Chapter 172: Cabin 4, Night 13
Cabin 4 smelled of damp wood and expensive perfume. The silence was a different creature here than in the others—not brittle, not sated, but sharp and watchful, like the pause between a raised hand and a slap.
Nicoleta stood by the lone window, her back to the room, her fingers tracing the edge of a dark, intricate tattoo that snaked down her spine, visible through the sheer mesh of her top. The goth aesthetic was armor, but her posture was rigid, the usual confident slouch gone. She had watched Nicola, a fellow blonde, be dismantled with surgical cruelty. It hadn’t inspired pity. It had ignited a cold, familiar fury. It was a reminder: this was a place where softness was flayed and served as entertainment.
“They picked her because she was smart,” Nicoleta said, her voice a low, smoky thing in the quiet. “They always go for the clever ones first. Make an example. Show that thinking won’t save you.”
Patricia sat on the bottom bunk, her doll-like face pale, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her usual bubbly, influencer-ready vibe had shattered, leaving behind a scared young woman. She kept seeing Nicola’s eyes, the moment they’d gone blank. “She just… shut down. Like a light went off. What do they do with her now? Where did they take her?”
“Who gives a fuck?” Naseer’s voice cut through the room from the doorway where he leaned, a mountain of tailored muscle and intimidating stillness. His bald head gleamed in the low light, his strong jaw set. His arms were crossed, making his biceps strain against the sleeves of his linen shirt. “She is gone. Worrying about her is a waste of energy. Worry about yourself. Worry about the next time McLean points his finger.”
His tone was dismissive, utterly pragmatic. It wasn’t cruelty, exactly, but the absolute focus of a predator conserving resources. Emotions were liabilities.
Thomas, in contrast, was a study in fluid, sympathetic motion. He glided over to Patricia, sitting beside her with a sigh that seemed to melt his bony frame. He put a slender, almost delicate arm around her shoulders.
“It’s natural to be scared, Patty,” he said, his voice a soothing, gentle murmur. He’d always found feminine mannerisms disarmed women, made them see him as safe, as one of them. “It was horrific. A total violation. But we’re here. We’re together. We can… process. We don’t have to be hard like him.” A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head towards Naseer.
Naseer snorted, a short, derisive puff of air. “Process. You can ‘process’ right into a breakdown. What you need is to understand the rules. The rule is simple: they have all the power. So, you either submit to it, or you find a way to take a piece of it for yourself. There is no third option involving processing.”
Nicoleta turned from the window, her dark eyes flashing. “And how do you propose we take a piece, Naseer? By sucking up to McLean? By playing nice?”
A slow, confident smile spread across Naseer’s face. It didn’t reach his eyes. “By remembering what they want. They want drama. They want passion. They want… friction.” His gaze traveled over Nicoleta’s provocative outfit—the tight leather shorts, the mesh top, the defiant slash of her dark lipstick. “They don’t want us cowering. They want us fighting, or fucking. Since fighting them is pointless, that leaves one viable, broadcastable alternative.”
Thomas’s hand was stroking Patricia’s arm. “He’s not entirely wrong,” Thomas said softly, as if reluctant to agree. “Showing unity… connection… it could be a kind of defiance. A way to say, ‘You can’t break us.’” His fingers traced little circles on Patricia’s skin. She leaned into him slightly, seeking the comfort he was expertly projecting.
Nicoleta watched the performance, a smirk touching her lips. She saw through Thomas. She recognized the calculated tenderness, the way he mirrored a woman’s empathy to get closer. It was a game she respected, in a way. More interesting than Naseer’s blunt machismo.
“So we fuck our cabin mates for the cameras?” Nicoleta said, bluntly. “That’s your master plan? Give them exactly what they want?”
“We control the narrative,” Naseer countered, pushing off the doorframe. He walked into the center of the small room, his presence immediately dominating the space. “We choose the who, the how, the when. We become an event they cannot script. That is power.” He stopped in front of Nicoleta. He was much taller, broader, his sheer physicality a stark contrast to her slim, tattooed frame. “You understand power, I think.”
