Chapter 147: Updated Table
The scoreboard’s digital glow cut through the beach’s oppressive gloom, a cold, mathematical verdict on the night’s carnage. Chris stood before it, hands on his hips, a curator before a gallery of broken spirits. The silence wasn’t just quiet; it was a saturated thing, heavy with the memory of grunts, sobs, and the slick, wet sounds of transactions no one wanted to remember.
Nicola stood slightly apart from the main group, arms crossed tight over her chest as if holding herself together. The clinical, utilitarian fuck from the trapper had left a different kind of residue. It wasn’t grief or guilt; it was a hollow, used-up feeling, like a tool discarded after a job. She watched Chris, her clever mind now just a numb, ticking clock.
“What a night of revelations!” Chris began, his voice cutting the silence like a polished blade. “We’ve seen bonds shattered, loyalties auctioned, and principles traded for points. And now, the only truth that remains: the numbers.”
He gestured with a flourish to the board. The names and scores shifted, solidifying into a new hierarchy.
“Let’s see who’s thriving in our little ecosystem, shall we? In twenty-third place, with seventy-one points… Nicola.”
A few glances flicked her way—pity from Carmen, cold assessment from Raze. Nicola didn’t react. The number was just a number. It meant less than the feeling of being an empty vault.
“Twenty-second: Revan, eighty-one. Twenty-first: Logan, ninety-one. Twentieth: Naseer, ninety-two.” Chris read the lower ranks with a dismissive rhythm. “Nineteenth: Valentina, ninety-five. Eighteenth: Emilia, ninety-eight. Seventeenth: Carmen, ninety-nine.”
Carmen flinched at her name, burrowing deeper into Kim’s side. He patted her hair, his face a mask of gentle concern that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sixteenth: Andre, one hundred seven. Fifteenth: Sean, one hundred eight.” Chris sped up, his voice gaining a game-show host’s momentum. “Fourteenth: Patricia, one-twenty. Thirteenth: Fatima, one-twenty-four. Twelfth: Kim, one-twenty-five. Eleventh: Raze, one-twenty-seven.”
He paused, letting the tension rebuild. The top ten. The relative survivors.
“Tenth place… Jim, one hundred twenty-nine points.”
A snort came from Sean. “Two Jims on the board. Figure your shit out, producers.” Jim, the 19-year-old, just grinned goofily, shuffling his feet. The math error was just another layer of absurdity.
“Ninth,” Chris continued, ignoring the interruption, “Nicoleta, one-thirty-one. Eighth place, a three-way tie: Dariana, Kofi, and our recent star of betrayal, Diletta, all with one-thirty-eight.”
Diletta didn’t look at the board. She stared at her own hands, as if searching for traces of something she’d lost.
“Seventh: Joaquin, one-forty-two. Sixth: Thomas, one-forty-four.” Thomas gave a little victorious wiggle, squeezing Diletta’s shoulder. She didn’t shrug him off. She seemed incapable of movement.
“Fifth: Elena, one-forty-five. Fourth: Jim, one-forty-eight.”
Briv’s heart was a frantic animal in his ribs. Top three. He was still in it. He had to be. The points from his earlier challenges—the awkward, brutal stuff with the schoolgirl and the nurse—had to have piled up. He clenched his jaw, waiting.
“Third place…” Chris drew it out, his eyes scanning their faces, savoring the anxiety. “With one hundred sixty-one points… Bianca.”
The kind, intelligent psychologist let out a shaky breath, offering a weak smile to those around her. She had played a quiet, observant game, picking her moments. It had worked.
Briv’s stomach dropped. Third was gone. It was between him and Alya. He could feel her presence behind him, a magnetic pull of old history and fresh, agonizing jealousy. He didn’t turn.
“And now, our top two.” Chris stepped closer to them, his gaze dancing between Briv and Alya. “The former couple. The ones with the most to prove to each other, and to themselves. In second place…”
The world narrowed to the movement of Chris’s lips.
“With one hundred sixty-eight points… Briv.”
