Hayden Thompson.”

She knew what they wanted her to say, and at this point, with the buzzing in her head, it was just easier to say it than to fight back.

“Gayden.”

They started laughing and howling like a bunch of baboons before opening the door calmly.

“Why didn’t you just say so? Come on in.”

He opened the door, and she saw the levels of lavishness in which they were living. There was a large staircase leading up to the second floor, where a collection of doors lined the walls and an indoor balcony overlooked the central “living room.” In this case, the room had been turned into a dance floor littered with flipped-over cups, chairs, a couple of couches, and some beanbags.

The sensory overload hit her instantly. The air was thick, hot, and humid, smelling of stale keg beer, fruity vape smoke, and the musk of a hundred sweating bodies. At least ninety to a hundred people moved through the area, laughing, dancing, pushing each other around, or making out. It was a bacchanal disaster and almost made the Principal throw up in her mouth.

There were probably about seventy-five men and twenty or so women, and each one that she saw was dressed more provocatively than the last. Girls in micro-miniskirts that barely covered their essentials grinded against boys in basketball jerseys. One girl wore a sheer mesh top with nothing but star-shaped pasties underneath.

Finally, a girl stumbled out in a parody of a school cheerleader uniform. The skirt was pleated and impossibly short, flaring out with every step to show the party everything underneath, while the crop top was cut high enough to expose the entirety of her midriff and the under-curve of her breasts. She stumbled over to one of the many kegs which lined the far wall, giggling as beer foam dripped down her chin.

“Oh my goodness,” Mary Anne said, clutching her jacket tighter.

“Yep, just stand right there.” He had grabbed that stupid camera again and was pointing it at her as she stood against the wall, the look of disgust and surprise evident on her face. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

She recognized the name immediately as the one belonging to her son’s primary antagonist.

“Why are you taking a picture of me?”

“Collateral, remember?” He lifted the camera up to his eye, like a true photographer. “Smile.”

She begrudgingly did so, giving a half-hearted grimace.

“Oh come on, you can do better than that.”

Flash.

This time she smiled with her teeth, and it even made it all the way up to her eyes. God, he is so annoying, she thought, though the annoyance felt distant, muffled by the light.

“Great, you’re doing great,” Marcus said. “Now, we just need one for collateral. So how about you turn around, drop those pants, and show us that fat principal ass with a smile. Oh! And don’t forget to say cheese!”

It didn’t take long for the Principal to rationalize this in her mind. She had already smiled, which she didn’t want to do, so dropping her pants and showing her ass wasn’t far beyond that. At least, it didn’t feel that far with that weird fuzziness in her head. It was just a picture. Just collateral. It was helpful.

So she turned around, unzipped her sensible slacks, and pushed them down. She showed her pale, fat ass, encased only by a pair of white silk panties that cut into her hips. She looked back over her shoulder to the camera with that same comforting and warm smile she had used for the high school yearbook, and she let out her best, brightest exclamation.

“CHEESE!”

Flash.