Chapter 127: Before Trial 10
The grey light of dawn filtered through the cabin window, painting cold stripes across the tangled limbs on the floor. Alya was the first to wake. The warmth of other bodies was a stark contrast to the chill in her spine. She untangled herself slowly, her muscles sore, her mouth tasting stale and used. The memories of the night crashed over her not as a wave of regret, but as a heavy, uneasy fog. It had happened. She had been a part of it. The frantic energy that had consumed her was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out feeling.
She didn’t look at Raze, asleep on his back, or at Elena and Valentina, curled together like spoons. She just found her clothes, scattered like evidence, and dressed quickly. The soft fabric of her shirt felt alien against her skin, which was buzzing.
Outside, the air was cool and salty, a biting cleanser. She walked towards the beach, not sure where else to go. The images flashed unbidden: Briv’s body hitting the sand, Andre’s fist, then later, the feel of Raze’s skin, the taste of him, the competing hunger in Valentina’s eyes. They were all mixed together, a cocktail of violence and surrender. She sat on the damp sand, pulling her knees to her chest, and watched the ocean churn.
Footsteps crunched behind her. She didn’t need to turn. She could feel his particular silence.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Raze’s voice was rough with sleep. He sat beside her, not too close. His presence was like a low-frequency hum.
Alya shook her head, still staring at the horizon. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t,” he said, simple and flat. “Thinking is what gets people hurt. Yesterday proved that. You feel different today, don’t you? Lighter.”
She did, and that was the most disturbing part. The paralyzing fear was gone. In its place was a numb readiness. “I feel like I crossed a line,” she whispered.
“There are no lines here,” Raze countered. “There’s only the shore, and the deep water. You can stand on the shore and get picked off, or you can swim. You swam last night.” He picked up a handful of sand, let it trickle through his fingers. “Look.”
She followed his gaze. Up the beach, Chris McLean was overseeing the setup of a large digital screen mounted on an easel. The rest of the contestants were beginning to gather, drawn by the production assistants. The morning-after atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension—the anxiety of judgment.
“Time to see who’s winning the popularity contest,” Raze said, a smirk in his voice. He stood and offered her a hand.
Alya hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, pulling her up. The contact was purely functional, but it sent a jolt through her, a reminder of the intimacy they’d shared, however transactional.
The group assembled in a loose semicircle on the sand. Briv was there, standing slightly apart from everyone. A dark bruise bloomed across his jaw, a vivid purple and blue map of his humiliation. His eyes, when they met Alya’s, were flat and guarded. He looked from her to Raze, who had settled comfortably beside her, and something in his face tightened. He quickly looked away. Nicola and Carmen stood near him, a protective flank, but he seemed miles away.
Elena and Valentina arrived together, arm-in-arm, putting on a show of unified sisterhood. Elena looked refreshed, confident, her gaze sweeping over the group as if assessing the competition. Valentina caught Alya’s eye and gave a tiny, conspiratorial wink that made Alya’s stomach twist.
“Good morning, sunshines!” Chris McLean boomed, clapping his hands together. His smile was brilliantly white against his tan. “I hope you all had a… restorative night. Time for a little truth. Feedback from the viewers is everything. It’s the currency of this island. And let me tell you, the wires have been burning up.”
He gestured to the screen, which was still dark. “This leaderboard is dynamic. It reflects alliances, strategies, and, of course, the sheer entertainment value you each provide. The stakes change today. The bottom five… let’s just say they’ll be facing a very special challenge.” He paused, letting the threat hang in the salt air. “Shall we?”
The screen flickered to life. A collective intake of breath sucked the air from the beach.
1ST - ALYA - 145P
A murmur rippled through the group. Alya felt every pair of eyes lock onto her. The number was staggering, absurd. One hundred and forty-five points. She was miles ahead. Heat flooded her cheeks. This wasn’t just from the trial. This was from last night. The cameras in the cabin. They’d seen it all. They’d rewarded it.
2ND - JIM - 119P
3RD - DARIANA - 118P
4TH - BIANCA - 117P
5TH - ELENA - 116P
Elena’s smile was tight. She’d gained points, sure, but she was still behind Alya. Her calculating eyes narrowed slightly.
