Chapter 10: First Points
The jungle humidity clung like a second skin even at dawn. Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, sliced through the canopy, dappling the white sand beach where the twenty-four contestants stood in a loose semi-circle. The air buzzed with cicadas and the low roar of the surf, but beneath it thrummed a different kind of tension – the raw, exposed nerves of people who’d spent their first night in the pressure cooker. Sand gritted under bare feet. Sleep-deprived eyes blinked against the glare. Shoulders were hunched, postures defensive or artificially relaxed.
Chris McLean materialized like a mirage, stepping onto a slightly raised platform of driftwood. His crisp linen shirt was impossibly white against the vibrant greens and blues, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the pervasive damp. A wide, knowing grin split his face, radiating televisual charm that felt slightly predatory in the raw morning light.
"Good morning, tempters and temptresses!" His voice, amplified by a hidden mic, cut through the natural sounds, commanding immediate, uneasy attention. "Sleep well? Or... perhaps not?" He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that held no warmth. "Because it seems," he paused dramatically, letting his gaze sweep slowly across the group, lingering just a fraction too long on Carmen, then Valentina, "like we already have our first points on the board!"
A collective intake of breath. Eyes darted nervously.
Chris gestured grandly towards a large, sleek screen embedded in a weathered-looking wooden frame beside him. It flickered to life, bathing his sharp features in a cool, digital glow. Two columns appeared: Names and Points. Most entries showed zeros. But two stood out, stark and undeniable:
Joaquin: 10 Points
Carmen: 10 Points
And lower down:
Naseer: 5 Points
Valentina: 5 Points
Silence crashed down, thick and heavy. The gentle shush of the waves suddenly sounded deafening.
Briv’s head snapped towards Alya, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Already?" he hissed, the word sharp with shock and something darker, hotter. His hand instinctively tightened on hers, but his knuckles were white. "After one night?"
Alya stared at the screen, her angelic face pale beneath its light tan. Her brown eyes were fixed on Carmen’s name, then flicked to Joaquin’s. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The unwavering loyalty etched onto her features faltered for a microsecond, replaced by pure, cold shock. She didn’t look at Briv, her gaze locked on the damning numbers. "Ten points..." she breathed, barely audible. "What... what did they do?"
Carmen felt the heat rush up her neck, flooding her pale cheeks until they burned. She wished the sand would swallow her whole. The memory of cold tiles, pounding hips, and Joaquin’s triumphant smirk slammed into her with visceral force. She could feel every eye on her – Briv’s confusion, Alya’s shock, Nicola’s sideways glance filled with unspoken questions, Joaquin’s smug satisfaction radiating from a few feet away. She stared fixedly at her own toes digging into the sand, the shame a physical weight pressing down on her tall frame. Her wristband, now displaying the accusing ’10’, felt like a brand.
Valentina, standing near Naseer, forced a brittle laugh. She tossed her long brown hair, aiming for nonchalance, but the flush creeping up her tanned neck betrayed her. "Five points? Seriously?" Her voice was pitched higher than usual, tight with the effort of pretending. "Big deal." She avoided looking directly at Naseer, who stood imposingly beside her, his bald head gleaming in the sun, a faint, arrogant smirk playing on his lips beneath the thick beard. Valentina’s small breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath her tank top. She crossed her arms tightly, digging her own nails into her biceps, focusing on the sting to distract from the humiliation burning in her gut. They all know, screamed the voice in her head. They all know I sucked him off.
Joaquin rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked casually in the pockets of his shorts. He caught Carmen’s downward glance and his smirk widened, predatory and satisfied. Naseer simply folded his muscular arms across his broad chest, his expression unreadable except for that faint, chilling amusement in his dark eyes.
Thomas fluttered a hand near his mouth, his dark eyes wide with exaggerated surprise. "Oh my," he murmured, his voice dripping with faux innocence. Kim, ever the charming opportunist, offered Carmen a sympathetic half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, already calculating angles. Sean just grunted, his weathered face set in its perpetual scowl, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "sluts". Logan watched impassively, his gray eyes sharp and assessing. Emilia tilted her head, her intelligent dark eyes flicking between Carmen and Valentina, filing away every micro-expression. Fatima arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her green eyes coolly appraising. Diletta maintained her serene TV-hostess smile, but her dark eyes held a new wariness.
