When I was 14, I found myself in the school gym with a boy from my class and a girl who, until a week earlier, had been my girlfriend.
Somehow, the two of us ended up wrestling on a thick high-jump mat. I was always considered the strongest kid in the class — and he was known as the second strongest — so I didn’t expect any surprises. I certainly didn’t expect what actually happened.
I don’t remember what I was wearing, but I remember his outfit vividly: those very short blue sport shorts that were so common in the 80s, and a simple T-shirt. Within less than a minute, he managed to flip me onto my back and sit on top of me.
And that’s when I heard her shout “Ewww!” toward us.
From that moment, something shifted inside me. I suddenly became painfully aware that she was watching — my ex-girlfriend — watching him pin me down. The embarrassment started creeping in even before the real struggle began.
I kept trying to break free, but I couldn’t. In my memory it felt endless — maybe fifteen minutes of fighting, pushing, twisting, catching my breath, gathering whatever physical and mental strength I had left. All the while, he stayed calm. He even talked to her casually, as if the whole thing was easy for him.
She sat on the mat, watching us intently — too intently. I can still feel how exposed I felt under her eyes, how each failed attempt to escape sank me deeper into embarrassment.
At least twice he told her, “I’m taking your boyfriend,” and both times she answered, almost dismissively, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Each time she said it, something inside me tightened. It made the situation sting even more.
There were a few moments — two or three — when I almost broke free, when I felt hope flicker for a second. But he always dragged me back down, flipping me onto my back again. At one point, for what felt like two or three long minutes, I was on my stomach and he was sitting heavily on my back. His weight, his control, his certainty — they wore me down mentally even more than physically.
The last attempt was the clearest in my memory: I almost escaped. I could feel it. And then he overpowered me again, pinned me on my back, and suddenly I heard her giggle.
I couldn’t see her — she was somewhere above my head — but I saw the smile he gave her. Then he made a small jump and sat on my throat. That moment broke something in me. I stopped fighting. Completely. It was the first time I ever felt myself truly surrender to someone else’s dominance.
He stayed on top of me like that for another minute or two, talking to her casually. And if I’m honest, it felt like the longer it went on, the more excited she became watching him dominate me so easily.
I don’t remember what they talked about. I barely remember how or when he finally got off me.
But I do remember the deep, burning embarrassment — not only afterward, but every time our eyes met in the days that followed. Hers or his.
wrcouple (1)
11/15/2025 10:06 PMWhen I was 14, I found myself in the school gym with a boy from my class and a girl who, until a week earlier, had been my girlfriend.
Somehow, the two of us ended up wrestling on a thick high-jump mat. I was always considered the strongest kid in the class — and he was known as the second strongest — so I didn’t expect any surprises. I certainly didn’t expect what actually happened.
I don’t remember what I was wearing, but I remember his outfit vividly: those very short blue sport shorts that were so common in the 80s, and a simple T-shirt. Within less than a minute, he managed to flip me onto my back and sit on top of me.
And that’s when I heard her shout “Ewww!” toward us.
From that moment, something shifted inside me. I suddenly became painfully aware that she was watching — my ex-girlfriend — watching him pin me down. The embarrassment started creeping in even before the real struggle began.
I kept trying to break free, but I couldn’t. In my memory it felt endless — maybe fifteen minutes of fighting, pushing, twisting, catching my breath, gathering whatever physical and mental strength I had left. All the while, he stayed calm. He even talked to her casually, as if the whole thing was easy for him.
She sat on the mat, watching us intently — too intently. I can still feel how exposed I felt under her eyes, how each failed attempt to escape sank me deeper into embarrassment.
At least twice he told her, “I’m taking your boyfriend,” and both times she answered, almost dismissively, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Each time she said it, something inside me tightened. It made the situation sting even more.
There were a few moments — two or three — when I almost broke free, when I felt hope flicker for a second. But he always dragged me back down, flipping me onto my back again. At one point, for what felt like two or three long minutes, I was on my stomach and he was sitting heavily on my back. His weight, his control, his certainty — they wore me down mentally even more than physically.
The last attempt was the clearest in my memory: I almost escaped. I could feel it. And then he overpowered me again, pinned me on my back, and suddenly I heard her giggle.
I couldn’t see her — she was somewhere above my head — but I saw the smile he gave her. Then he made a small jump and sat on my throat. That moment broke something in me. I stopped fighting. Completely. It was the first time I ever felt myself truly surrender to someone else’s dominance.
He stayed on top of me like that for another minute or two, talking to her casually. And if I’m honest, it felt like the longer it went on, the more excited she became watching him dominate me so easily.
I don’t remember what they talked about. I barely remember how or when he finally got off me.
But I do remember the deep, burning embarrassment — not only afterward, but every time our eyes met in the days that followed. Hers or his.