Chapter 3: Undressing the Prize
The silence that followed Gabby’s question was deeper than the forest at their backs. It swallowed the crackle of embers, the distant hoot of an owl. All that remained was the heavy beat of blood in Brandon’s ears and the sight of his wife’s hand moving on him with a terrible, deliberate slowness.
Her eyes weren’t on him. They were locked on Raquel, who stood perfectly still, a statue carved from shadow and satisfaction. Gabby’s stroking was a performance, a piece of brutal theatre. Her fingers were firm, knowledgeable, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way he liked. It was the most obscene thing he had ever witnessed, because it was her. It was Gabby, on her knees in the dirt, using his body as a weapon in a war he no longer understood.
He was hard in her hand. A traitorous, animal response. Shame burned through him, hot and acidic, but it was distant, secondary to the shocking sight of his wife’s face. The mischievous glint was gone. In its place was a flat, cold challenge.
“Happy?” Gabby spat again, her voice cutting the night.
Raquel exhaled, a slow, appreciative stream of breath. “It’s a start.”
Zane made a choked sound. He was staring at Gabby’s moving hand, his own fists clenched at his sides. This wasn’t part of his competitive calculation. This was humiliation with his fiancée as the architect, and it was aimed at him, too.
Andreia watched, one hand clamped over her mouth. Karina had turned her face away, shoulders hunched.
Gabby’s rhythm didn’t falter. She sped up, her wrist pivoting, her palm slick now. The wet, rhythmic sound was obscenely loud. Brandon’s head fell back. He couldn’t look at them anymore—the audience, his judges. He stared at the smear of Milky Way through the pine canopy, the stars cold and indifferent. Pleasure built, a coiled spring in his gut, utterly divorced from emotion. It was mechanical. Inevitable.
“Gabby,” he grunted, a warning.
She ignored him. Her other hand came up, cupping his balls, rolling them gently. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was going to make him come like this, on his knees in front of everyone. A final, utter demolition of whatever was left between them.
His hips jerked. He couldn’t stop it. The heat was a tidal wave, rising from his core. He bit down on a groan.
Just as the crest was about to break, she stopped.
Her hand released him, sticky and trembling slightly. She stayed on her knees, looking up at Raquel. “Your turn,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You wanted to play. So play. Or are you just a spectator?”
The challenge hung in the air. Raquel’s composure flickered for a fraction of a second. Gabby had seized the narrative, turning her own degradation into a gauntlet thrown.
Zane stepped forward. “That’s enough. The game is over.”
“It’s not over until I say it’s over,” Raquel said, her eyes never leaving Gabby. “She’s right. It’s my turn. And my turn continues.” She finally looked at Brandon. His cock stood thick and glistening in the firelight, a testament to his wife’s handiwork. “Brandon. Truth or dare?”
He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, a numb, useless gesture.
“Dare, then,” she decided for him. “I dare you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.”
The words didn’t land with a shock. They simply crystallized the inevitable. This was where the path had been leading since the first swapped kiss. Zane lunged, grabbing Raquel’s arm. “Are you insane?”
She shook him off with viper speed. “You wanted to see how far it would go! You raised your hand for the group dare! You don’t get to be shocked at the destination!” Her shout echoed off the trees. “This is the game, Zane. This is the fucking game you all agreed to play.”
She turned back to Brandon. Her fingers went to the hem of her own shirt. She pulled it over her head in one fluid motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were small, pale, her nipples hard in the cool air. She kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her jeans, and shoved them and her panties down her legs, stepping out of them. She stood naked before the dying fire, utterly unselfconscious, a queen offering her own body as the final prize.
“Well?” she said.
Gabby slowly stood up from her knees. She didn’t look at Brandon. She walked to a log and sat down, watching. Her face was blank, wiped clean. She was an empty vessel.
Brandon looked from Raquel’s naked form to his wife’s hollow eyes to Zane’s apoplectic rage. Something in him broke. Not a moral boundary—that had shattered hours ago—but the last tether to the person he’d been when they drove up this mountain. The laid-back adventurer was gone. What remained was raw id, a hungry thing freed by the chaos.
He stepped out of his pooled jeans and boxers. He walked to Raquel.
