Chapter 175: Before Trial 13
The dawn light that filtered into Cabin 6 felt accusatory. It exposed the dust motes, the rumpled blankets, the lingering scent of sex and cigar smoke that no amount of jungle humidity could erase. Briv woke from a thin, troubled sleep to find Logan already doing push-ups in the narrow space between the bunks, his movements precise and silent. Dariana was still a curled lump under her sheet, facing the wall.
No one spoke.
The walk to the main beach was a silent procession. Briv walked a few paces behind, watching Dariana’s back. Her athlete’s stride was there, but it was stiff, mechanical. Logan moved like a man on a routine morning stroll, nodding curtly at Sean as they passed Cabin 4. The camaraderie from the previous night’s orchestrated release was gone, replaced by a cold, functional acknowledgment. The chain of command, established.
The rest of the cast was already gathered on the sand, clustering in fragile, shifting alliances. The air was thick with a new kind of tension—the raw, hungover anxiety that follows a public execution. People spoke in low murmurs, eyes darting, assessing. Briv’s gaze instinctively found Alya. She was standing with Thomas, of course, who was saying something that made her give a small, tired smile. Thomas’s hand was on her arm, a proprietary touch that made Briv’s jaw tighten. He looked away and found Carmen, who gave him a weak, sympathetic wave from beside a sullen-looking Naseer. Nicola was nowhere to be seen.
Chris McLean’s arrival was heralded by the crunch of his boots on the sand and the too-bright, performative energy that surrounded him like a force field. “Morning, sunshine soldiers!” he called out, clapping his hands once. The sound was sharp, a gunshot in the muted atmosphere. “Hope you all slept well and processed those… difficult emotions. Time for a little clarity!”
A production assistant wheeled out a large digital screen. The group coalesced into a half-moon before it, a quiet settling over them. This was the new religion: the points. The quantification of their worth, their strategy, their survival.
The screen flickered to life.
IN THE MORNING, CHRIS SHOWS THE UPDATED TABLE:
1ST - ALYA - 250P
2ND - BRIV - 238P
3RD - BIANCA - 215P
4TH - JIM - 194P
5TH - THOMAS - 191P
6TH - ELENA - 188P
7TH - DARIANA - 187P
8TH - KOFI - 182P
9TH - RAZE - 180P
10TH - NICOLETA - 176P
11TH - DILETTA - 174P
12TH - JOAQUIN - 172P
13TH - PATRICIA - 166P
14TH - KIM - 164P
15TH - FATIMA - 159P
16TH - SEAN - 156P
17TH - ANDRE - 152P
18TH - VALENTINA - 140P
19TH - EMILIA - 139P
20TH - NASEER - 127P
21ST - CARMEN - 124P
22ND - LOGAN - 121P
23RD - NICOLA - 105P.
A collective inhale. Then a burst of overlapping reactions—soft gasps, muttered curses, a short, bitter laugh from Joaquin.
Briv stared, his own high ranking a cold comfort. Second place. Right below Alya. The points felt like abstract numbers, divorced from the grimy reality of last night. He saw Logan’s name near the bottom, at 22nd. The older man’s expression didn’t change, but Briv saw a tiny muscle feather in his jaw. Logan had controlled their cabin, but the game had punished him for it. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
Nicola’s name at the very bottom, a mere 105 points, sent a different kind of chill through the group. It was the mathematical confirmation of her annihilation.
Chris let the numbers sink in, a slight, pitiless smile playing on his lips. “There we are. The empirical truth. Some of you are riding high. Some of you… are facing a very steep climb.” He paused, letting his eyes sweep across them, lingering on the lower ranks. “And since we all love a little urgency… after the next trial, an elimination will follow.”
A stark, heavy silence.
“So, last place?” Chris said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that was anything but comforting. “Earn some points!”
He clicked off the screen and the assistant wheeled it away, leaving them stranded with the new hierarchy burning in their vision.
The second Chris was gone, the beach erupted into frantic, low-energy chatter.
“Shit, man, I’m in the top five?” Jim blurted out, his voice too loud, his nerdish face confused. “How’d that happen?”
“By being a harmless puppy,” Kofi sneered, adjusting the dreads over his shoulder. “No one sees you as a threat. Yet.”
Thomas was already whispering to Alya, his head bent close to hers. “First place, gorgeous. That paints a target. You need someone watching your back. Someone who understands the game.” Alya listened, her arms crossed, her eyes distant. She looked past Thomas and caught Briv staring. For a second, their eyes held. He saw no triumph in hers, only a deep, weary wariness. Then she looked away.