She didn’t back up. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, challenge burning in her eyes. “I understand not giving men what they want just because they’re big and loud.”
“Good,” Naseer said, his voice dropping. “Then this should be interesting.”
He didn’t ask. He simply cupped the back of her head, his large hand tangling in her dark hair, and brought his mouth down to hers.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion or romance. It was a claim. A test of dominance. His lips were hard, insistent, his tongue forcing its way past her lips almost immediately. Nicoleta stiffened for a split second, then a low growl vibrated in her throat. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to claw into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her teeth nipping at his lower lip, her tongue dueling with his. It was a clash, raw and aggressive, a transfer of the day’s furious energy into a physical, searing connection.
The sound of it—the wet, hungry smack of mouths, their ragged breathing—filled the cabin. Patricia watched, wide-eyed, her fear morphing into a shocked arousal.
Thomas saw his opening. He turned Patricia’s face gently towards him. “Don’t watch if it upsets you,” he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. His eyes were full of manufactured concern. “Look at me. We’re here. We’re safe.”
But Patricia’s gaze kept flicking back to the violent, captivating kiss. Thomas, adapting instantly, shifted tactics. “Or… maybe we shouldn’t feel alone in this,” he murmured, his voice taking on a conspiratorial, intimate tone. “Maybe we need to feel… connected, too.”
He leaned in and kissed her. It was the polar opposite of Naseer’s assault. Thomas’s kiss was soft, seeking, tender. His lips moved over hers with a practiced, gentle pressure. His tongue teased the seam of her lips until she parted them, allowing him in. He tasted of mint and artifice. One hand stayed on her shoulder, a light, reassuring weight, while the other came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. He made soft, comforting sounds in the back of his throat.
Patricia melted. After the brutality of the trial and Naseer’s intimidating presence, Thomas felt like a sanctuary. She kissed him back, her body softening, her hands fluttering up to rest on his chest. It was a kiss of surrender to kindness, real or not.
For several minutes, the cabin was a diptych of desire. On one side, a war of lips and teeth and groping hands—Naseer had slid his hands down to Nicoleta’s ass, gripping the firm, fat curves through the leather with possessive force, grinding his growing erection against her stomach. On the other, a slow-burning seduction—Thomas deepening the kiss gradually, his hand sliding from Patricia’s jaw down to the side of her breast, a feather-light touch over her shirt.
Nicoleta broke the kiss first, pulling back just enough to gasp for air. Her lipstick was smeared, her lips swollen. A feral light danced in her eyes. “You kiss like you’re trying to win a fight.”
“Every interaction is a fight,” Naseer rumbled, his own breath coming harder. He looked over at Thomas and Patricia, a scornful twist to his mouth. “Though some prefer to surrender without a shot being fired.”
Thomas pulled away from Patricia, his face a mask of hurt dignity. “There’s more than one way to be strong, Naseer. Patricia is strong. She’s been through trauma today. She deserves comfort, not more aggression.”
Patricia looked at Thomas with something akin to worship. He had named her pain and offered himself as the balm.
Nicoleta laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Oh, please. Spare us the therapy session, Thomas. We all know what you’re here for.” She looked at Patricia. “He’s good, isn’t he? Makes you feel like the only, precious thing in the room. Right up until he gets your pants off.”
Thomas’s eyes hardened, the feminine softness evaporating for a flash, revealing the cold strategist beneath. “You’re one to talk, Nicoleta. Dressed like a wet dream, acting like an empress. You crave the aggression. You want to be dominated. Don’t pretend this,” he gestured between her and Naseer, “isn’t exactly your brand of catnip.”
The air crackled with sudden, naked tension. The facades were slipping.