She didn’t smile. Her intelligent eyes assessed him, his arousal, his intention. She backed up until her bare calves hit the low, flat stone they’d used as a table for whiskey bottles. She sat on its edge, the cold granite against her skin, and lay back, opening her legs.
The firelight played over the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. The air smelled of sex and pine and cold stone.
He moved between her legs. Her hands came up, not to guide him, but to grip the edges of the rock, her knuckles white. This was her victory, and she would be stoic for it. He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. She was wet. Slick heat welcomed him. He pushed forward.
RAQUEL AND BRANDON HAVE SEX.
It wasn’t making love. It wasn’t even frantic passion. It was a claiming. A deep, hard, single thrust that buried him to the hilt inside her. Her breath exploded from her lungs in a sharp “Unnh!” Her back arched off the stone. She was tight, impossibly so, a hot, clutching vise around him.
He froze for a second, buried in her, the reality of it a physical electric shock. Then he pulled back and drove into her again. And again. A brutal, punishing rhythm. The slap of his skin against hers, the wet, sucking sounds of their coupling filled the clearing. He fucked her with a grim, focused intensity, his hands braced on the rock on either side of her head.
Her composure broke. A ragged moan tore from her throat. Her legs came up, locking around his hips, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. “Yes,” she hissed, her head thrashing side to side. “Fuck me. Fuck me, Brandon. Just like that.”
He glanced over. Gabby watched, unblinking. Zane had turned away, his shoulders heaving. Andreia and Karina were statues.
He looked down at Raquel. Her eyes were open, burning into his. There was no affection there. Only a furious, mirroring hunger and a profound, chilling satisfaction. This was what she’d always wanted. Not him. This. The conquest. The unraveling.
“You’re a fucking cunt,” he growled, driving into her harder, the rock scraping his knuckles.
“And you’re a cheating bastard,” she gasped, meeting his thrusts. “Now fuck me like one.”
He lost time. There was only the piston drive of his hips, the raw scrape of sensation, the building, screaming pressure in his balls. Her nails scored his back. Her cries became louder, sharper, devoid of pretense. She was coming, her inner muscles clenching around him in fierce, rhythmic pulses, her body bowing up off the stone.
The sight of her unraveling, the feel of her milking him, tipped him over the edge. With a raw, gut-deep shout that was pure animal, he came. He slammed into her one final, grinding time, spurting deep inside her, his vision whiting out at the edges. He emptied himself into the woman who had orchestrated the ruin of his night, his marriage, himself.
He collapsed forward, catching himself on his arms, his sweat dripping onto her stomach. They were both panting, slick with sweat and sex. The air reeked of it.
Slowly, he pulled out of her. The sound was lewd in the quiet. He stood up, his legs trembling. Cum and her wetness gleamed on his softening cock.
Raquel didn’t move. She lay on the stone, exposed, her chest heaving. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She had won.
Zane turned around. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He looked at Raquel’ s naked, used body, then at Brandon. Without a word, he strode to the largest tent—the orange nylon beast that had started it all—and vanished inside, zipping it shut with a vicious finality.
The game was over. There was nothing left to dare.
Andreia started to cry, soft, hopeless sobs. Karina put an arm around her, leading her away toward the smaller tent, leaving the clearing.
Brandon found his clothes. He dressed mechanically. Raquel sat up, collected her own clothes, and dressed with calm, efficient movements. She didn’t look at him again. She walked to the large tent, paused, and entered, joining Zane.
That left Brandon and Gabby alone in the ruins of the firelight.
He walked to her. She still sat on the log, staring at the grey embers.
“Gabby,” he said. His voice was ruined.
She looked up at him. The blankness was gone. In its place was a weariness so deep it seemed to age her a decade. “Don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m…”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” She stood up. She swayed a little on her feet. “Sorry is for spilling a drink. This… this is what we are now.” She looked toward the large tent, then back at him. “There’s no room in the other tents. You sleep out here.”
She walked away from him, toward the trees, not toward any shelter. Just away.
Brandon stood alone in the clearing. The fire was dead. The cold mountain air moved in, raising goosebumps on his skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. He heard a zip from the large tent, a muffled shout that might have been Zane, then a sharp, stinging slap, and silence.