Briv felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Carmen, her tall frame slumping with worry. “You’re second. That’s amazing, Briv.”
“It doesn’t feel amazing,” he said truthfully. “It feels like I’m standing on a trapdoor.”
“I’m at 124,” she murmured, her dark eyes wide. “Twenty-first. I can’t… I can’t go home yet. I can’t.”
Nearby, Logan was being approached by Sean. The farm guy crossed his beefy arms. “Bottom five, old man. Not looking so clever now, are ya?”
Logan didn’t look at him. He was watching Dariana, who had drifted toward the water’s edge, alone. “Cleverness is a long-term strategy, Sean. Panic is a short-term one. You tell me which one survives.”
Dariana stood letting the foam wash over her feet. Briv broke away from Carmen and walked toward her, the sand dragging at his steps. He didn’t know what to say. Sorry? Are you okay? Both were grotesque. He settled for standing beside her, looking at the horizon.
“He’s in the bottom five,” Dariana said quietly, not looking at him. “He won’t let that stand. Last night… that was him establishing territory. Today, he’ll be looking for points. For leverage.”
“What does that mean?” Briv asked.
“It means he’ll use whatever he has. Including me.” She finally turned her head. The morning sun lit the side of her face, but her eyes were shadowed. “You got a lot of points, Briv. You’re a target too. But you’re also a resource. Be careful who you trust.”
Before he could respond, a commotion drew their attention back to the group. Nicola had emerged from the path. She looked ghostly, her blonde hair lank, her eyes hollowed out from crying and lack of sleep. She moved like a sleepwalker toward the circle.
Valentina, ever the opportunist, rushed to her side, putting on a show of concern. “Nicola, honey! We were so worried. How are you holding up?”
Nicola blinked slowly, as if translating a foreign language. “I have 105 points,” she said, her voice flat and raw.
“We know, sweetie. But you can bounce back! You just need to, you know, be more positive! Schmooze a little!”
Emilia, the quiet strategist, detached herself from where she’d been talking with Bianca. She approached Nicola with a softer, more genuine demeanor. “Ignore her, Nicola. What you need is a solid alliance. Someone to share points with, to protect you during the next trial.” She glanced meaningfully at Bianca, the beginner psychologist, who gave a slight, encouraging nod. It was a smart play: two lower-ranked, intelligent women banding together with a vulnerable third.
But Nicoleta, the goth influencer, sauntered over, her dark eyes sharp. “An alliance with broken goods? Bad investment, dragă. You need firepower. You need someone who isn’t afraid to get dirty.” Her gaze slid past Emilia, landing dismissively on her. Nicoleta’s offer was different—not protection, but a mercenary partnership.
Nicola’s head swiveled between them, the overload plain on her face. The pressure to decide, to strategize, to be clever again, was clearly unbearable. Her breath started coming in short hitches.
“I… I can’t,” she whispered, taking a step back. “I just can’t think.”
Logan saw it too. The weakness. The opportunity. He moved, cutting through the crowd with his deliberate pace. He didn’t offer comfort or strategy. He presented a simple, physical alternative. He stopped in front of Nicola, blocking her view of the others. “You don’t need to think,” he stated, his voice low but carrying. “You need to reset. Your mind is in chaos. Your body needs to remember it’s alive. Come with me. We’ll run the perimeter. Burn out the static. Then you can see clearly.”
It was a masterstroke. He offered action instead of thought, discipline instead of politics. To Nicola, drowning in a sea of words and manipulations, it must have felt like a lifeline. She stared up at his impassive, strong face and gave a tiny, desperate nod.
Logan placed a guiding hand on her shoulder—firm, not gentle—and began leading her away from the group, back toward the jungle paths. As he passed Briv and Dariana, his eyes met Briv’s for a fraction of a second. There was no warmth, no camaraderie. It was a simple, cold message: Watch and learn.
Dariana was right. Logan was already moving, already adapting. He’d just acquired a project, a vulnerable, high-profile point of leverage. And Briv, standing there with his second-place points feeling like lead weights in his pockets, understood with dawning dread that last night hadn’t been an aberration. It was the blueprint. The game had shifted entirely, and the real trial had already begun.
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The game had shifted entirely, and the real trial had already begun.
It began with the sound of machinery. The low growl of generators and the clank of metal being assembled at the far end of the beach cut through the fragile morning. Everyone turned. Crew members were unfolding a large, shallow plastic pool, the kind used for kids, but this one was oversized and sinister in its simplicity. They wheeled in drums, hoses, and industrial heaters.