6TH - JOAQUIN - 114P
7TH - DILETTA - 108P
8TH - BRIV - 107P
Briv stared at his name. Eighth place. After everything. The humiliation of the fight, and now this. He’d started near the top. Now he was clinging to the middle. His jaw worked, the bruise pulsing. Then his eyes flicked back to Alya’s name at the very top. The disconnect was brutal.
9TH - THOMAS - 105P
10TH - PATRICIA, RAZE - 98P
Raze let out a soft, amused sound. “Tied with the blonde,” he murmured to Alya, utterly unbothered by his mid-tier position. He seemed to enjoy the chaos of the rankings more than his own place in them.
The list continued, each name a verdict.
11TH - FATIMA - 89P
12TH - NICOLETA - 88P
Nicoleta, the goth influencer, scowled, crossing her tattooed arms. This was an insult.
13TH - ANDRE - 84P
Andre, the man who had dominated the trial, stood impassive. The violence had only earned him thirteenth place. A few people glanced at him nervously, but the leaderboard had subtly neutered his menace. He was just another contestant.
14TH - KOFI - 83P
15TH - SEAN - 73P
16TH - VALENTINA - 72P
Valentina pouted, visibly upset at being so low after what she considered a star performance.
17TH - NASEER - 68P
18TH - LOGAN - 64P
19TH - KIM - 63P
20TH - EMILIA - 56P
21ST - REVAN - 53P
22ND - CARMEN - 52P
23RD - NICOLA - 43P
Nicola’s face fell. Bottom. Her friend Carmen grabbed her hand, but the devastation was clear. She was the least popular person on the island.
“There you have it!” Chris said, spreading his arms wide. “Alya, darling, looks like America can’t get enough of you. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” His wink was deliberate, sleazy. “For the rest of you… especially those in the red zone… I’d start thinking about your strategies. Lunchtime today, the bottom five will get a chance to change their fortunes. It won’t be pleasant.”
The group broke into frantic chatter. People clustered around Alya, a sudden, smothering attention.
“Wow, Alya, congrats!” Fatima said, her voice tinged with envy.
“What’s your secret?” Patricia asked, a little too sharply.
Alya just shook her head, overwhelmed. She felt a hand on the small of her back. Raze. He guided her away from the crowd, his touch possessive.
“See?” he said quietly as they walked. “Power. They’re all looking at you now. They’re not afraid of Andre. They’re curious about you.”
Across the sand, Briv watched them go. He saw Raze’s hand on Alya, the casual intimacy of it. He saw the dazed, overwhelmed look on Alya’s face—the same face he’d woken up next to for two years. It wasn’t jealousy anymore. It was something colder, darker. She was on top of the world, and he was in the shadows, his face throbbing with the memory of a defeat that everyone had already moved past. The points weren’t just numbers. They were the new reality. And in this reality, he was nothing.
===
The weight of his own irrelevance was a physical pressure on Briv’s chest, making each breath a conscious effort. He watched Alya navigate her new status, the swarm of contestants around her a buzzing testament to her sudden value. Her smile was tight, a performer’s mask, but she didn’t look back at him. The world had pivoted on its axis, leaving him behind in the dust of yesterday’s failure.
“Alright, settle down, lovebirds and vultures!” Chris’s voice cut through the chatter, amplified by a microphone that appeared in his hand. He stood before them, a picture of televised glee against the vast, indifferent ocean. “You’ve seen the numbers. You know who’s soaring and who’s sinking. But this island loves a comeback story, and we’re about to give the bottom five a chance to… well, let’s call it a chance.”
He paused, letting the dread and anticipation mix. “For everyone else, the game evolves. It’s time for a team sport. A very, very intimate team sport.” A wicked grin spread across his face. “I am thrilled to announce Trial 10: Men versus Women!”
A collective, nervous energy buzzed through the group. This was new.
“Here’s how it works,” Chris continued, pacing slowly in front of them. “You’ll be paired in groups of six: three men and three women. Men will compete against women. You’ll all be naked, of course. We are nothing if not committed to authenticity.” He winked. “Each man has to fuck each woman - you choose the order. The objective is simple, but the execution? That’s where it gets delicious.”
