The Conqueror

Chapter 2: The Conqueror

Peter sprawled across his bed, a giant smile across his face. He was replaying the events of the last few weeks in his mind, his pride swelling almost as much as the thing between his legs. Lana had given herself to him, let him push through her maidenhead, let him shoot his cum deep into her warm depths. Her sister, Veronica, had nearly done the same. A twinge of regret tugged at him from his unconscious, scolding him for not pushing his dick through her thin membrane when he had the chance. Sure, he had been the first in her ass. He had even managed to shoot some of his cum inside her pussy, her hymen catching the fluids like a slip and slide stretched out over her virgin hole. However, he couldn't get over the fact that he could have pushed a little bit harder. Maybe next time. His mind delighted at the possibilities.

His thoughts wandered to the end of last school year. Back before he began tutoring Lana. He remembered how he was at his locker, leafing through the latest Popular Mechanics magazine when Adam had bumped into him. Adam was the quarterback and captain of the football team. He was surrounded by his hulkish team members, their jackets emblazoned with "Varsity" in obscenely large letters.

"Hey watch it, Mr. Ching Chong!" Adam had screamed.

He nudged Peter with his shoulder, pushing him into the metal door. It crashed loudly and a few students stopped in their tracks to rubber neck. Peter lost hold of his phone and it came crashing to the ground, cracking his screen. Adam had already moved on, laughing loudly with the rest of his football buddies. Peter could hear them mocking him as they walked away, catching tidbits like "small dick" and "loser".

Peter fought tears as he bent over to pick up his cracked phone, his hands trembling. He didn't deserve this. He knew that. But he also knew that life was rough and unfair. That's when he felt her fingers on his.

"Hey, are you okay?" a sweet voice had called out to him.

Lana, the head cheerleader, was on her knees her hand outstretched to meet his, her beautiful face dressed in pure sympathy. Peter would remember the look on her face for the rest of his life. That pity. She felt shame for him and she felt compelled to comfort him, a sentiment that was to Peter like petting a dog that had just been beaten by its owner. It opened up the floodgates of his id—the deep monster inside every man's psyche, the part of the soul that tells you to kill or give up. It was in this small moment of time, the warmth of Lana's hand spreading into his own, where he decided that defeat was not an option. In that brief second, his life's mantra materialized, pulling itself from the eldritch aether and into his thoughts.

I am the hunter, not the prey. I fight to win, but my weapon is my mind. He who does not fight with his mind has lost the favor of the universe. I fear nothing, I am the conqueror.

The twisting paths of possibility straightened in Peter's mind. He could feel a new well of courage within him, and he knew that the time for wasting time was over. He was a boy no longer.

"Hey, you're gonna have to take me to dinner before we hold hands," Peter quipped, a smile magically crossing his face. He drew his hand back in feigned disgust.

Lana sat in stunned silence for a moment, taken aback by Peter's comment.

"What?" Lana asked, pushing herself to her feet.

"You heard me," Peter answered, the smile still plastered across his face. "I'm not that easy." Lana giggled at this.

"Is your phone okay?" she asked, pointing to the cracked mess in Peter's hand.

"Ah, it's probably fucked. Oh well, was gonna get a new one anyway," Peter lied. Lana was unconvinced.

Lana looked him up and down. Peter's long hair was greasy and fell in bangs across his eyes. The baggy shirt he wore lay untucked and fell past his fingertips, and the jeans falling down his slender hips looked like bargain rack Walmart. His shoes were dirty and stained, and the hem of his pants dragged on the cement behind him. Peter would cross examine Lana, coming to much different conclusions about the bombshell who stood in front of him.

"Peter. Peter Lee. I don't think we've actually ever met. I came in the middle of the school year," Peter said, holding his hand out to shake hers.

"Lana," she replied, ignoring his outstretched hand. The bell rang for first period. Lana allowed a flat smile to cross her face. "Well, Peter. Nice to meet you. Sorry about your phone."

With that, Lana turned and made her way to class, her swaying ass a gift to men by the gods. Peter stood watching her for a second, his mind still reeling from his cathartic epiphany on the hallway floor. He knew exactly what he wanted-he wanted her. He wanted her to be his. He wanted to conquer her. But he knew he had a lot of work to do.