“What fresh hell is this?” Carmen muttered, moving closer to Briv.
Before anyone could guess, Chris McLean reappeared, now holding a wireless microphone. His smile was all teeth. “Gathered your wits? Excellent. Because it’s time to earn your keep, and for some of you, to save your skin.” He gestured grandly toward the construction zone. “We’re adjusting the format. We’ve seen the mind games. We’ve seen the emotional warfare. Now, let’s appreciate something more… primal. More visceral. Let’s see how you perform under a different kind of pressure.”
He paused, letting the dread build. Briv’s stomach tightened. He saw Dariana fold her arms, her knuckles white. Logan had returned with Nicola, both of them sweaty from their run, and now he watched with detached interest, as if studying a diagram.
“Trial Thirteen!” Chris announced, his voice booming across the sand. “In this trial, men will be the protagonists!”
A ripple went through the men. Joaquin perked up, a hungry grin spreading under his trimmed beard. Kofi cracked his neck. Sean just scowled, distrustful of any spectacle he didn’t control.
“Each man will take a chocolate-bath.” Chris continued, pacing before them. “Two randomly chosen women, also naked, will have to clean up the man’s body, only using their tongues!”
Silence. Then a collective, sharp intake of breath. This wasn’t a test of intelligence or loyalty. It was a forced, degrading intimacy, a carnival act designed to humiliate and expose. The women stared, faces hardening or draining of color. The men’s reactions split—some looked predatory, others uncomfortable.
“According to how fast those women are, they’ll earn more points!” Chris concluded, as if explaining a simple points system at a child’s game. “First up, we have: Joaquin. He’ll be ‘cleaned’ by Patricia and Valentina! Let’s begin!”
The names, drawn by a producer from a glass bowl, hung in the air. Patricia, the doll-faced blonde influencer, went rigid. Valentina’s judgy eyes widened, her mind clearly racing to calculate the optics, the advantage, the gossip value. Joaquin threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound of pure triumph. He immediately began pulling his shirt off.
“This is my kind of challenge!” he crowed, striding toward the pool, which was now being filled from the steaming drums. The thick, sweet scent of melted chocolate began to waft across the beach, cloying and overwhelming. It wasn’t the smell of dessert; it was the smell of something warm and animal and wrong.
“You cannot be serious,” Bianca said, her voice low with anger. “This is dehumanizing.”
“It’s optional!” Chris chirped, his eyes glinting. “You can always forfeit your points. And given the elimination looming… well, I’d consider your position. Think of it as… a team-building exercise.”
The threat was clear. Patricia and Valentina exchanged a look—a fleeting moment of shared horror before the mask of competition slammed down. Valentina, ever the strategist, forced a smile. “It’s just a game, right? We can be fast.”
Patricia said nothing. She just started unbuttoning her shorts with trembling fingers, her eyes fixed on the growing pool of viscous brown liquid.
The crew brought out two small, digital timers. The rules were simple: the women would start once Joaquin was fully coated. They would work from the feet up, only their mouths allowed, and the timer would stop when the last patch of chocolate was cleared from his skin. The faster the time, the more points they’d each earn. The men would earn a flat rate for participation, a fact that made Jim giggle nervously and Naseer sneer with disdain.
Joaquin stood in the center of the pool, wearing only black boxer-briefs. He spread his arms, a conquering hero. “¡Vamos! Do not be shy with the chocolate! Cover me!”
A crew member used a large plastic ladle to pour the first wave of warm chocolate over his head. It cascaded down his muscular shoulders and chest, dripping in globs. Joaquin whooped, scooping handfuls and smearing it over his abs, his arms. He was an active participant in his own objectification, reveling in it. The thick liquid coated his skin, matting his chest hair, filling his navel. It pooled in the waistband of his underwear.
“Okay, ladies! Positions!” Chris called.
Patricia and Valentina, now naked, stood shivering at the edge of the pool. Their bodies were taut with tension, Patricia’s fit frame and Valentina’s slimmer one both looking vulnerable under the harsh sun. They weren’t looking at each other anymore. Their focus was on the sticky, brown terrain of Joaquin’s body.
“Begin!”
Valentina dove in with a frantic, competitive energy. She dropped to her knees in the sand beside the pool, grabbed Joaquin’s ankle, and without hesitation, began licking the chocolate from his calf. Her tongue moved in quick, bird-like flicks, scraping the sweetness off his skin. It was efficient, clinical, and utterly grotesque.