He stopped, ensuring he had every ounce of their attention. “The losing condition is the orgasm. When every single member of one of the two teams, Men or Women, cums, that certain team loses, and the other one advances to the next round! So it’s a battle of endurance, of focus, of sheer will overriding animal instinct. Hold your team together. Make the other team fall apart.”
Silence. The crude mechanics of the challenge settled over them, a bizarre and degrading sport. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was about control, about using the body as a weapon against itself.
“The draw will be made soon,” Chris finished, his smile sharp. “So I’d suggest you start thinking about your teammates. And your stamina.”
The group erupted into a chaos of reactions. Jim’s eyes went wide with a kind of porn-addicted glee, while Sean grunted, “About damn time we put them in their place.” Nicoleta rolled her eyes, muttering about the lack of creativity, but a competitive fire ignited in her dark gaze.
Briv felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This was a fresh hell. His confidence was shattered, his body still ached from the beating, and now he might have to perform in some grotesque relay race. He looked at the other men—Raze’s cool assurance, Andre’s brute strength, Joaquin’s swaggering confidence. He felt skinny and exposed.
Alya hugged herself, the initial high from the leaderboard crashing into a new wave of anxiety. This was different from the wild, fearful abandon of the cabin. This was structured, broadcasted, a competition of physical response she wasn't sure she could control. Her eyes met Raze’s across the sand.
He gave her a slow, knowing smirk, as if he could read the panic behind her eyes. He mouthed a single, silent word. “Swim.”
The implication was clear. This was just another deep water he expected her to navigate. But the rules had changed. This wasn't about losing herself to forget. This was about holding a part of herself back, a strategic calculation in the midst of intense physical sensation. It was a war fought on the terrain of her own body, and the thought of it made her feel terrifyingly, utterly vulnerable.
The production crew began moving through the group with a large, clear drum filled with folded slips of paper. The draw was happening now. The air grew thick with tension, each person mentally calculating who would be an asset and who would be a liability. Briv watched the drum approach, his heart hammering against his ribs. His fate, and the humiliating spectacle of his performance, was about to be decided by a random piece of paper. He was either about to be saved or completely destroyed.
===
He was either about to be saved or completely destroyed.
The drum, a vulgar fishbowl of fates, bobbed towards him in the hands of a bored production assistant. Briv’s hand trembled as he reached in, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth sides before closing on a single, folded square. The paper felt impossibly heavy. Around him, the rustle of others doing the same was a dry, anxious sound. He unfolded his slip, the crisp sound loud in his ears.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over him so powerfully his knees nearly buckled. Saved. For now. He wasn’t in the first group. He could watch, he could learn, he could see how this grotesque new game was played before his own number was called. He looked at the other names being called out, a frantic litany of pairings.
Chris’s voice cut through, amplified and definitive. “And our first group for Round 1! Let’s hear it for… Logan, Joaquin, and Revan!” The three men stepped forward, a study in contrasts: Logan’s imposing, weathered solidity, Joaquin’s preening machismo, and Revan’s twitchy, predatory energy. They looked at each other, a silent assessment passing between them.
“And they will be competing against…” Chris drew out the pause, milking the moment. “Carmen, Dariana, and Bianca!”
Carmen, tall and pale, wrapped her arms around herself. Dariana, the athlete, set her jaw, her body tensing like a sprinter awaiting the gun. Bianca, the beginner psychologist, closed her eyes for a brief second, as if centering herself. The bottom five, including Nicola, looked on with a mixture of pity and frantic hope that their own draw would be kinder.
“Contestants, to the designated area! Everyone else, find a seat. The show is about to begin.” Chris gestured to a large, padded mat that had been laid out on the sand, encircled by cameras on swooping cranes. “And let’s remember the rules! The first team to have all its members reach orgasm loses. So gentlemen, try not to enjoy yourselves too much.” He laughed, a sound without warmth.
The six chosen players moved to the mat under the blinding glare of the sun and studio lights. There was no more chatter. The air crackled with a sickening blend of anticipation and dread.
“Clothes off! Let’s see what you’re working with!” Chris commanded.
