Chapter 148: Last Votes
The sand clung to Nicola’s skin, a gritty second layer over the drying, flaking residue of the men. Two of the show’s “wellness attendants”—people who looked more like orderlies than medics—helped her to her feet. Their touch was impersonal, efficient. They guided her away from the voting circle, not towards the villas, but to a makeshift outdoor shower stall near the tree line, its water fed from a large, sun-heated tank. The message was clear: clean up out here. You’re not bringing that inside.
The others watched her go, a silent, shattered procession. Briv’s eyes were not on Nicola, however. They were locked on Alya, who stood statuesque, her first-place finish a crown of thorns she hadn’t asked for. He saw the tremor in her hand as she pushed a strand of brown hair behind her ear. He saw the way her lower lip, full and usually quick to smile, was caught between her teeth. His jealousy morphed, twisting into a bitter, proprietary concern. She’s breaking, he thought. And everyone here is waiting to pick up the pieces.
Chris let the silence hang, a master of uncomfortable atmosphere. He watched the attendants hose Nicola down, the water sluicing grey and white into the sand. He turned back to the group, his smile not reaching his eyes. “One soul saved. Two remain in peril. Logan. Revan. The clock is ticking, gentlemen. And the power, for now, lies in the hands of our magnificent temptresses.”
Logan stood like a granite monolith, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was unreadable: not defiant, not pleading, just present. He was fifty-five, a veteran of physical endurance, but this was a different kind of marathon. Revan, by contrast, was vibrating with nervous energy. He kept running a hand through his dark, gothic hair, his eyes darting between the women. His usual loud, aggressive confidence had evaporated, leaving behind the raw panic of a cornered animal. The math was simple and brutal.
“The rules remain,” Chris announced, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the ocean. “A vote is cast orally. For it to be tallied, it must be… completed. To orgasm. The recipient must finish in the voter’s mouth. Swallowing is optional, but cleanup is mandatory.” He paused, letting the crude logistics settle. “Now, women. You have a choice. A simple one. Look at these two men. One stays. One leaves this island tonight. Who do you vote for? Your mouth is your ballot box.”
He stepped back, a conductor lowering his baton. “Choose between Logan and Revan! Suck one’s cock to vote him to stay!”
For a long moment, nothing happened. The women looked at each other, a silent communication of horror and strategy flashing between them. It was Bianca, the intelligent psychologist, who moved first. Her kind face was set in a mask of grim determination. She didn’t look at Revan, his panic too messy, too demanding. She looked at Logan—stable, strong, a known quantity. A safer bet in this insane equation. She walked towards him, her wavy blonde hair catching the last of the sunset’s glow.
Her movement broke the dam.
Nicoleta followed, her dark eyes calculating. Logan was older, experienced. He wouldn’t cling. He wouldn’t make it messy with emotional baggage. It was a transaction, and Logan looked like he understood the price. She fell into step beside Bianca, her big, fat round ass swaying with a purpose that was all business.
Fatima, the dancer, was next. Her flexibility and seductive prowess were her currency, and she invested them where she saw the better return. Logan’ imposing physique, his quiet strength—it was a challenge, a performance. She could make it look good. She joined the growing cluster around the older man.
Carmen, needing to belong, to be part of the group making the “right” choice, stumbled after them, her tall, skinny frame hunched as if against a cold wind. Valentina, not wanting to be left out of the action, especially if it was the winning side, scurried to catch up, already adjusting her top to show more cleavage, playing to the cameras even now.
Logan was now surrounded by five women: Bianca, Nicoleta, Fatima, Carmen, Valentina. They formed a loose, hesitant circle around him. He uncrossed his arms, his face still impassive, but a flicker of something—resignation? focus?—passed behind his eyes. He undid the buckle of his shorts, pushing them and his boxer briefs down his muscular thighs in one practiced motion. His cock, thick and heavy, already half-hard from adrenaline and the surreal spectacle, sprang free. It was a working man’s cock, veined and solid, matching the rest of him.
Across the sand, Revan watched, his breath coming in short gasps. Only three women had moved towards him. Elena, whose passion for Korean culture had made her an outsider, seemed to operate on a different calculus. Perhaps she saw in Revan’s impending meltdown a kind of authenticity the others lacked. Diletta, her own spirit fractured by Thomas’s betrayal, moved not with strategy but with a numb, automatic pity. She couldn’t face the crowd around Logan; the smaller audience felt less like a spectacle. Emilia, the strategist, made the cold assessment: fewer women meant less time waiting, a quicker, more efficient vote. Three was enough to save him, if they all completed the task. She walked with deliberate calm, her pretty, harmless-girl facade firmly in place.