Patricia was slower, more hesitant. She approached his other leg, her face a mask of distaste. She bent, her blonde hair falling forward, and tentatively extended her tongue. The moment it made contact with the chocolate and his skin, she flinched. She began to lick, her movements slower, more thorough, her eyes squeezed shut.
The beach was utterly silent except for the lapping waves, the hum of generators, and the wet, soft sounds of their tongues at work. No one knew where to look. Some stared, transfixed by the surreal horror of it. Others studied the sand. Briv watched, a nausea churning in him that had nothing to do with the smell. This was different from the negotiated, dark transaction in his cabin. This was a public stripping of dignity, broadcast and scored.
Joaquin, however, was in ecstasy. He looked down at the two naked women toiling over his legs, a smug, paternalistic smile on his face. He ran a chocolate-smeared hand through Valentina’s hair as she worked. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Very efficient.”
Valentina didn’t pause. She had moved to his thigh, her lips and chin now smudged brown. Patricia was working on his knee, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. The chocolate was cooling, becoming tackier, harder to remove.
“Time check!” Chris called. “One minute thirty!”
Spurred by the clock, Valentina became more aggressive. She used her hands to stabilize his leg, her mouth working faster, sucking and licking the chocolate from the crease of his groin near the waistband of his underwear. Joaquin’s eyes rolled back slightly. He adjusted his stance.
Patricia, seeing Valentina’s progress, panicked. She scrambled upward, starting on his lower abdomen. Her technique was less effective; she was trying to be clean, to not touch him more than necessary, and it was slowing her down. Chocolate was caked in the light hair trail below his navel.
“You have to get in there, cielo,” Joaquin said to her, his voice a low tease. “Do not be afraid. It is only chocolate.”
Tears of frustration and humiliation welled in Patricia’s eyes. She bent again, her face now dangerously close to his covered crotch, and licked at the sticky mess on his hip bone. The audience of their peers was a palpable weight.
Briv found his eyes darting to Alya. She was watching, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face pale. Thomas was whispering something in her ear, but she wasn’t reacting. She just stared at the spectacle, and Briv saw something in her expression fracture—a last vestige of the fiery spirit she’d arrived with, dissolving in the sugary, degrading slop.
“Two minutes!”
They were on his torso now. Valentina was on his left pectoral, her small hands braced on his ribcage, her mouth working over his nipple. Joaquin chuckled, cupping the back of her head. Patricia took the right side, her movements becoming more desperate and messy. Chocolate was smeared around her mouth, on her cheeks, on her breasts. They were both becoming filthy in the process, their naked skin streaked brown.
The final challenge was his back. Joaquin turned, presenting a broad, chocolate-smeared canvas. The two women knelt behind him, their tongues working over his shoulder blades, down his spine. It was slower here. The chocolate had dried in patches. Valentina resorted to scraping with her teeth, gentle nibbles to loosen the candy. Patricia was just licking, her energy flagging, a low sob catching in her throat with each pass of her tongue.
“Three minutes forty-five seconds! The clock is running!”
With a final, concerted effort, Valentina cleared a spot on his lower back. Patricia, in a last burst, lapped at the back of his neck. They both pulled away, panting, their bodies glistening with sweat and smears of brown. They looked ruined.
“Time! Four minutes, twelve seconds!” Chris announced. “Not the fastest time we’ve seen in rehearsals, but respectable! Points will be calculated!”
Joaquin stepped out of the pool, a brown, glistening god. A crew member hosed him down with cold water, the chocolate sluicing off to reveal his clean, smug skin underneath. He was beaming. Patricia and Valentina were handed rough towels and robes, not meeting anyone’s eyes as they hurried to cover themselves.
“See? Teamwork!” Chris said, his voice dripping with faux inspiration. “Who’s next? The random draw awaits!”
He turned to the glass bowl, his hand hovering. Every woman stood stiff, a silent prayer on their lips: Not me, not me, not me. Every man, except maybe Logan and the scowling Sean, seemed to be calculating their own potential for glory or humiliation.
Briv looked at Dariana. Her face was a closed door, but he saw the minute tremor in her hands where they clutched her elbows. He looked at Logan, who was studying Nicola beside him. Logan’s expression was one of pure analysis, as if he were already planning how to weaponize Nicola’s inevitable selection, how to turn her terror into points, into survival.
The hose water ran brown into the sand. The sweet, sickly smell was everywhere. The real trial wasn't the licking or the chocolate. It was the moment before your name was called, the infinite second of dread where you had to decide what you were willing to become for a few more points on a screen. Chris’s hand plunged into the bowl.