He sat on the log his wife had vacated. He stared at the stone table, where the ghost of what he’d just done seemed to linger in the darkness. He waited for dawn, but the night felt endless.
He waited for dawn, but the night felt endless. The cold bit through his flannel, and every sound—a rustle in the trees, the muffled argument from the large tent—jerked his nerves taut. His skin still smelled of Raquel, a scent that now felt less like lust and more like a corrosive stain.
He stood up, his joints stiff. The stone table was a dark silhouette. His own quiet humiliation curdled, fermenting into something darker and more decisive. The passive observer was gone. The man who let himself be pulled from kiss to dare to fuck was gone. What stirred in the ashes was colder, and sharper.
He walked to the large tent. He didn’t knock. He unzipped it.
The space was thick with the smell of sex and anger. Zane was sitting on a sleeping bag, back against the tent pole, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. Raquel was lying down, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling. They both looked at him.
“Get out,” Zane said, his voice flat.
“No,” Brandon said. The word landed with finality. He kept his eyes on Raquel. “You got what you wanted. You broke it all. Congratulations.”
She sat up slowly, the blanket pooling at her waist. She said nothing.
“Now it’s my turn,” Brandon said. “My game. My rules. Get up. Both of you. We’re going to the fire.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Zane snorted, taking a swig.
Brandon stepped fully inside, the tent dim. “Maybe. But you’re going to come out, or I start shouting every detail of what your fiancée sounds like when she comes. I’ll wake everyone on this fucking mountain. You think you’re humiliated now? Wait ‘til the park rangers ask questions.”
Zane’s eyes widened with pure venom, but he stood. Raquel, a curious light in her eyes, slid from her sleeping bag. She pulled on her jeans and shirt, no bra, her movements unnervingly calm.
Brandon turned and left. He didn’t check if they followed. He went to the smaller tent. He unzipped it. Karina and Andreia were huddled together, awake. He saw their frightened faces in the glow of a phone screen. “Out,” he said. “Now.”
“Brandon, please—” Karina started.
“Now, Karina.” His tone left no room. They scrambled out, clutching jackets around themselves. He walked toward the trees where Gabby had vanished. He found her sitting on a fallen log, shivering. She looked at him as if he were a stranger.
“Come back to the fire,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
“Why?”
“Because I’m finishing it.”
She searched his face and saw something that made her slowly stand. She followed him, trailing a few steps behind, back into the clearing. He kicked the grey embers, sending up a spray of sparks, and tossed a few pieces of remaining wood onto the glow. A flame licked up, painting the assembled faces anew.
They were all there. Zane, rigid with fury. Raquel, watching with analytical interest. Andreia, wiped clean of flirtation, just young and scared. Karina, hugging herself. Gabby, standing apart, a ghost of the woman who’d started the dares hours before.
Brandon stood before the feeble flame. “You wanted a game? Good. This is the last round. My round. One dare. For everyone.”
“This is bullshit,” Zane spat.
“The dare is this,” Brandon continued, ignoring him. His voice was low, clear, and carried. “You all watch. Gabby. Come here.”
Gabby didn’t move. Her blue eyes were huge in the firelight.
“You wanted to see how far I’d go?” Brandon said, his gaze sweeping over Raquel, over Zane. “You wanted to use my marriage as your fucking sport? Fine. Now you get front row seats to what’s left of it.”
He looked only at his wife. “Gabby. Come. Here.”
She took a shuddering breath and walked to him. She stopped a foot away, her body tense, poised for flight.
BRANDON TAKES CHARGE.
He didn’t kiss her. He reached for the button of her jeans. His fingers worked methodically, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. A sharp gasp escaped her, but she didn’t stop him. He pushed the denim and her cotton panties down over her hips, letting them fall to her ankles. The firelight gilded the soft curves of her stomach, the blonde hair at the junction of her thighs.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice rough. “Bend over. Hold the log.”
She made a small, broken sound. Her eyes flickered to the silent audience, her sister, her cousins, their partners. Then, with a terrifying submission, she obeyed. She turned her back to them, bent at the waist, and gripped the splintered wood of the seating log. Her posture was one of absolute surrender, her ass offered to the firelight, and to him.