Elena, Diletta, and Emilia now stood before Revan, who was fumbling with his own belt, his hands shaking. “Come on, man, get it out,” he muttered to himself, the bad-boy bravado completely gone.
The beach became a tableau of two distinct pits of desperation.
Around Logan, Bianca took the lead. She knelt in the sand, looking up at him with those intelligent, now sorrowful eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, though whether to him or herself was unclear. She leaned forward, opening her soft lips. She took the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue circling the broad corona. She was methodical, gentle, trying to impose some semblance of care onto the act.
Nicoleta wasn’t having it. “For fuck’s sake, Bianca, we’re not making love to it,” she snapped, her bossy tone slicing through the tension. She dropped to her knees beside her, shoving her shoulder lightly. “We’re getting him off. Move.” She didn’t wait for an invitation. She wrapped her hand around the base of Logan’s shaft, her grip firm, and leaned in, taking him deep into her throat in one smooth, practiced motion. She gagged once, controlled it, and began to bob her head with a ruthless, rhythmic efficiency. Her dark hair fell around his hips.
Fatima saw it as a dance. She moved behind Logan, pressing her big round ass and firm medium breasts against his back, her arms snaking around his torso. She kissed his shoulder, his neck, her hands sliding down his hard stomach to where Nicoleta’s mouth was working. She began to massage his balls, rolling them gently, then more firmly, her fingers skilled and knowing.
Carmen and Valentina hovered, unsure where to contribute. Carmen, crying silently, knelt on Logan’s other side and began to lick and suck at his thigh, his hip bone, anywhere but the main event, as if her peripheral attention might somehow count. Valentina, ever performative, crouched in front of Bianca. “Let me help, sweetie,” she said, her voice sugary. She placed her hands on Bianca’s head, not to force, but to guide, turning the act into a collaborative show for the cameras. “Yeah, just like that, take it deeper for the vote, honey.”
Logan let out a low, shuddering breath. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, now came up. One landed on Nicoleta’s head, not forcing, but acknowledging the relentless pace she set. The other touched Bianca’s cheek, a rough thumb stroking once, a bizarre gesture of thanks in the midst of the violation. He closed his eyes, his gray-stubbled jaw tight. This was the challenge now: not to resist, but to perform under the specific, pressurized conditions. His stamina was legendary, but this was an assault on an entirely different front.
Across the way, things were unraveling.
Elena had gone down first on Revan, taking his now-hard cock into her mouth with a determined focus. But Revan was panting, his eyes wild. “Yeah, okay, good, fuck, just…” he stammered, his hips giving an abortive thrust.
Diletta knelt beside Elena. She didn’t look at Revan’s face. She stared at his cock, a disembodied task. She began to lick the shaft, her tongue flat and lifeless, while her hands cupped and gently squeezed his balls. It was technical, devoid of passion.
Emilia, the strategist, knew they needed to coordinate. “Revan,” she said, her voice calm, clinical. “Look at me.” He dragged his gaze from the cluster around Logan to her angelic, deceptive face. “Breathe. We have this. Just relax into it.” She moved behind Elena, placing her hands on the older woman’s shoulders. “Elena, deeper, consistent rhythm. Diletta, focus on the tip when she comes up for air. We need to sync up.”
But her cool management had the opposite effect. It made Revan feel like a project, a malfunctioning machine. “Don’t fucking manage me!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Just suck my dick! Suck it!” He grabbed a handful of Elena’s dark hair, yanking her head forward. She choked, tears springing to her eyes as he forcefully fucked her mouth. “See? Like that! That’s how you vote!”
Diletta flinched back, wiping her mouth. Emilia’s placid mask slipped, revealing a flash of cold fury. “You’re panicking,” she stated, her voice like ice. “You’ll never finish like this.”
“He’s losing it,” Sean muttered from the sidelines, a grim satisfaction in his tone.
Briv watched it all, but his focus was a pendulum swinging between Alya and the spectacle around Logan. Alya hadn’t moved. She stood rooted to the spot, her arms wrapped around her slender frame, watching the five women work on Logan with a kind of horrified fascination. Briv’s mind raced. She’s the top scorer. Her vote is the most powerful. Where will she go? The thought of her kneeling before Revan, that loudmouth fuckboy, made his stomach turn. But the thought of her joining the flock around Logan, taking that thick, old-man cock into her perfect mouth, was an image that threatened to short-circuit his brain.
