A plan comes together.

Brittany leaned against the kitchen counter, the cool marble a stark contrast to the warmth blooming in her chest. She watched Barry across the living room, his phone tilted just so, a secret little smile playing on his lips as his thumb flew across the screen. He thought he was being subtle, but she knew that look—the same look he’d given her eight months ago when he was trying to win her over. Only now, it wasn't for her. The thought didn't sting anymore; it sharpened into a fine, gleaming point of resolve. She took a slow sip of her wine, the tartness a welcome jolt, and let the plan unfurl in her mind, a tapestry woven from his own threads of deceit.

“So, babe,” she called out, her voice a silken thread that effortlessly pulled his attention from the glowing rectangle in his hand. Barry looked up, his expression instantly shifting from private amusement to wide-eyed charm. “I was thinking,” she continued, pushing off the counter and sauntering toward him, the sway of her hips a deliberate, practiced rhythm. “You’re so good at talking to people, making them feel special. You have a real… gift.” She stopped just before him, close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, and rested a hand on his chest. His heart gave a little thump beneath her palm, a satisfying proof of his effect on her, or so he thought.

Brittany let her fingers trail down his shirt, a feathery touch that made him shiver. “I want to help you,” she whispered, her brown eyes locking with his, a universe of unspoken promises and dark delights swimming in their depths. “Help you… practice. Make sure you’re really at the top of your game.” She watched the confusion flicker across his face, followed by a flicker of male pride, the ego she knew so well rising to the bait. He didn't understand, not yet, but he would. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. “Let’s find a way that you can really impress some people.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Barry.

Just then, Brittany glanced at the TV program playing a football game. There was a cheerleader on the screen. Brittany slowly smiled.

Brittany’s smile widened, slow and predatory, as she watched the cheerleader on screen kick her leg high in the air. The idea, sudden and brilliant, clicked into place with the satisfying finality of a locked door. “That,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as she turned back to Barry, her eyes gleaming with a new, wicked light. “That’s what I’m talking about. You have that kind of energy, that… performative spirit. We just need to channel it properly.” She gave his chest a final, patting tap before pulling away, her mind already racing, dialing a number she knew by heart.

The next evening, Shreya sat cross-legged on the plush living room rug, a silver pendulum swinging gently from her fingers. Barry was slouched in the armchair, looking bored but compliant, convinced this was some silly couples’ therapy game Brittany had dragged him into for fun. “Just focus on the light, babe,” Brittany cooed from beside him, stroking his arm as Shreya began her low, rhythmic chant. The words were a nonsense blend of soothing sounds and powerful commands, designed to bypass his conscious thoughts and plant a single, potent seed deep in his subconscious: the unshakable belief that he was a cheerleader, and his purpose was to inspire the crowd.

When the pendulum stilled, Barry blinked, a vacant, placid smile on his face. “The game,” he said, his voice higher, laced with a bubbly enthusiasm that was entirely foreign. “We have to get ready for the game!” Brittany clapped her hands in delight, leading him to the bedroom where a garment bag lay waiting on the bed. Inside was a uniform of her own design: a top in the school’s colors and a skirt so short it was more a suggestion of fabric. He stripped without hesitation, his movements fluid and practiced, and pulled on the clothes. The final touch was a pair of tiny, lacy thong panties, a secret thrill for Brittany, a humiliating reality for him, though he only felt the thrill of putting on his “lucky” uniform.

Shreya let out a low whistle, her eyes raking over Barry’s transformed figure. “Damn, Britt. He actually looks the part.” The two women exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated glee, a silent celebration of their shared, delicious triumph. Brittany circled him slowly, her finger tracing the delicate strap of the top, then dipping down to brush the exposed skin just above the waistband of the skirt. She leaned in close, her voice a warm, intoxicating whisper against his ear. “Almost perfect,” she murmured, her breath making him shiver. “But a real cheerleader is smooth all over. No distractions.” She pulled back, her expression firm but still playful. “I want you to go home and shave everything. Legs, face, chest, armpits, privates… all of it. I want you perfectly smooth for the big game tomorrow.”