Brandon unbuckled his own belt. He freed his cock, which was already half-hard, a visceral response to the power crackling in the air and the raw vulnerability of his wife’s position. He stepped close behind her. He ran the head of his cock through her slit, feeling her wetness. She was already slick.
“Look at her,” he said to the others, but he was looking at Raquel. “This is what you were trying to win. This is what you wanted to break.”
He positioned himself and pushed inside her. Gabby cried out, a muffled groan against the night air, as he filled her in one deep, insistent stroke. He fucked her slowly, relentlessly, each thrust a deliberate punctuation in the silent clearing. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin was the only sound.
He kept his eyes open, locked on Raquel’s face. He saw her calculated composure fissure. She hadn’t anticipated this. This wasn’t a loss of control; it was a brutal demonstration of it. He was claiming what was his, in the most primal way possible, and forcing her to watch. Zane looked away, his jaw muscle jumping. Andreia was crying silently. Karina had covered her mouth.
He gripped Gabby’s hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. He pulled her back onto him with every drive, owning the rhythm, owning the act. Gabby’s moans became less pained, more guttural, a raw sound torn from her throat. Her body began to move with his, an old, deep synergy that not even this nightmare could fully erase.
“You see her?” Brandon grunted, his pace increasing. “This is my wife.”
He fucked her harder, faster. The log scraped against the ground. Gabby’s pleasurable cries echoed now, unabashed, filling the space. She was close. He could feel her internal muscles beginning to flutter around him. He reached around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles.
She shattered. Her body seized, a silent scream shaking her frame as her orgasm ripped through her, her cunt clamping down on him in violent, pulsating waves. The force of her climax tipped him over. With a final, deep plunge, he came, pouring himself into her, a low growl escaping his chest. He stayed there, buried inside her, for a long moment, both of them panting, connected in the most elementary way.
Slowly, he pulled out. He helped her stand, her legs unsteady. He pulled her jeans up for her, his movements oddly tender now. She leaned into him, her face buried in his shoulder, weeping silently.
Brandon looked at the shattered audience. “Game over,” he said, his voice empty of everything but finality. “Go to bed. Or don’t. I don’t give a fuck.”
He led Gabby away from the fire, not toward a tent, but down the dark path toward the lake. The others remained, frozen in the aftermath, the true cost of their entertainment now written in the raw, exposed air between them. The fire popped, consuming the last of the wood.
The fire popped, consuming the last of the wood. Its light died, leaving only the milky wash of a half-moon to define the clearing. Brandon led Gabby down the narrow, pine-needle path, their progress silent but for her sniffles and the crush of underbrush. The lake emerged through the trees, a black sheet of obsidian under the sky, its surface perfectly still.
He stopped at the water’s edge, the cold radiating from it. Gabby shivered beside him. “Why are we here?” she whispered.
“Because it’s away from them.” His own voice sounded foreign. He knelt, cupped the frigid water, and brought it to his face. It wasn’t enough. He stood and began stripping again, his movements urgent. His clothes pooled on the muddy bank. “Get in.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Get in, Gabby.” He didn’t look at her. He walked into the lake. The cold was a slap, a brutal shock that burned his skin and stole his breath. It felt like punishment. It felt right. He waded out until the water lapped at his waist, his body screaming, then turned.
She was undressing, her movements sluggish with defeat. Moonlight painted her pale curves blue. She stepped in, flinching, a sharp hiss escaping her teeth as she waded toward him. The water swirled around her thighs, her hips, her stomach.
He reached for her when she was close. His hands on her cold waist were a brand. She trembled, but not from the temperature. “What happens tomorrow?” she asked, her voice small.
“I don’t know.” He pulled her against him. Their bodies met under the black water, skin sliding, heat fighting the pervasive chill. He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a search for a familiar taste beneath the ash and whiskey and salt. She kissed him back with a desperate, clawing hunger, her hands tangling in his wet hair.
It was a reset. A furious, hopeless attempt to reclaim a fragment of what they’d annihilated. He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his hips, her core aligning with his under the surface. He was hard again, a purely physical response to her proximity and the sheer adrenaline of the night. She guided him inside her with one wet, frantic hand.