"I fight to win, but my weapon is my mind," Peter thought to himself. "He who does not fight with his mind has lost the favor of the universe."

****

The first thing that Peter did after that fateful day was to stop by Office Depot and pick up a giant whiteboard and dry erase markers. He fastened it to the wall in his room and began drawing boxes across the top of it. In these, he wrote headers: Looks, Money, Intelligence, Abilities, and Personality. He drew more boxes below, connecting them with lines to the headers above. Then he began to list all his deficits in each of the categories above. Under "Looks" he scribbled "body". He caught himself in the mirror, and shook his head in disgust. He wrote "fashion sense" as well. Peter continued for another hour, filling the whiteboard to the edges. Under each sub-header, he had listed goals as well as a bulleted list of actionable tasks on how to achieve each goal. When he was satisfied, Peter sat down on his bed and stared at the sprawling diagram on his wall.

"This is my roadmap," he thought. "My roadmap to become who I am meant to be."

Peter understood that this was too simple of a statement. To him, these were not markings on a whiteboard, they were etchings on stone tablets. These were his commandments. The tasks on the board were his Bible verses. And he looked upon them and it was good, so he rested. Before he slept that night, Peter repeated his mantra, his words a prayer to the great unknown.

"...I fear nothing, I am the conqueror."

Sleep was deep and satisfying, the sleep of a man with no regrets.

***

It would be a lie to say that the changes were easy for Peter. Many of the things that are considered "improvements" to society seemed vastly illogical and demeaning. Fashion was the best example of this. The finest garments were the least durable, for the most part, and while companies branded themselves as being the height of European chic, their clothes were sewn and constructed by slave children in a free trade zone. Peter took to fashion, as he did with many things, in a regimented, organized manner. He scoured magazines, internet forums, and sitcoms...collecting clips in Evernote and funneling his choices into well-defined, reasonable columns. He created a list of classic, staple pieces that would mix-and-match efficiently then sourced the most cost-effective for each piece: Slim fitting polo shirts from Sunspel , a few custom tailored button ups, a pair of sevenfold ties from Tom Ford, some hemmed slacks from Incotex, a pair of Levi 501s , and a single made-to-measure navy sportcoat for fancier occasions.

Despite the cost of this new wardrobe, Peter saw them as investments in his image. When it came to investments, Peter was a fish in water. The easiest part of his transition to his best self was to improvements in the "money" header of what he was now calling his "Success Algorithm". He had always been a saver and had taken all of the birthday money he received and invested it into index funds and ETFs. All Peter had to do here was reallocate his portfolio to accept more risk and do some preliminary steps in research for a new dropship side-hustle.

When it came to Peter's body, his naturally thin, muscular frame was the perfect canvas for gaining strength, agility and, most importantly, muscle definition. Gone were days of the herculean meat head, Peter reasoned. It was more about the cut, lithe, ropey look that came from low body fat and strong muscles. Peter picked up a barbell set and began a simple, yet effective Olympic lift workout program, convinced by the benefits of overall symmetrical exercises with progressive overload. He also modified his diet, which was the most painful aspect of this lifestyle change. A foodie from birth, Peter's parents loved to go out to eat for dinner. Cutting simple carbohydrates and desserts from his diet was definitely tough, but sacrifice was part of success. Peter told himself that the pain he felt during that last set, or when he denied himself dessert was all that detestable weakness leaving his body. As the weeks of summer passed, so did the softness in his body and mind.

Peter also began to immerse himself in popular culture, studying the qualities of attractiveness in demeanor and poise. He practiced expressing himself non-verbally, and began standing in confident open posture and fostered the habit of gesturing with his hands. Watching actors in slow motion was enlightening for Peter, as he learned to dissect the micro-expressions in the face that occur during conversation. Replicating these expressions in the mirror helped him internalize these expressions, giving him the ability to use them to compliment his words—ensuring that his messages were never lost in translation. Peter even began forcing himself to initiate conversation with random people at the mall to practice, much to the chagrin of the random passersby who were forced to respond to his ham handed conversation starters. As the weeks turned to months, however, the conversations became more natural, more fluid. As the days once again grew shorter, his random initiations had grown to become the most enjoyable part of Peter's day. He met new friends, and was connected to a diverse social circles of artists, engineers, and athletes.