Barry nodded eagerly, his mind a blank canvas painted with Brittany’s commands. The idea of being perfectly smooth for his performance felt not only logical but essential. “Of course, Captain!” he chirped, his voice a bright, saccharine soprano. “I have to be ready for the team!” He gave a clumsy, enthusiastic high-kick, the tiny skirt fluttering to reveal the thin strip of lace from his thong panties disappearing between his smooth buttocks. The sight sent another wave of satisfaction through Brittany, a warm coil tightening in her stomach. This was justice, served with a side of glitter and lace.

“Be at my apartment at three o’clock sharp,” Brittany instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t be late. The whole squad will be waiting for you.” She gestured to the corner of the room where a pair of pink and white pom-poms lay propped against the wall. Shreya picked them up, giving them a test shake with a rustle of plastic streamers. “We’ve got your props ready,” Shreya added with a grin. “And a few of the girls are coming over to help you run through the routines. We’re all counting on you to lead us to victory.” Barry’s chest puffed out with pride at the thought of leading a team, his eyes fixed on the pom-poms as if they were the most glorious things he had ever seen.

The doorbell rang precisely at three, and when Brittany opened it, she had to suppress a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight. Barry stood there, a vision of feminine perfection. His shoulder-length hair was swept back into a high, swinging ponytail, and his face was expertly painted with a sweep of bronzer, a touch of shimmer on his lids, and a glossy pink lip that made his mouth look impossibly plump. He’d even gotten his eyebrows shaped into delicate, expressive arches. He was no longer just a man in a skirt; he was a beautiful, androgynous creature who looked like he was born to be on a cheerleading mat. “Captain!” he exclaimed, striking a pose with one hand on his hip. “I’m ready for practice!”

Inside, the living room was already buzzing with energy. Three of Brittany’s friends—Lena, Maya, and Chloe—were waiting, each holding a set of pom-poms and trying to hide their smirks behind bright, encouraging smiles. They had the music thumping, a poppy, bass-heavy track that vibrated through the floorboards. Barry’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and without missing a beat, he fell into formation. Brittany called out the first cheer, and to everyone’s astonishment, Barry was a natural. His movements were fluid and energetic, his high kicks were impossibly high, and his voice cut through the air with the perfect blend of pep and power. He nailed five routines in a row, his body glistening with a light sheen of perspiration, his face beaming with genuine, unadulterated joy.

As the final note of the music faded, Brittany held up her hands for silence, a sly glint in her eyes. “Ladies, and… Barry,” she announced, her voice dripping with theatricality. “You are all incredible. But a performance this good deserves a bigger audience.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’ve already taken the liberty. I told a few local news stations that a groundbreaking new cheerleading phenomenon was debuting today.” A collective, excited gasp went through the room, though from Barry it was one of thrilled anticipation. Outside, the sound of approaching news trucks echoing the promise of his imminent, and very public, stardom.

Three news vans screeched to a halt in front of the apartment building. But Brittany wasn’t leading them inside; instead, she guided the troupe out the back door and into a waiting minivan. “The real stage is waiting,” she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she drove them toward the university gymnasium. The roar of two thousand students was a physical force as they pushed through a side door, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and sweat. The halftime buzzer had just sounded, and the court was clear, a perfect, polished stage under the harsh glare of the spotlights. Barry’s eyes widened with awe as he took in the massive, chanting crowd, his body thrumming with a performer’s adrenaline.

The female news reporters, clued in on the revenge plot, were practically vibrating with glee. A perky blonde from Channel 8 shoved a microphone into Brittany’s face. “We hear a new star is about to be born tonight, Brittany! Tell us about this groundbreaking performer.” Brittany just smiled and pointed toward the center of the court where Barry and her friends were lining up. The music started, a blasting, infectious beat, and the crowd fell silent for a moment before erupting into confused cheers. Barry launched into his routine with breathtaking enthusiasm, his body a whirlwind of motion. During a high kick, his short skirt flew up, revealing a flash of hot pink, lace-trimmed panties that was captured and instantly projected onto the Jumbotron for all to see. He spun, his skirt lifting and revealing his pink thong again.

A wave of laughter and whistles rippled through the arena, but Barry, lost in his hypnotic trance, interpreted it as adoration. He grinned and blew kisses to the crowd, his confidence soaring. He performed another split, and again the cameras zoomed in, broadcasting the delicate, feminine underwear to every corner of the gym. The reporters were having a field day, their commentary sharp and merciless. “It seems our new cheerleader isn’t shy about showing off his…ahem…unique sense of style!” one quipped. Brittany watched from the sidelines, her arms crossed, a look of cold, triumphant satisfaction on her face as she watched the man who betrayed her be systematically and publicly dismantled, one high kick at a time.