Second. He was second. A hot wave of something—fury, inadequacy, raw panic—flushed through him. He’d done everything. He’d performed. He’d shoved his long, thick dick into roles that made his skin crawl. And it wasn’t enough.
Which meant…
“And your leader, holding strong at the top of the food chain with one hundred ninety-four points… Alya!”
A soft, disbelieving gasp escaped Alya’s lips. Her angelic face, usually so alive with fiery spirit, was pale with shock. She hadn’t wanted this. Not like this. Her eyes, wide and brown, found Briv’s across the space. In them, he didn’t see triumph. He saw a horrified question: What have we done to get here?
The jealousy curdled in Briv’s gut, sharp and acidic. She was ahead. She was always ahead. Even in their mutual breakup, it had felt like she’d somehow won. And now, on this fucking island, after everything, she was winning again. Her score was a public testament to her willingness to go further, to be more tempting, to surrender more completely. The image of her with other men—Kofi’s powerful body over her skinny frame, Kim’s manipulative whispers, Joaquin’s practiced hands on her tiny ass—flashed behind his eyes, each one a fresh cut.
=====
The image of her with other men—Kofi’s powerful body over her skinny frame, Kim’s manipulative whispers, Joaquin’s practiced hands on her tiny ass—flashed behind his eyes, each one a fresh cut. He turned away from her, the congratulatory murmur of the group a distant buzz in his ears. His second-place finish wasn’t an achievement; it was a verdict. He was less than her. Less tempting, less capable, less willing to break.
Chris let the standings settle, a concrete hierarchy of moral compromise. Then he clapped his hands, the sharp sound a starter’s pistol for a new kind of race. “Rankings are reality! And reality, my friends, is merciless. Now, we go to our first elimination!”
A collective jolt went through them. The points weren’t just for pride. They were for survival.
“In danger?” Chris paced before the bottom three names on the board. “The last three places: Logan, Revan, and Nicola!”
Logan, the imposing ex-trainer, merely set his jaw, his gray-bearded face a mask of grim acceptance. Revan, the loud, goth fuckboy, cursed, kicking sand. Nicola closed her eyes. The hollowness filled with a new, sharp terror. She was at the bottom. The asset was about to be liquidated.
“The vote will consist of blowjobs!” Chris announced, as if describing a charming parlor game. “A simple, democratic process. The contestants in danger will… solicit support. A vote is cast not with a hand, but with an erection. And for it to count, it must be… satisfied.”
Nicola’s eyes flew open. Her mind, still numb, tried to process the arithmetic. Nine other men. Maybe the women? The scale of it was so vast, so dehumanizing, it felt abstract.
“First of all, let’s see,” Chris said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he turned to Nicola. “Who’s voting for Nicola to stay in the competition?”
He looked out at the men. “Show of interest, gentlemen. A step forward is a promise of a vote. And a promise, here, is a contract.”
Briv moved first. It wasn’t loyalty. It was a twisted inversion of his jealousy. If Alya was watching him be this base, this willingly degrading, maybe his own corruption would somehow balance the scales. He took a heavy step forward onto the more brightly lit sand.
Jim scampered forward next, his grin idiotically eager, his pants already tented. Thomas followed with a sympathetic sigh, as if he were volunteering for a unpleasant charity. Joaquin swaggered, Kofi nodded coolly, Kim stepped forward with a look of pained necessity. Sean grunted, joining the line. Andre and Naseer completed the grim tableau, their muscular forms looming. All nine men stood in a rough semicircle before Nicola.
Nine votes. Nine cocks.
“The floor—or should I say, the sand—is yours, Nicola,” Chris purred.
She looked at the line. Jim’s was already leaking a dark spot onto his shorts. Naseer’s bulge looked intimidatingly thick. Briv’s gaze was hard, challenging. This was the transaction now. Not for points. For existence. She walked to the center, her movements automated. She didn’t undress. She simply dropped to her knees in the sand, the granules biting into her skin.