They fucked in the lake, the water offering a strange, weightless resistance. Each thrust created a quiet splash, a rhythmic disruption of the placid surface. Her back was against the slick, submerged bark of a fallen log. He drove into her, the cold exterior contrasting wildly with the searing heat within her. Her moans were swallowed by the vast, quiet dark of the woods.
“Don’t stop,” she choked out, her head thrown back. “Please, god, don’t stop.” Her plea was for more than the physical act. It was a prayer against the coming dawn.
He didn’t. He pistoned into her, his grip on her thighs tight enough to bruise. The pleasure was sharp, acute, a white-hot wire in the center of the numbness. She came with a stifled cry, her inner muscles fluttering around him in quick, desperate pulses. He followed, spilling into her with a groan that was half agony, his forehead pressed against her shoulder.
They stayed locked together, breathing raggedly, the water slowly leaching their warmth. The sound of their panting was the only noise. Then, a new sound: a careful footstep on the bank.
They froze. Two silhouettes stood at the tree line, watching.
Gabby unwound her legs, lowering herself into the water, hiding her nakedness. Brandon turned, placing himself between her and the observers. “Who’s there?” His voice was a growl.
“It’s us.” Karina’s voice, timid and thin.
Andreia stepped forward, her arms wrapped around herself. “We… we didn’t know where else to go.” She was crying again, the tears silent tracks on her moonlit cheeks. “Matthew won’t let me in the tent. Angelo’s gone. The big tent is… we heard fighting.”
They stood there, two more refugees from the wreckage. Karina’s gaze was fixed on the water, on where Brandon and Gabby were joined. Andreia just looked lost.
Brandon felt a dark, reckless laugh bubble in his chest. It didn’t escape. The game wasn’t over. The players were just relocating. “So come in,” he said, the challenge clear in his tone.
Gabby stiffened behind him. “Brandon.”
“What?” He looked over his shoulder at her. Her face was a pale oval of confusion and exhaustion. “You wanted to see how far it could go. They all did.” He looked back at the women on the bank. “The water’s cold. It wakes you up.”
Karina and Andreia exchanged a long, silent look. A communication passed between them, forged in the shared humiliation of the evening. Slowly, Karina began to unbutton her flannel shirt. Andreia, after another moment’s hesitation, pulled her tight tank top over her head.
They undressed with a functional, graceless speed, leaving small piles of clothing next to Brandon and Gabby’s. Their bodies were pale ghosts in the moonlight. Karina was softer, with the gentle curves she always hid in loose sweaters. Andreia was leaner, her movements usually flaunted, now subdued.
They waded in together, gasping at the cold. They stopped a few feet away, the water at their chests. The four of them formed a loose circle in the black lake, breaths pluming in faint mist.
“Now what?” Andreia asked, her bravado completely absent. She was just a young woman, shivering in a dark lake.
Brandon looked at Gabby. He saw the calculation return to her eyes, the old mischievous glint warped now into something harder. She was studying her sister and her cousin. She understood the power shift. Her husband had just publicly reclaimed her. That gave her a status, a terrible authority in this new, fractured hierarchy.
“Now,” Gabby said, her voice regaining a thread of its old steadiness, “we finish the game properly.” She turned to Andreia. “You started this. You gave the first dare. So you get the last one.”
Andreia shook her head. “I don’t want to. I’m done.”
“You’re not done,” Gabby stated, the water dripping from her chin. “None of us are. We’re in a lake, naked, after fucking each other’s partners and screaming at each other. ‘Done’ left hours ago. A dare, Andreia. For Karina.”
The focus pivoted. Karina flinched, pushing her glasses up out of habit, forgetting they were on the bank with her clothes. “Me?”
Andreia looked at Karina, her former rival in flirtation, now just another broken piece. She understood the unspoken rule. This was how you stayed in the circle. You played. “Okay,” Andreia whispered. “Karina. Truth or dare?”
Karina hugged herself, the water rippling. She was silent for a long time. The lake absorbed the sound. “Dare,” she finally said, the word barely audible.