Chris let the silence stretch, savoring the discomfort radiating off the group. He leaned forward slightly, his charismatic smile morphing into something sharper, more mischievous. "Ten points for Joaquin and Carmen," he announced, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur amplified by the mic. "Five for Naseer and Valentina. Seems someone," his gaze swept pointedly across the accused, "got a very... productive... start." He paused again, letting the implication hang heavy in the salty air. "So," he concluded, his voice brightening unnaturally, the smirk firmly back in place, "it seems like the competition already began!"
The words landed like a grenade. The pristine morning beach, the turquoise water, the lush jungle backdrop – it all felt suddenly cheap, tainted. The game wasn't just starting; it had begun in the dark, in secret moments that were now brutally public. Briv’s jaw clenched, his gaze darting from Carmen to Joaquin, jealousy warring with disbelief. Alya finally tore her eyes from the screen, looking at Carmen with a mixture of hurt and betrayal that cut deeper than any accusation. Carmen kept her head down, the shame a living thing coiling in her chest. Valentina forced another laugh, brittle and unconvincing, already scanning the group to see who was looking at her, who was judging. Chris McLean stood bathed in sunlight and smug satisfaction, the puppet master watching his puppets squirm. The island’s true nature, raw and ruthless, was laid bare before breakfast.
===
The lingering sting of exposure hung thick in the salty air. Carmen’s pale cheeks still burned. Valentina pretended fascination with a seashell. Briv stared at Alya’s profile, searching for some flicker of reassurance in her downcast brown eyes, finding only troubled silence. Chris McLean’s grin widened, feeding on the palpable discomfort radiating off the group like heat shimmer off the sand. He clapped his hands sharply, the sound cracking through the tension.
"Alright, enough gawking at the scoreboard!" he announced, his voice booming with false cheer. "Time to earn your keep, lovebirds and... competitors!" He gestured expansively towards a stretch of beach marked off with brightly colored flags. "First trial! Simple, primal, effective. Cabins will form pairs: One man, one woman. Swimsuits only, folks! Let's see what you're working with." A ripple of nervous energy passed through the contestants, postures shifting.
Chris’s eyes gleamed. "The man shouts the name of the woman he wants to carry. None of this ‘may I’ nonsense! You claim her." He paused, letting the implication sink in, his gaze lingering on the already established fault lines. "He picks her up, facing him, hands firm under that delicious ass, her arms around his neck." He mimed the embrace lewdly. "First duel: Cabin 5 versus Cabin 3! Step into the arena."
The designated stretch of sand suddenly felt like a gladiatorial pit. Briv’s stomach clenched. Alya. He’d carry Alya. That was the plan. The only thought. He opened his mouth, ready to call her name loud and clear, protect her from unwanted grabs. Before the first syllable could form, a sharp, aggressive bark cut through the air.
"Alya!"
Revan. Goth, pervy, aggressively confident Revan, standing with Cabin 5, shot his hand into the air like a spear. His dark eyes, heavy with kohl, locked onto Alya with predatory focus, a smirk twisting his lips.
Time froze. Briv’s jaw snapped shut, the sound almost audible. He felt the blood drain from his face, replaced by a surge of white-hot, impotent fury. Alya gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her brown eyes wide with shock and sudden, intense vulnerability. She looked instantly smaller in her simple black bikini, her skin pale against the bright fabric. Across the divide, Kim from Cabin 3 smoothly called, "Fatima!" but the moment belonged to Revan’s audacious claim.
Briv’s fists balled at his sides, knuckles straining against his skin. His vision narrowed to Revan’s smug face and Alya’s stunned expression. He couldn’t breathe. The thought of Revan’s hands – those tattooed, knowing hands – gripping Alya’s tiny, round ass, pulling her lithe body against his, her small breasts pressed close… It ignited a firestorm of possessiveness and rage inside him, hotter and more violent than any jealousy he’d felt before. He was rooted to the spot, a spectator to his own nightmare.