There was a slow, awkward shuffle. Joaquin was the first, grinning as he peeled off his shirt and shorts, his muscular body and thick, semi-erect cock instantly on display. Revan followed, his movements jerky and aggressive as he stripped, his own erection already prominent. Logan, with a grunt, removed his clothes, revealing a powerfully built frame that belied his age, his dick thick and heavy.
On the women’s side, Carmen went first, her long limbs seeming to go on forever as she revealed her slender body and small, round ass. Dariana was next, her tanned, athletic form and big, round ass a testament to her discipline. Bianca, biting her lip, was last, her blonde hair shining as she undressed, her narrow waist and own substantial curves now public property.
“Ladies, a strategy, quickly,” Bianca whispered, turning her back to the men as they faced each other. “They’re going to come at us hard and fast. They think aggression will win.”
Dariana nodded, her eyes sharp. “They’ll try to make us cum quickly. We have to resist. Think of anything else. Mathematics. Sand.”
Carmen gave a shaky laugh. “I’ll just focus on how ridiculous this is.”
“No,” Bianca said, her voice low and urgent. “Don’t just resist. Endure. This is a test of our control, not our pleasure.”
“Men,” Logan’s voice was a low growl, his eyes fixed on the three naked women. “We take one each. Fast and hard. Overwhelm them. Revan, you take the tall one. Joaquin, the blonde. I’ll take the athlete.” His assignment was cold, tactical. He was dividing spoils.
Revan licked his lips, staring at Carmen. “I’m gonna wreck that pale little bitch.”
The starting horn blared, a jarring electronic shriek.
It was immediate chaos. Revan lunged for Carmen, grabbing her by the hips and spinning her around. He didn’t kiss her, didn’t caress her. He spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and drove into her from behind without ceremony.
Carmen gasped, her back arching violently as he filled her. “Oh god!”
“Yeah, take it, you skinny whore,” Revan grunted, his hands gripping her narrow waist, his hips pistoning in a frantic, punishing rhythm. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting echoed across the quiet beach.
Simultaneously, Joaquin grabbed Bianca, pulling her down onto the mat. He kissed her roughly, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as he positioned himself between her legs. He plunged into her, and Bianca screwed her eyes shut, her mind frantically scrambling for an anchor. The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.
Logan approached Dariana more slowly, like a wolf cornering prey. “On your back,” he commanded. She lay down, her body rigid. He knelt, his weight pressing her into the mat, and entered her with a single, deep thrust that knocked the air from her lungs. His pace was different—slower, more measured, but with an intense, grinding pressure that was somehow worse than Revan’s frenzy.
The spectacle was raw and degrading. Briv watched, mesmerized and horrified. This was what he had been spared. For now. He saw Alya watching too, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide.
On the mat, Joaquin was already losing his composure. Bianca’s passive resistance, her silent internal recitation of mathematical formulas, was infuriating him. “Come on, puta, moan for me,” he growled, pounding into her.
Bianca kept her eyes closed, her breath coming in controlled huffs. A squared plus B squared equals C squared. She could feel the build-up, the tightening in her core, but she focused on the numbers, on the feeling of the coarse mat beneath her, anything but the sensation of this man inside her.
Revan had Carmen bent over double, his fingers digging bruises into her hips. “You like this, don’t you, you fucking pretentious ice queen?” His thrusts became even more violent.
It was Dariana, the athlete, who broke first, but not in the way anyone expected. A sharp, involuntary cry was torn from her throat as Logan shifted his angle, hitting a spot deep within her that shattered her concentration. Her body convulsed, her back lifting off the mat as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. She curled into a ball, shuddering, as Logan withdrew with a grunt of satisfaction.
“One down,” he stated flatly.
The pressure on the remaining two women doubled. Joaquin, seeing his teammate succeed, redoubled his efforts on Bianca. “Your friend is done! You’re next!”
But Bianca’s eyes snapped open. They were clear and focused. She looked past Joaquin’s sweating face to Carmen, who was now close, her entire body trembling from Revan’s assault.
“Carmen,” Bianca gasped, her voice strained. “Look at me.”
Carmen, her face pressed against the mat, turned her head. Their eyes met. Bianca gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. A silent communication passed between them: Hold. Endure.