It took discipline to continue. It took determination. It took failure after failure after failure, but it began to change him. The hard work began to lay the foundations of the great man he was to become, and ne noticed that his shadow casted longer—pulled taut by the strength of his will. On a cool day near the end of August, he caught his reflection in a passing storefront window and, for a second, did not recognize the person staring back at him. He smiled and fixed the dimple on his navy blue grenadine tie looped in a double four in hand knot. He pondered on that a bit—he wondered why he had developed such a love for fashion. Why had he, a former schlub, become someone so detail oriented that he had chosen his tie knot specifically to add a tiny fold of fabric underneath the knot? Literally no one at school (hell, his city), would notice that minute detail. That thought, however, made Peter extremely happy. After all, that attention to detail was now something that truly defined him.

He had started noticing things in people—patterns you could say. An angry person would usually raise one eyebrow higher. A sleepy person would rest their entire head on their palm, while an interested person may only rest their chin on a closed fist. A woman entirely engrossed in your conversation would perhaps bite their lip when more provocative thoughts about you entered her mind. This last one was one that he loved spotting. The first time he had noticed was on a date with Freida, the gargantuan Amazonian who worked at Gamestop. Her features were unremarkable (she had some definite psoriasis going on) but at that point in Peter's life, he just did not care. She had bit her lip while he was talking about the new Fallout game, and Peter had just understood. He asked if she'd like to come over to play. She did want to play.

Peter's first sexual encounter was bumbling and awkward, as most first times are, and the details are just too cringeworthy to put into words for consumption. Suffice it to say, Peter learned to aim before thrusting. But, like everything he set his mind to, Peter got better. Tanya had been his second, and was his first exploration into oral sex. It was almost his last, as the whiff of her musk as she opened her legs hit him like a shotgun blast from a fish's ass. He held his breath and dove in, and, much to his surprise, she enjoyed it. Brianna, a chubby Mexican girl from the tutor center, had given him a handjob in the bathroom at work after he had accurately assessed that she was ovulating. Gina had let him take her virginity, although if we're going to be totally honest, she could hardly give it away if she had tried. But still, the fact that a female had let Peter be their first sexual experience meant that he was progressing. Sandra was the first semi-attractive woman that Peter slept with. She was the daughter of his father's Filipino coworker, who had just picked her up from soccer practice. Peter came into the living room and saw her sitting on the couch in her soccer uniform, her thick brown thighs sprawled out on the leather cushions. Her face was pleasant to look at, if a bit tomboyish, and her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to sit?" she had said as she shifted her legs off the couch and back onto the floor. He had gotten a tiny glimpse of her white panties and the darker flesh surrounding those panties as she did this. He stood behind the back rest of the couch, hiding his growing erection. They introduced each other and soon began a long meandering conversation about the new Korean place that had opened down the street. Her body language began to change and he knew she was beginning to lose interest. That is when the deep primal id once again emerged from its cave within his psyche.

You are the hunter, not the prey

, it told him. If anyone had cared to look, they would have seen a bright red glimmer flash across his pupil. Peter concentrated on Sandra, looking for any clues to her interests. Soccer, obviously. Manicured nails. A charm bracelet? Bingo.

"Hey, so I noticed you're wearing an Alex and Ani bracelet. You must know your fashion, huh. Can I ask you a favor really quick?" Peter asked casually. Sandra's ears perked up at the compliment and nodded.

"I am having this thing this weekend and don't know which shirt looks better, can you tell me which one looks better?" Peter asked. He led her to his bedroom and had her sit on his bed and walked into the closet, leaving the door ajar just enough so she could catch the reflection of his bare chest as he changed into a magnificently appointed oxford button down from Zegna. He made sure to turn around in the closet to give her a nice look of his now chiseled abdomen before buttoning up his shirt. He left the top 3 buttons undone and stepped back into his bedroom and observed her reaction. She bit her lip.