She started with Jim. Easiest. Most desperate. He shoved his pants down before she could reach, his very long, skinny dick springing out, already slick at the tip. “Just like in your videos, yeah?” he babbled, shuffling closer.
Nicola didn’t answer. She opened her mouth, taking him in. He was all length, hitting the back of her throat instantly. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes. Jim moaned, his hands fisting at his sides. “Yeah, use your throat, use it!” He began to fuck her face with shallow, frantic thrusts, his hips stuttering. It was over in less than a minute. With a high-pitched whine, he came, his semen shooting in bitter pulses over her tongue. She swallowed convulsively, turning her head to spit sand.
“One vote counted!” Chris called.
She crawled on her knees to Sean. He looked down at her with pure disdain. “You better not fucking teeth me,” he grunted, freeing a thick, uncut cock. He didn’t wait for her to take it. He grabbed the back of her head, his work-calloused fingers tangling in her blonde hair, and shoved himself past her lips. He fucked her mouth like he was pounding a post into hard earth, deep, measured, brutal strokes that made her jaw ache instantly. He held her there, his pubic bone grinding against her nose, until she choked and sputtered. Then he pulled out and came across her face, the hot streaks painting her cheeks and eyelids.
“Two!”
Thomas was next. He was gentler, almost theatrical. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re doing so well,” he cooed, stroking her hair as she took his average length into her mouth. But his hips soon lost their feminine gentility, pumping with a needy, selfish rhythm. He came with a sigh, down her throat.
Joaquin was a performer. He made her look up at him, his dark green eyes gleaming. “Make it good for the cameras, mi reina. Show them how a real woman sucks cock.” He forced her to take him deep, to let her saliva drool down his shaft, to lick his balls while he groaned obscenities in Spanish. His finish was a loud, dramatic affair, him shouting as he painted her lips and chin.
Kofi was silent, arrogant. He simply presented his huge, intimidating dick. The girth stretched her lips to a burning ring. She could only manage the head, her tongue circling the broad corona while he looked past her, at the ocean. He came quickly, powerfully, his release filling her mouth to overflowing.
Andre was moody, aggressive. He pulled her head onto him, his grip vise-like. “Suck it, bitch. You wanna stay? Earn it.” His huge, long thick dick punished her throat, making her eyes water and her vision swim. He came with a low growl, his whole body tensing.
Kim was all false kindness. “It’s okay, Nicola. Just relax. Let me help you.” But his help was his fingers pinching her nostrils shut as he thrust deep, forcing her to take him entirely until she blacked out for a second, gagging and coughing as he finally erupted.
Naseer was last of the men, a finale of sheer intimidation. He didn’t speak. He placed a heavy hand on her head, guiding her. His cock was as thick as his wrist, a monstrous challenge. She couldn’t take half of it. She used her hands, her mouth on the head, while he fucked between her breasts she’d pulled free from her top. He came over her chest and neck, a final, viscous claim.
She knelt, panting, dripping with layers of their release, her makeup ruined, her hair a tangled mess. Her throat was raw, a tunnel of fire.
“And now,” Chris said, “the women. Do any of our female contestants wish to cast a vote for Nicola?”
A pause. Then Dariana, her own eyes still hollow from her family’s violation, stepped forward. Then Patricia, the doll-faced influencer. They walked to Nicola, still on her knees.
“Kiss the vote into her,” Chris instructed softly.
Dariana bent, cupping Nicola’s sticky chin. She kissed her, her tongue pushing past Nicola’s sore, spent lips. It tasted of salt and betrayal. Patricia followed, her kiss more passionate, more for the cameras, her tongue swirling, her breasts pressing against Nicola’s stained skin.
“Nicola is saved!” Chris announced, his voice booming with false cheer. “With a lot of votes!”
Nicola collapsed forward onto her hands in the sand, vomiting a thin, clear fluid onto the ground between her trembling arms. She was saved. The cost was a mouthful of ash and a body turned into a communal spittoon. She had paid. She was staying. The game went on, and the wheel, somewhere in the dark, seemed to spin on its own, patient and hungry.