Naseer watched, amused. This was better. This was real. “Enough talking,” he declared, his voice brooking no argument. “You two,” he pointed a thick finger at Thomas and Patricia, “you want your gentle connection? Fine. And we,” his hand slid possessively to the small of Nicoleta’s back, “have our understanding. But this is boring. Predictable. Cabin 3 is probably already fucking. We need to be… inventive.”
He let the word hang. Nicoleta’s eyes narrowed, but with interest, not rejection. “Inventive how?”
“We swap,” Naseer said simply, as if announcing a change in dinner plans. “Thomas takes you. I take the doll.” He looked at Thomas. “You want to prove you’re not just a soft touch? Show you can handle something with teeth.” He then looked at Patricia, who shrank back. “And you, little one. You think safety is in gentle hands? Let’s see what happens when you’re with someone who doesn’t ask.”
Thomas’s mind raced. This was a pivot, but not a bad one. Dominating Nicoleta, the prickly, defiant goth, would be a greater conquest than gently coaxing Patricia. It would prove something to Naseer, to the cameras, to himself. He straightened up, the submissive posture gone, replaced by a cool, assessing confidence.
“I can handle her,” Thomas said, his voice shedding its melodic quality for something flatter, more direct. He looked at Nicoleta. “If she can handle me.”
Nicoleta’s smirk returned, wider this time. “Big talk from the man who was just whispering sweet nothings. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Patricia felt a spike of panic. “Thomas? I… I thought we…” She looked at Naseer’s imposing figure, his bald head and intense, dark eyes. He terrified her.
Thomas walked over to her, crouched down, and took her hands. The kindness was back, but it was thin, hurried. “Patricia, trust me. This is smarter. It shows adaptability. It keeps us all… bonded. It’ll be okay. Naseer won’t hurt you.” He said the last part while looking directly at Naseer, a silent challenge to play by unspoken rules.
Naseer gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He wasn’t interested in brutalizing a willing woman; he was interested in the conquest, the act of possession.
The decision, chaotic and sudden, was made. The energy pivoted, sharp and electric.
Naseer approached Patricia. He didn’t speak. He simply held out a hand. Trembling, she took it. He pulled her to her feet and led her to the vacant top bunk, away from the others. He sat on the edge, pulling her to stand between his legs. His hands went to the hem of her thin sweater. “Arms up.”
Like a child, she obeyed. He pulled the sweater off, revealing her small, firm breasts in a lacy blue bra. He unhooked it with startling dexterity, letting it fall. His large, calloused hands covered her breasts completely, squeezing and kneading them, his thumbs rubbing rough circles over her nipples. Patricia whimpered, a sound of fear and startling arousal. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the peak.
“Oh!” she cried out, her hands flying to his bald head, not to push away, but to steady herself.
Meanwhile, Thomas and Nicoleta faced each other near the lower bunk. It was a standoff.
“So,” Nicoleta said, crossing her arms. “How does this work? Do you want me to lie down and pretend you’re my knight?”
Thomas reached out and grabbed the front of her mesh top, yanking her forward. “No,” he said, his voice low. “I want you to stop talking.” He crushed his mouth to hers. This kiss was nothing like the one he’d given Patricia. It was hungry, demanding, all pretense of tenderness gone. Nicoleta met it with equal heat, biting his lip hard enough to draw a metallic tang of blood.
“Bitch,” he muttered against her mouth, but he was smiling. He spun her around, pulling her back against his chest. One hand snaked around to cup her breast, squeezing the soft flesh through the mesh, while the other went to the button of her leather shorts. He popped it open, yanked the zipper down, and shoved his hand inside, past the waistband of her thong. His fingers, slender and clever, found her clit immediately.
Nicoleta gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Fuck… you don’t waste time.”
“You don’t want me to,” Thomas breathed into her ear, his fingers circling her with firm, knowing pressure. He was surprisingly strong, holding her easily as she began to grind against his hand. “You want to be used. Admit it.”
She didn’t deny it. She reached a hand back, grasping the back of his neck, pulling his face into the crook of her shoulder as his fingers worked her.