Revan strutted forward, the chains on his ripped black shorts jingling, his confidence radiating like heat. He stopped before the trembling Alya. "You heard the man," he stated, not asking, his voice a low, challenging purr. "Time to fly, angel." He didn't wait. His hands closed possessively around her waist, then slid down, fingers digging deliberately into the soft flesh of her ass cheeks through the thin bikini bottom. He lifted her effortlessly, pulling her tight against his body, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. Her shocked gasp was audible. Her hands fluttered, then settled reluctantly on his shoulders, avoiding his neck, her face turned sharply away, seeking Briv in the crowd.
She found him. Their eyes locked across the sand. Alya’s expression was a tumult of apology, fear, and a dawning horror at her position. Briv saw it all. Saw Revan’s hand shift, kneading her ass openly, saw how Alya flinched, her lips parting in a silent protest. Revan grinned, holding Briv’s furious gaze, daring him to react. He adjusted his grip, pulling Alya even closer, grinding his hips subtly against hers. "Comfy?" he murmured, loud enough for nearby ears.
Chris’s voice sliced through the agonizing moment, bright and merciless. "Positions set? Fantastic! The pair that reaches the finish line first..." He pointed dramatically down the flagged course. "...wins! On your marks... get set... GO!"
Revan exploded forward, Alya clinging to him, her face buried awkwardly against his neck now, hiding. Briv could only watch, a cold, sick dread solidifying in his gut as his girlfriend was carried away in another man's arms, that man's hands claiming what was his. The race had begun.
===
The sharp crack of Chris’s voice barely registered over the roar in Briv’s ears. Sand sprayed as Kim, surprisingly agile for his build, charged forward with Fatima held high, her long red hair whipping behind her like a banner. She clung to his neck, her dancer’s agility evident even in the awkward carry. "Faster, Kim, come on!" she urged, her voice tight with effort.
Revan, however, moved with a feral, predatory grace. He didn't sprint; he powered through the soft sand, muscles in his lean arms and shoulders bunching under Alya’s slight weight. He held her tight against him, her small breasts crushed against his chest, her face still hidden in the crook of his neck. Briv saw Revan’s fingers dig deeper into the scant fabric covering Alya’s tiny ass, pulling her pelvis flush against his own. The intimate press was obscene, possessive. Every jolting step sent a fresh wave of nausea through Briv.
"Look at him go!" Chris’s commentary was a cheerful knife twisting in Briv’s gut. "Revan claiming his prize with gusto, folks! Kim’s giving chase, but that Goth determination is something else!" Kim grunted, pushing hard, Fatima urging him on, her green eyes fixed on the finish flags fluttering in the sea breeze. They were neck and neck, the distance closing too slowly for Briv, too quickly for his sanity. Alya peeked out, her brown eyes wide with terror and something else – a dazed, unwilling awareness of the powerful body carrying her, the sheer physicality of it. Briv saw it. His vision swam.
Revan hit the finish line a fraction of a second before Kim, stumbling slightly but staying upright. He didn't gently lower Alya. He kept her hoisted, her legs still locked around his waist, his chest heaving against hers. Victory lit his dark eyes, sharp and cruel. Before anyone could react, before Alya could even gasp, he crushed his mouth onto hers.
It wasn't a peck. It was deep, wet, consuming. A French kiss, possessive and demanding. His tongue invaded, his hand slid roughly down the curve of her ass and delivered a sharp, stinging slap. Smack. The sound echoed across the suddenly silent beach.
Alya froze, rigid in his arms, her eyes wide open in pure shock.
"What a celebration!" Chris crowed, his grin stretching impossibly wide, relishing the carnage. "Now that's how you mark a win! One point each for Revan and Alya!"
Briv heard the words like they came from underwater. The sight of Revan’s tongue in his girlfriend’s mouth, the sound of the slap on her ass, Chris’s gleeful announcement – it crashed over him like a physical blow. The bright sunlight bleached everything white. The world tilted violently. He felt the sand shift under his feet, his knees buckle. Black spots danced before his eyes. He was going down, the roar in his ears becoming a deafening silence. He felt like he was going to faint.