The final pose was a dramatic backward fall, a trust exercise into the arms of his teammates. But in his overzealous performance, Barry miscalculated the distance, and instead of being caught, he landed hard on his butt on the polished wood floor. The THUD echoed through the gym, a sudden, jarring sound that cut through the music. For a moment, there was a stunned silence, broken only by Barry’s sharp intake of breath. The impact sent a shockwave through his entire body, and his eyes shot open, the hypnotic haze flickering for just a second as a genuine, confused pain registered on his face. The crowd, thinking it was part of the act, erupted into the loudest applause of the night, a deafening roar that shook the rafters.

Barry sat as his face flushed a deep crimson. The blush wasn't from embarrassment over the pink lace thong that had now been on display for a solid thirty minutes, but from the sheer, overwhelming thrill of it all. He felt the heat of a thousand phone screens pointed at him, the digital flashes popping like fireflies in the dimmed arena. His social media feeds were undoubtedly exploding, his face and his panties immortalized in a cascade of viral videos and GIFs. A wide, genuine smile broke through his daze, and he took a deep bow, blowing kisses to the sections that were cheering the loudest, completely oblivious to the nature of his newfound fame.

Brittany watched him from the sideline, her expression unreadable. She gave a subtle nod to her friends, who began to gather their things, their part in the spectacle complete. The news crews were swarming the court, microphones poised like weapons, ready to descend on their star. The public humiliation was total, a digital and physical scar that would never fade. She saw Barry preen for the cameras, his confidence blooming in the toxic glow of unwanted attention, and felt a cold, hard knot of satisfaction tighten in her stomach. This wasn't just justice anymore; it was art.

As Barry sat on the polished floor, basking in the afterglow of his bow, Brittany caught his eye. She held his gaze for a fraction of a second, her expression softening into a look of gentle encouragement as she mouthed a single, silent word, “Bounce!” The suggestion, planted like a seed in the fertile soil of his subconscious, took root instantly. A new impulse, bright and irresistible, flooded his mind. He felt a sudden, powerful urge to show the crowd his spirit one last time, to give them a finale they would never forget. A wide, vacant smile spread across his face as he shifted his weight onto his hands behind him.

He began to bounce. Up and down he went on the hard wood, his body moving with a jerky, puppet-like rhythm. The thin fabric of his lace panties did nothing to muffle the sound. Each time his bottom met the floor, a sharp, wet slap echoed through the now-quieting arena. PLOP! PLOP! PLOP! The sound was obscene, a fleshy, percussive beat that was somehow funnier and more humiliating than anything he had done all night. A confused murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by a few snickers that quickly grew into a wave of outright laughter. The news cameras, which had started to lower, whipped back up, their lenses zooming in on the bizarre, repetitive spectacle.

Barry’s smile never wavered, but his eyes began to glaze over with a film of confusion. He could hear the laughter now, a roaring tide that washed over him, but he didn’t understand why. The need to bounce was absolute, overriding the dawning horror in the back of his mind. His cheeks burned with a heat that had nothing to do with exertion, a deep, primal flush of shame that he couldn’t comprehend. PLOP! PLOP! PLOP! The sounds continued, each one a small hammer blow to his dignity, while Brittany watched from the sidelines, a big satisfied grin touched the corner of her lips as she turned to walk away.

The laughter in the arena spiked, a sharp, deafening roar that seemed to physically push against him. A wave of camera flashes erupted, a blinding strobe light that seared the image of his reddened, exposed flesh onto the retinas of everyone in the room. The heat in his face was no longer a blush but an inferno, and a cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach as he realized the bouncing had stopped, but the humiliation had not. Barry flipped over on his hands and knees. He could feel a thousand eyes on the back of his thighs, on the curve of his ass, on the ridiculous pink fabric stretched tight across his skin. The urge to perform had vanished, leaving only a hollow, echoing emptiness and the crushing weight of their stares.