On the top bunk, Naseer had Patricia on her knees, facing away from him. He’d stripped her completely, his own clothes in a heap on the floor. His body was a landscape of hard muscle and dark hair. His cock, thick and veined, stood at attention. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and without ceremony, pressed the broad head against her tight, unprepared entrance.
“Relax,” he commanded, his voice a gravelly whisper in her ear from behind. His hands were on her narrow waist, holding her in place. “It will hurt less if you relax.”
Patricia was crying softly, tears of overwhelm streaking her face. She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. He pushed. The invasion was slow, inexorable, and immense. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound, as he stretched her open, filling her with a burning, relentless pressure until his hips were flush against her small, round ass.
“There,” Naseer grunted, pausing, letting her body adjust to the overwhelming fullness. “All of me. You take it all.” He began to move, not with long strokes, but with short, deep, grinding thrusts that seemed to reach her very core. Each push drew a gasping sob from Patricia, but she was wet—terrified arousal had its own physiology. Her body was betraying her fear, accepting the violation, and that confusion was written on her face. Naseer watched her expressions in the dim light, a cold, satisfied smile on his face. This was power: making the delicate thing accept the brutal thing.
Thomas had Nicoleta bent over the lower bunk, her leather shorts and thong around her ankles. He was still clothed, having only freed his cock, which was of average length but rigid. He’d used his fingers and mouth on her until she was dripping and demanding. Now, he positioned himself behind her, admiring the sight: her big, fat, round ass, pale and marked with tattoos, perfectly presented. He slapped it, hard, leaving a red handprint.
“You like that, you fucking goth slut?” he sneered, all pretense of sensitivity gone.
“Do it harder,” Nicoleta snarled, pushing her ass back towards him.
He guided himself into her. She was slick and hot and tight. He sank into her with a long, smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt. A guttural
moan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unvarnished conquest. He held there for a second, savoring the clenching heat wrapped around him, then withdrew almost completely before slamming back in. The bunk frame shuddered against the wall with the force of it.
“That’s it,” Nicoleta hissed, pushing back against him, meeting each thrust with a roll of her hips. “Fuck me like you mean it, you fake-ass prince.”
Above them, Naseer’s pace on Patricia was a brutal, rhythmic punishment. His hands gripped her narrow waist like vices, his hips pistoning with a powerful, mechanical precision. The slapping of skin was loud, wet, punctuated by Patricia’s choked, airless cries. Tears streamed down her face, but her body, slick with sweat, moved with his, a perverse syncopation.
“You see?” Naseer grunted, his voice thick with exertion. “Your body knows. It knows what it needs. To be filled. Owned.” He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, and bit the curve of her shoulder. She screamed, the pain a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep, grinding fullness. “This is reality. Everything else is conversation.”
Thomas was losing his carefully constructed composure. Fucking Nicoleta was like trying to tame a wildcat. She was loud, demanding, meeting his aggression with her own. He pounded into her, his slender frame driven by a frenetic energy. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
“Come for me, you nasty slut,” he snarled in her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Come on my dick while that rich bastard fucks your cabinmate raw. Show me how much you love it.”
Nicoleta’s orgasm ripped through her with a violent, shuddering intensity. She swore, a filthy, beautiful stream of obscenities, her back arching, her internal muscles clenching around Thomas’s cock in rhythmic, milking spasms. The sensation tipped Thomas over the edge. With a sharp cry that was almost a shout, he buried himself deep and came, pulsing jet after hot jet inside her, his body trembling with the release.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their panting, and the relentless, pounding rhythm from above.
Naseer, hearing the climax below, seemed to redouble his efforts. His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper. Patricia was beyond words, reduced to animalistic whimpers, her fingers clawing at the rough blanket beneath her. The initial searing pain had blurred into a overwhelming, full-body sensation that short-circuited her brain. She felt split open, consumed, a vessel for a rage she didn't understand.