He had flirted for a little bit longer and sat down next to her, letting the smell of his leathery cologne invade her senses. Her eyes were dilated as he spoke, and a moment of planned silence in the conversation cued him into her trembling lips.

I am the hunter, he thought, as he moved his hand onto her thigh, still cold from the sweat. She feigned protest, but his lips met hers and she gave up all sense of pretense. Her legs drifted open as his fingers slipped under the hem of her panties and over the soft folds of her labia. To his genuine surprise, she wrapped her arms around him and pushed her tongue past his lips with a force that made his penis throb with excitement. She bit his lip and a gentle electric pain shot across his mouth and down his neck. Peter pulled away and saw that Sandra was grinning maniacally.

"And here I thought you were just another boring Asian," she purred. She grabbed him and pushed him back into his bed. Her hands moved behind her head and she undid the ponytail, letting her long black hair fall down her back and partially over her face. Peter watched intently as she pulled her shorts down and stepped out of them, her damp white panties clinging to the shape of her mound. She straddled him and unbuttoned his shirt, bending over to kiss his firm stomach. She darted her tongue out as she moved lower, unzipping his fly with one hand and caressing his chest with the other. She took his cock into her mouth, her saliva coating his shaft as she bobbed up and down on it, taking the whole length of it down into the back of her throat. Peter moaned and pulled out of her mouth. She looked at him disappointingly.

"What's wrong?" she asked, wiping the spit from her mouth.

"I don't want to finish in your mouth," he said mischievously. Peter smiled as he fumbled in the drawer on his bed stand. He presented a small square of foil to her. Sandra loved this. She tore open the packet with her teeth, and slid the condom on his throbbing cock. Her enthusiasm was a bit too much, however, and the tip of the condom split as she pulled it down his shaft.

"Fuck," she said, "this one broke. Get me another one."

"Another one?" Peter said, panic spreading over him. "I don't have another one! I had to steal that from the lost and found!"

Sandra looked beyond disappointed. She pulled the ruined condom off of Peter's dick and threw it casually to the side of the bed. To Peter's horror she got off of him and made her way back to her shorts. He grabbed her hand as she turned and pulled her closer to him. He put his lips back on hers and maneuvered her onto her back. He slid his hands between her knees and moved the fabric covering her pussy to the side, revealing her pink sex to him. His dick twitched and he began to position himself between her thick muscular thighs when she stopped him with an open palm on his chest.

"No. No glove no love," she stated briskly, moving the fabric back over her pussy with her free hand.

"Oh come on, just a little push..." Peter stated, inching his dick a bit closer.

"No! I don't even let my boyfriend do that," Sandra said, demurely. Peter was taken aback.

"Boyfriend?" he replied. Sandra smiled.

"Don't act so surprised," she said. "You knew that my boyfriend had bought me this bracelet." Peter did not. He truly, truly did not. But somehow, this revelation changed everything. He had been so attractive to Sandra that she was willing to cheat on her boyfriend for a guy she had just met. That was truly game changing. He needed to fuck Sandra. Every molecule of his DNA urged him to take this other man's woman and make her his.

"Well at least let me finish you off," Peter said, thinking quickly. He slowly pushed her back onto the bed and positioned his face between her open legs. He took in her scent, sour but pleasant, and began to kiss the damp fabric between her sex and his lips. His fingers made their way under the hem of her panties and slid them off her legs, pulling them off her foot and throwing them into his closet.

"For later," he joked, as he brought his lips to her sex. His tongue flicked and darted, and he made sure to give much attention to her swollen clitoris. He pushed two of his fingers into her moist hole, the walls of her vagina feeling like wet velvet. The muscles of her pelvic floor pushed and squeezed his fingers as he began to thrust in and out of her with his fingers, his tongue still swirling around her labia. He looked up at her face, which was presently lost in ecstasy. He increased his tempo.

"You like that?" Peter said between licks.

"Mmm..." she managed to reply.

"You want to cum?" he asked.

"Oh...yes...please...yes..." she responded biting her lip as she did so.

"Let me fuck you, baby..." Peter whispered as he pulled up to her ear. He kissed her cheek and pulled her closer to him, spreading her legs wider as he did so. He rest the tip of his penis at the entrance to her trembling pussy.