Brittany’s friend Chloe, who had been positioned near the stage with a phone held high, let out a sharp, delighted whistle that cut through the noise. She wasn’t recording anymore; she was just watching, her mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ of glee. From the other side of the room, Maya gave a slow, deliberate clap, the sound crisp and full of sarcastic admiration. Their reactions were like fuel on the fire, and the crowd’s laughter swelled again, louder this time, more confident. It was the sound of a mob that had found its perfect victim, a collective howl of pure, unadulterated schadenfreude.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched hard, spinning around to see one of the event coordinators, a large man with a pained expression, trying to guide him toward the side of the stage. The man’s touch was gentle but firm, a clear signal that his time in the spotlight was over. Barry stumbled along, his legs feeling like noodles, his hands still clutching uselessly at his stinging backside. The path to the exit seemed a mile long, a gauntlet of pointing fingers and smiling, pitying faces. Each step was a fresh agony, the sound of his own ragged breathing loud in his ears as he tried to disappear into the floor.

He hadn't even made it to the relative safety of the backstage curtain when they were on him. A pack of reporters with microphones like sharpened sticks and camera lenses like unblinking eyes swarmed his path, blocking his escape. The cacophony of the crowd faded into a new, more immediate assault of shouted questions, each one a tiny dagger twisting in his gut. A microphone was shoved so close to his lips he could smell the metallic tang of the pop filter, and the bright lights from the camera phones blinded him, turning the hallway into a terrifying white void.

"Barry! Barry! Tell us about the panties! Are they your signature move?" one voice yelled, sharp and insistent. "Is this a new habit of cheerleading you are doing?" another chimed in, dripping with condescending amusement. A third reporter, a woman with a surgically perfected smile, leaned in closer, her voice a syrupy poison. "The internet is calling it a new era of Girl Power. How does it feel to be the face of female justice?" The words hit him like physical blows, each one more absurd and more mortifying than the last, and he could feel his carefully constructed facade of composure cracking and splintering into a million pieces.

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out at first. He tried to form a sentence, a denial, an explanation, anything, but all that emerged was a choked, strangled noise. The heat in his face had reached a boiling point, and he could feel a tremor starting in his hands. "I... I'm..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper against the barrage of noise. He finally managed to force out the words, his gaze fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. "I'm embarrassed. So very embarrassed." The admission hung in the air, pathetic and small, and he knew, with a soul-crushing certainty, that this was it. He wasn't just a man who had made a fool of himself; he was a meme, a viral sensation, a cautionary tale for the ages.

A wave of camera flashes erupted in a blinding, strobing storm as the reporters surged forward, their lenses aimed with predatory precision. They weren't just documenting his humiliation; they were weaponizing it, demanding a visual record of every last detail. A reporter with a particularly aggressive stance shoved a camera directly into his face, the lens so close Barry could see his own wide, panicked eyes reflected in the glass. Another knelt down, angling for the perfect, humiliating up-skirt of the flimsy pink fabric stretched across his hips, the bright flash illuminating the ridiculous little bow on the waistband for the world to see.

A high, keening whimper escaped Barry's lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated defeat. He squeezed his eyes shut, rolling them back into his head as if trying to physically retreat from the reality of the moment, but the relentless flashing of the cameras burned red and white patterns onto the insides of his eyelids. From somewhere just beyond the crush of bodies, a fresh wave of laughter erupted, clear and piercing. It was the sound of Brittany and her friends, their voices cutting through the journalistic frenzy with a joyous, uncomplicated glee that was somehow more painful than the flashing cameras or the shouted questions.

Their laughter was a symphony of his destruction, a sound that would be forever burned into his memory. It was the sound of his social life being incinerated, of his reputation ground into dust. Each peel of their mirth was a confirmation of his utter foolishness, a final, brutal stamp on the wreckage of his dignity. The event coordinator, his face a mask of professional annoyance, finally managed to grab Barry's arm, his grip firm as he attempted to pull the shell-shocked man through the gauntlet of lenses and laughter, toward the blessed darkness of an exit door.

The cool air did little to soothe the burning heat in Barry's cheeks as the event coordinator practically dragged him through a side door and onto the sprawling campus quad. The moment they were clear of the building, Brittany’s voice cut through the night, sharp and full of false cheer. “Alright, Panty Boi, time to spread the joy!” she called out, her friends echoing her with wicked snickers. The coordinator released his arm with a sigh of disgust and walked away, leaving Barry standing alone under the dim glow of the lampposts, his body still locked in that ridiculous, cheerful posture.