Andreia took a step closer. The space between them shrank. “I dare you to kiss me. Not like a sister. Like you wanted to kiss him.” She didn’t look at Brandon, but the reference was a live wire in the night air.
Karina’s breath hitched. Her secret, her fleeting glance of fantasy, was now a currency. She looked at Brandon, a flash of shame and something else—defiance. Then she looked at Andreia. She closed the distance.
It was hesitant at first. A brush of lips, a testing. Then Andreia’s hand came up to Karina’s cheek, and the kiss deepened. It was hungry, exploratory, a release of a different kind of tension. Gabby watched, her arm linked with Brandon’s under the water. He felt a fresh, unbidden stir of arousal at the sight, so candid and unexpected.
The kiss broke. They rested their foreheads together, breathing shakily.
“My turn,” Karina said, her voice fuller, emboldened by the act. She turned her head, her eyes finding Gabby. “Gabby. Truth or dare.”
Gabby’s smile was a ghost of its former self. “Dare.”
Karina paused, her mind working. The artist in her was composing the scene. “I dare you… to tell Brandon what you really thought when you saw him fucking Raquel. Every filthy detail. And I dare you to touch yourself while you tell him. Right here.”
The dare landed with the quiet precision of a knife slip. It wasn’t about exposing Brandon. It was about exposing Gabby’s own hidden heart. Gabby’s face went still. Then, slowly, she nodded.
She turned to face Brandon fully, the water sloshing around them. Her hand disappeared beneath the surface. Her eyes never left his. “I thought you looked like a stranger,” she began, her voice low and steady. “I thought, that’s not my husband. My husband is gentle. That man on the rock was an animal.”
Her breath caught. Her shoulders tensed. She was touching herself under the dark water. “And I hated her. I wanted to claw her eyes out. But part of me… a sick, fucking part of me… was so wet watching it.” She bit her lip. “I saw how hard you were. I heard the sounds she was making. I imagined what it felt like for her. To have you like that. So ruthless.”
Brandon was spellbound. Her confession was more intimate than any touch. He could see the subtle movement of her arm, the quickening of her breath. Andreia and Karina watched, rapt.
“It made me want you to do it to me,” Gabby gasped, her composure fraying. “To prove you still could. To prove I could take it. To prove I was better.” Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, then snapped open, blazing. “I came, Brandon. Watching my husband come in another woman, I fucking came in my jeans just standing there.”
A low moan escaped her. Her head tipped back, her neck corded. Her hips made a small, jerking motion against her own hand. “I’m close,” she whispered, the words ragged. “Right now. Thinking about it.”
“Show me,” Brandon commanded, his own voice thick.
She brought her other hand out of the water, grabbed his wrist, and guided his hand down between her legs under the surface. He found her clit, slick and throbbing. He took over, rubbing the tight, hot nub in fast, firm circles as she kept talking.
“I imagined it was me on that rock,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulder. “I imagined you calling me her name. I imagined you telling me I was a better fuck.” Her body stiffened. A sharp, guttural cry tore from her throat, echoing over the lake. She rode his hand, her climax shuddering through her, her face a contorted mask of ecstasy and utter devastation.
As her waves subsided, she slumped against him, spent. The lake was silent again, heavy with the new, charged truth.
Gabby, breathing heavily against his neck, turned her head. Her eyes, glazed with aftermath, found Karina. “Your turn,” she breathed.
Karina was staring, her lips parted. She looked from Gabby’s shattered face to Andreia’s, then to Brandon. The game had looped back to her. The power was in her hands. She had the dare.
She looked at Andreia, a silent question passing between them. Then she looked at Brandon, her fantasy now a living, breathing man coated in lake water and other women’s scent. Her gaze drifted past him, back toward the path to the campsite.
“I dare…” Karina said, her voice gaining a strange, clear strength. She wasn’t looking at any of them in the water. She was looking at the two figures now standing on the bank, having followed the sounds. Raquel and Zane, fully dressed, their faces obscured by shadow, watching the scene in the moonlit lake.
Karina finished, her words cutting the night. “I dare Raquel to get in this water and suck Brandon’s cock until he comes in her mouth. And I dare Zane to watch.”