Revan, frustrated by Carmen’s silence, pulled out of her. “Fine. Suck it then. Get it wet for your tight little cunt.” He shoved his cock towards her face.
This was the shift. While Joaquin was still hammering into Bianca, and Logan was now turning his attention to a recovering Dariana, the women’s strategy evolved from sheer resistance to active, shared endurance.
Carmen, taking the cue, opened her mouth. She didn’t look at Revan’s dick; she looked at Bianca’s eyes, using her friend’s determined gaze as an anchor.
Joaquin, however, was crossing a threshold. Bianca’s controlled breathing, the way her body accepted his thrusts without the frantic response he craved, was having an effect. His own breathing became more ragged. “Fuck… I’m gonna… shit…” His rhythm became erratic, his thrusts shallower, faster. He was losing the battle with himself.
“No, man, hold it!” Logan barked, seeing his teammate falter.
But it was too late. With a guttural roar, Joaquin shoved deep into Bianca and climaxed, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself inside her with a series of ragged grunts. He collapsed to the side, breathing heavily.
The score was now two to zero. The Men’s team had two members who had orgasmed; the Women’s team had one.
Panic flashed in Revan’s eyes. He was alone now, the last man standing against two women who were now working in tandem.
Bianca sat up, wiping her mouth, her face a mask of cold determination. She locked eyes with Carmen and gestured with her head towards Revan, who was still semi-hard, trying to recover. The women shared a look. It was no longer about just not losing. They could win.
“Your turn, pretty boy,” Logan snarled at Revan, pointing at Carmen. “Finish it. Now.”
But the dynamic had flipped. Revan was now the one under pressure, his energy scattered. He grabbed Carmen again, turning her onto her hands and knees, and re-entered her with a desperate, furious energy. “You’re gonna cum, you bitch!”
Carmen, however, was no longer just enduring. She began to move against him, a subtle, counter-rhythm that was more disruptive than stillness.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Revan panted, misreading her actions as submission.
Bianca crawled over to them. She didn’t attack Revan. Instead, she positioned herself in front of Carmen’s face. “Look at me, Carmen,” she murmured. “Just look at me.”
Carmen focused on Bianca’s face, on the strand of blonde hair stuck to her sweaty temple. She blocked out Revan’s grunts, the feel of his body, everything. She poured all her focus into the simple act of maintaining eye contact. Bianca reached out and held Carmen’s hands, their fingers lacing together.
They created a pocket of shared focus, a fortress of two against the solitary, frantic attack. Revan’s thrusts became wild, uncoordinated. He was close, his own body betraying him.
“Don’t you dare, Revan!” Logan shouted, his own frustration boiling over. He was ready to go again, his body resilient, but he was powerless. He could only watch as his last teammate fell apart.
“I can’t… fuck… I’m…” Revan’s words disintegrated into incoherent sounds. His hips stuttered, his whole body seizing up as his orgasm crashed over him. He cried out, a high-pitched, almost pained sound, and slumped over Carmen’s back.
Silence, except for the heavy breathing of the six participants. The Men’s team had all orgasmed.
Chris McLean’s voice broke the stillness, buzzing with delight. “And there it is! The Women’s team wins! Carmen, Dariana, Bianca, you advance to the next round!”
The three women slowly disentangled themselves. They didn’t hug. They didn’t celebrate. They simply stood, their bodies slick with sweat, and looked at the three men. Logan was scowling, furious. Joaquin looked dazed. Revan looked broken.
The women moved to the edge of the mat and began to dress with slow, deliberate movements, their faces unreadable. They had won not through passion, but through a chilling, collective discipline. They had used the men’s aggression against them, turning their own lack of control into a weapon.
Briv watched them, his mind reeling. He had seen the men’s brute-force approach fail spectacularly. He saw the women’s shared endurance become their strength.
He looked at Alya. She was staring at the victorious women, and a slow, dawning realization was spreading across her face. The lesson was clear: in this new game, raw animal instinct was a liability. The winner would be the one who could remain冷静, who could think strategically even in the midst of the most base physical acts. The game was no longer about who could fuck the best. It was about who could keep their head while everyone else was losing theirs.