"Look at you," Naseer growled, his own control fraying. "Taking every inch. My perfect, used little doll." His rhythm fractured, became erratic. With a final, shuddering roar, he slammed home and held, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside her. The heat of his release seemed to trigger a secondary, smaller convulsion in Patricia, a weak flutter that drew a final, exhausted sob from her lips.
Silence crashed down, heavy and profound, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Thomas pulled out of Nicoleta, stumbling back a step. He looked dazed, his hair mussed, his clothes in disarray. The raw, aggressive man from moments ago was receding, leaving a shell that seemed unsure of what had just happened. Nicoleta pushed herself up, not bothering to cover herself. She turned and looked at him, a slow, smoldering smile on her smeared lips. She looked utterly spent, and utterly victorious.
"Not bad," she said, her voice hoarse. "For a talker."
On the top bunk, Naseer withdrew from Patricia. He stood, a towering, sweaty figure, and looked down at her. She lay crumpled, shaking, the evidence of their coupling already beginning to leak down her thigh. He felt no tenderness, only a cold, satiated possessiveness. He had marked his territory.
He tossed a blanket over her. "Clean yourself up," he said, his voice back to its usual controlled timbre. He began pulling on his clothes with methodical calm, as if he'd just completed a business transaction.
Patricia didn't move. She stared at the wooden slats of the bunk above her, feeling hollowed out. Thomas’s gentle illusion was shattered. Naseer’s brutal reality was etched into her very muscles. The trial’s horror was now a personal, physical memory inside her.
Thomas, avoiding Nicoleta’s penetrating gaze, moved to the small washbasin. He splashed water on his face. The reflection in the tin mirror showed a stranger—hard-eyed, mouth a thin line. He had gotten what he wanted, proved he could play the savage game, but the victory felt acidic.
Nicoleta pulled her leather shorts up, zipping them with a definitive sound. She caught Naseer’s eye across the room. A silent understanding passed between them. They were alike, in a way. They saw the transaction for what it was.
“So,” Nicoleta said, breaking the quiet. “We’ve had our ‘reset’. Our little power play. What now? We all hold hands at breakfast and pretend we’ve formed a beautiful bond?”
Naseer finished buttoning his shirt. “Now, we execute. Like Cabin 3 is probably doing. We show nothing. We give McLean bland smiles and talk about the humidity. We make last night look like a book club meeting.” He glanced at Patricia’s still form. “She’ll need coaching. You.” He pointed at Thomas. “You built the rapport. Fix her. Get her functional.”
Thomas looked at the huddled shape under the blanket. A flicker of his old, performative concern returned. He approached the bunk, sitting on the edge. “Patricia,” he whispered, his voice soft again. “It’s over. You’re okay. We’re okay. This… this was just survival. You understand?”
From under the blanket, a small, broken voice emerged. “I want to go home.”
“We all do,” Thomas said, but it was a lie. He didn’t. Not yet. He stroked her hair. “But we can’t. So we play the game. And we play it better than them.”
Nicoleta lit a thin cigarette, the smoke curling in the still air. “The game just changed. For us, at least. They wanted to break us with Nicola’s little horror show.” She exhaled, a slow, deliberate stream. “Instead, they just reminded us what kind of animals we need to be to win.”
Dawn was beginning to bleed a pale grey light through the window. The jungle’s chorus was softening, yielding to the new day. In a few hours, they would be shepherded to the main lodge, to bright lights and Chris McLean’s charming, probing smile.
Four people, bound now not by friendship, but by a shared, secret depravity. A calculated fuck. A strategic surrender. A hollow conquest. It was the opposite of the connection the show pretended to peddle. It was colder, harder, and infinitely more durable.
Patricia finally sat up, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself. Her doll’s face was blotchy, her eyes vacant. But at their core, a new hardness was forming, a protective shell of ice over the shattered pieces. She looked at Thomas, then at Naseer, and finally at Nicoleta. She didn’t speak.
She simply nodded.