Around Logan, the women were finding a grim, unspeakable synergy. Nicoleta’s ruthless deep-throating had brought him to a solid, throbbing hardness. Fatima’s expert play on his balls and perineum was pushing him closer. Bianca, spurred by Valentina’s coaching and Nicoleta’s competition, had found a deeper rhythm, her lips stretched wide, saliva slicking the length of him. Carmen was now kissing and licking his lower abdomen, her tears wet on his skin. Valentina was narrating in a low, pornographic whisper. “Yeah, girls, taste that man. Get him nice and wet. Make him want to explode down your pretty little throats.”
Logan’s breathing grew heavier, more ragged. A low groan escaped his lips. His hand on Nicoleta’s head tightened, his hips beginning to move in tiny, involuntary circles. “Close,” he gritted out, the first word he’d spoken.
It triggered a frenzy. Nicoleta redoubled her efforts, her throat fluttering around him. Bianca moaned around his shaft, the vibration tipping him further. Fatima pinched his balls just so.
“He’s gonna come!” Valentina squealed, as if announcing a winner.
But Logan was a fitness trainer. He knew control. With a Herculean effort, he pulled back, his cock popping wetly from Nicoleta’s mouth. “Not yet,” he breathed, chest heaving. “Not… all.”
He was regulating. Making it last. Ensuring every vote was counted. It was the most horrifying display of discipline any of them had ever witnessed.
The pause was a vacuum. All eyes swung to Revan’s station. It was a disaster. Elena was coughing, spitting into the sand. Revan’s cock, now wilting from anxiety, hung limply from his fist. He was jerking it frantically, his face a mask of utter terror. “Come on, you stupid fuck, get hard! Get hard!” he screamed at his own dick.
Diletta was just staring, blank. Emilia had stood up, brushing sand from her knees, her expression one of pure, analytical contempt. “You’re finished,” she said quietly. “You can’t perform under pressure. It’s over.”
“No it’s fucking not!” Revan shrieked. He looked at Chris, his eyes pleading. “I need more time! They’re not doing it right!”
Chris merely smiled, a shark’s smile. “The market is open, Revan. The voters are right here.”
The message was clear. He had three. He needed them to finish. And he was failing.
It was then that Alya moved.
Briv’s heart stopped. She took one step, then another, away from the safety of non-commitment. Her path was not towards the chaotic, failing Revan. It was towards the stable, grunting epicenter around Logan. Briv felt a white-hot wire sear through his chest. No. No, no, no.
Alya walked as if in a trance. The fiery spirit in her eyes was gone, replaced by a hollow, dark determination. She had won the day. She was the top temptress. This was the price. To cement her position, to show she wasn’t afraid, to prove she could be as base, as transactional, as anyone. Or perhaps it was simpler: a desperate, subconscious urge to defile herself, to match the internal ruin she felt with an external one.
The women around Logan parted for her. Bianca looked up, her mouth slick and swollen, her eyes filled with a profound pity. Nicoleta sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a flicker of respect in her gaze. This was the queen joining the fray.
Alya didn’t look at any of them. She didn’t look at Logan’s face. Her angelic features were set, pale. She sank to her knees in the sand directly in front of him. Logan’s cock, thick and glistening with the combined saliva of five women, stood before her like a fleshy monument. The smell of it—musky, salty, foreign—hit her nostrils.
Briv took an involuntary step forward, a strangled sound catching in his throat. Thomas, standing nearby, placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t, mate,” Thomas whispered, his feminine affectation gone, his voice surprisingly serious. “It’s her choice now. It’s all any of us have left.”
Alya reached out. Her slender fingers, which Briv had held a thousand times, wrapped around the base of Logan’s shaft. Her touch was cool. She leaned forward, her brown hair falling like a curtain, shielding her face from Briv’s view. He saw the muscles in her jaw tighten. Then she opened her mouth.
She took the head in, her lips forming a perfect, tight ‘O’. A shudder ran through her entire skinny frame. She paused, breathing hard through her nose, acclimating to the invasion. Then she pushed forward.
It wasn’t the skilled, pornographic technique of Nicoleta. It wasn’t the gentle, sorrowful ministrations of Bianca. This was something else. Raw, visceral, and filled with a kind of angry hunger. She deep-throated him on the first try, forcing her head down until her nose was buried in the coarse gray hair at his base. She gagged violently, her body convulsing, but she held herself there, her throat working spasmodically around him.