His legs, moving with a mind of their own, began a stiff, prancing march across the grass. A group of girls leaving the library looked up, their expressions shifting from curiosity to outright mockery as they took in the sight of him. His arms pumped high, his face frozen in a grotesque grin, and he let out a strangled, “READY AND…GO, GIRL POWER! GO, GO, GIRL POWER!” With every high-knee step, the hem of his skirt rode up, offering a fleeting but undeniable glimpse of the pink lace and ridiculous bow. The girls erupted in laughter, one of them already holding up her phone, its screen illuminating her delighted face.

His reputation was being forged in real-time, a digital wildfire spreading from phone to phone. He could almost hear the notifications pinging across campus as photos and videos were uploaded, the hashtags #PantyBoi and #RahRahBarry already trending. He spotted another cluster of students near the science building and his treacherous legs propelled him toward them, his mouth forming the words, “GO, GIRL POWER! YEAH! GO GIRL POWER!” A fresh wave of nausea hit him as he felt a cool breeze on his exposed hips, confirming the panties were on full display. The humiliation was no longer a spike; it was a constant, crushing pressure, and with every forced cheer, he felt a piece of himself shatter beyond repair.

His prancing steps led him, as if drawn by a cruel magnet, toward the grand porch of the Alpha Rho sorority house. A crowd of about twenty girls were sprawled on the wide steps and in rocking chairs, including Brittany and her friends, who watched his approach with triumphant, predatory smiles. His legs carried him right up to the bottom step, his body still locked in that peppy, cheerful pose. His mouth opened, and the words burst out, high and strained. “GO, GO GIRL POWER! GO, GO! GIRL POWER!” A wave of hushed silence fell over the group before it shattered into a chorus of piercing, delighted laughter.

One girl with long, perfectly styled blonde hair leaned forward, her eyes glinting with malice as she pointed a manicured finger. “We can see your panties, Barry,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet poison. Another girl chimed in, “Is that a little bow? Oh my god, it’s a bow!” “It’s so girly! What else girly does he do?”, teased an Indian girl. A black girl giggled, “Look at those pink pouty lips, bet those wrap around a big cock!” Each comment a tiny, sharp needle pricking his skin. He felt his face flush a deep, painful crimson, the heat crawling down his neck as he stood there, a grinning, exposed statue of pure mortification, unable to flee or even cover himself. Not knowing what to do, Barry curtsied for the crowd of females.

Brittany finally rose from her rocking chair, a slow, graceful movement that commanded everyone’s attention. She sauntered down the steps until she stood directly in front of him, her expression one of cool, appraising amusement. She circled him once, her fingers trailing the hem of the short skirt and peeking at the lace. When she was behind him, she leaned in close, her voice a low whisper meant only for him but loud enough for the front row to hear. “They look good on you. Really brings out your eyes.” The girls on the porch howled with renewed laughter, and Barry felt a burn of pure shame flush his cheeks.

In the midst of the teasing and giggles, Britney stood behind Barry and lifted his little skirt, holding it in place, so his pink lace thong was admired by everyone. “Now, those panties are very adorable. They look so good on you. If you’re going to flirt, do it with your girly panties!”laughed Brittany. All of the females watching laughed hysterically at Britney‘s comments.

With a final, sharp look, Brittany took firm hold of Barry’s ear, her grip surprisingly strong. She gave a little tug, and his body, still obeying some unseen command, stumbled forward. She led him not away from the crowd, but right into the center of the sorority porch, seating herself on the top step. With a decisive pull, she yanked him off-balance, and he tumbled awkwardly, landing face-down across her lap. The collective gasp from the girls was quickly replaced by a new wave of gleeful shrieks as his skirt flipped up, completely exposing the tiny pink panties with their effeminate little bow to the entire assembly.

Barry’s world was a blur of wooden floorboards and the scent of Brittany’s perfume. He could feel the smooth skin of her legs against his stomach and the heat of dozens of eyes on his pretty panties. He squeezed his own eyes shut, praying for a hole to open in the porch and swallow him whole. Then, the first sharp smack echoed in the sudden quiet, followed immediately by the sting of her palm against the thin lace of his panties. A fresh, hotter blush bloomed across his already crimson face, a humiliation so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing him into the floor.