Logan’s composure finally shattered. A raw, guttural roar was torn from him. “FUCK!” His hands flew to her head, not to guide, but to hold on, his fingers tangling in her hair as if he were gripping a ledge during an earthquake.
Alya pulled back, gasping for air, strands of saliva and pre-come connecting her lips to his cock. She looked up, and for a fleeting second, her eyes met Briv’s. In them, he saw no apology, no shame. He saw a challenge, and a deep, drowning emptiness. Then she dove back down, taking him even deeper, her pace becoming frantic, almost violent. She was fucking her own face on his dick, her hips rocking in the air, a savage, desperate rhythm. The sounds were obscene: wet, sloppy, choking gulps, punctuated by Logan’s ragged curses.
“Oh, you dirty angel,” Fatima purred
The sounds were obscene: wet, sloppy, choking gulps, punctuated by Logan’s ragged curses.
“Oh, you dirty angel,” Fatima purred, her voice lost in the animal noise Alya was making. Bianca turned her face away, unable to watch the destruction of something she’d once thought beautiful. Nicoleta just watched, a clinical interest in her dark eyes, her own swollen lips parted.
Alya’s world had narrowed to the thickness splitting her throat, the bitter pre-come coating her tongue, the crushing weight of Logan’s hands on her skull. She fought her own gag reflex, weaponizing her self-disgust, using it as fuel to suck harder, to take him deeper. Each brutal thrust of her head was a nail in the coffin of the person she’d been when she arrived. She wanted it gone. She wanted to be this raw, empty thing that could not break because it was already broken.
Briv felt something snap behind his ribs. The jealousy was gone, incinerated by a hotter, more terrifying flame. This wasn’t temptation. This was annihilation. He watched the love of his life—because despite the mutual breakup, she still was—disappear into a frenzy of abasement. Her tiny, firm breasts heaved with the effort, her skinny frame trembling violently. He could see the tight, round curve of her ass clenched in the air as she knelt.
“Gonna… gonna fucking come,” Logan grunted, the words ripped from him. His hips began to piston, meeting her downward plunges with upward drives. He was no longer a participant; he was a machine being serviced, his stamina finally overridden by sheer biological imperative.
Alya felt him swell, a throbbing, urgent pulse against the roof of her mouth. She didn’t pull back. She locked her jaw and took it, a final, defiant act of surrender.
Logan’s roar echoed off the water. He slammed her head down one final time, holding her there as his cock erupted. Thick, hot ropes of semen shot directly into her gullet, a violent geyser she had no choice but to swallow. She choked, convulsing, but he held her locked, pumping every last spurt into her until his knees buckled and he stumbled back.
Alya fell forward onto her hands, coughing, strings of milky white and clear saliva dripping from her lips into the sand. She vomited, a thin, clear fluid, but the bulk of him was inside her, a settled, warm humiliation in her stomach.
For a second, there was only the sound of her retching and Logan’s heavy, recovering breaths.
Then, Chris’s voice, crisp and clean as a scalpel. “And that… is a vote.”
All eyes swung to Revan. The contrast was pitiful. He stood alone. Elena, Diletta, and Emilia had retreated several paces, their faces masks of disgust and failed obligation. Revan’s cock was soft, a pathetic, shriveled thing in his trembling hand. He’d been jerked raw, but the panic had won. The sight of Alya’s raw, winning performance had been the final nail.
“I… I can still…” Revan whimpered, looking at the three women. “Please, one of you, just finish, I’m close, I swear…”
Emilia shook her head, not unkindly, but with finality. “You lost the moment you started begging. This isn’t about closeness.”
Chris didn’t wait. He stepped into the center of the space, the spotlights making his smile gleam. “The polls are closed! The votes have been cast, tallied, and… digested.” He paused, letting the cruel pun hang. “With five confirmed, completed votes for Logan, and…” He glanced at Revan’s limp dick. “…zero for Revan, the results are undeniable.”
Revan sank to his knees, not in supplication, but in collapse.
“Logan stays! Revan is out!” Chris announced, his arms spread wide.
No one cheered. The women around Logan simply stood, wiping their mouths, avoiding each other’s eyes. Logan himself pulled his shorts up, his movements slow, methodical, as if reassembling his dignity piece by piece. He didn’t look at Alya, still coughing in the sand.