Chapter 176: Briv - Carmen, Emilia
The name hung in the thick, sweet air. Briv felt the word hit him like a physical blow, a sucker punch to the solar plexus that emptied his lungs. All eyes swiveled to him. Second place on the board. Now center stage in the circus.
“Briv. He’ll be ‘cleaned’ by Carmen and Emilia! Let’s begin!” Chris’s voice was a cheerful dagger.
For a second, the world tunneled. The raucous, approving shout from Joaquin—“¡Buena suerte, amigo!”—sounded like it came from another beach. The low, anxious murmur from the women blurred into the white noise of the surf. Briv’s gaze flickered, helplessly, to Alya. She was staring at him, her expression unreadable, a statue of perfect, beautiful tension. Thomas’s hand was on her shoulder, a possessive claim.
Then he saw Carmen. Her tall frame seemed to sag, then straighten with a visible, forced resolve. Her dark eyes met his, wide with a shared horror, but also a desperate plea. Don’t make this worse. Emilia, beside her, was already different. Her pretty, harmless-girl face was smoothing into a mask of calm calculation. She bit her lower lip, not in fear, but in assessment. She was running numbers, strategies, angles. Of the two, she was the more terrifying.
“Gentlemen in the pool, please! Strip down!” Chris commanded, his microphone picking up the eager crackle in his voice.
The walk to the chocolate-filled tub was the longest of Briv’s life. The sand clung to his feet. The scent of the chocolate, once sweet, now smelled cloying and rotten, like overripe fruit left in the sun. He stopped at the edge. The liquid was a deep, opaque brown, still steaming slightly. Patches of it had already cooled and skin formed on the surface near the edges.
His fingers fumbled with the button of his shorts. His hands were cold despite the heat. He glanced again at the crowd. Logan watched, arms crossed, a clinical observer. Dariana looked away, studying the horizon. Kofi smirked. Jim looked fascinated, his mouth slightly open. Naseer looked bored.
Briv pushed his shorts and boxers down in one motion, stepping out of them quickly, his skin prickling with gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the breeze. He was naked. Fully, vulnerably, publicly naked. His body felt alien—the skinny frame, the ribs visible, the trail of hair leading down to his cock, which was shrunk tight against the cold and the humiliation. He saw Joaquin’s proud, muscled display and felt a wave of comparative inadequacy, sharp and childish. He wasn’t a macho-man. He was just a guy, exposed.
“In you go, Briv! Don’t be shy!” Chris chirped.
He stepped into the pool. The warm chocolate enveloped his feet, then his ankles. It was thicker than he expected, viscous, like warm pudding. It oozed between his toes. He waded to the center, the liquid rising to his shins, then his knees, then his thighs. It was uncomfortably, intimately warm. A production assistant with a large bucket moved forward.
“Ready?” the assistant asked, not unkindly.
Briv nodded, unable to speak.
The first ladleful hit his shoulder and slopped down his chest. It was a shock—not just the warmth, but the weight of it. The second poured over his head. He shut his eyes and mouth as the thick, sweet goop coated his hair, dripped down his forehead, into his ears. He sputtered, wiping his eyes clear just as more was dumped over his back. He was being basted. He stood there, arms slightly out, as they worked, ladling and pouring until every inch of him was covered. It filled the hollow of his clavicle, matted the hair on his chest and stomach, dripped in slow, glistening ropes down his arms. He felt it pool at the small of his back, seep into the cleft of his ass. It coated his cock and balls, a warm, heavy blanket. He was a statue of chocolate, a grotesque dessert. The only sounds were the splash of the liquid and the distant, crying call of a seabird.
“Excellent! Ladies, you know the drill. Naked, please. Positions at the edges. Your time starts… now!”
Carmen and Emilia had already shed their clothes. Carmen moved stiffly, her long, pale limbs angular and awkward. She kept her eyes on Briv’s face, a fixed point in a spinning world. Emilia undressed with a quiet, efficient grace, folding her top neatly before placing it on the sand. She didn’t look at Briv; she was scanning his chocolate-covered body like it was a map, planning her route.
They knelt at the pool’s edge, one on either side of his legs. The timer beeped.
Carmen acted first. She grabbed his left ankle, her grip firm. She took a sharp, visible breath, then leaned in and licked a stripe from his instep to his Achilles tendon. Her tongue was warm, soft, and the sensation was so utterly bizarre—the contrast of her human warmth against the cooling candy, the scrape of her tongue on his skin beneath—that Briv jerked instinctively.
“Steady,” Chris’s voice commented, a bored sports-caster. “Efficiency is key.”
Emilia, on the right, was different. She didn’t just lick. She took his heel in her hand, turned it slightly for better access, and then covered a large area with her mouth, sucking the chocolate off in a wet, hollow pull. She worked methodically, like someone cleaning a valuable artifact. There was no hesitation, no apparent disgust. It was a task.
Briv looked down, his head heavy. He saw the tops of their heads, Carmen’s dark brown hair, Emilia’s lighter brown. He saw their naked backs bent, the knobs of their spines, the shift of shoulder blades. The chocolate on his legs was being replaced by the slick, clean trails of their saliva. It was more intimate than any sex he’d had on the island. This was servitude with a timer.
They moved upward in unison. Carmen on his calf, her tongue flicking. Emilia on his shin, her mouth working in slow, deliberate circles. Briv felt himself beginning to harden. It was an involuntary, traitorous response to the warm, wet pressure, to the sheer taboo of it. He willed it down, shame flushing his face, grateful for the covering of chocolate.
“One minute!” Chris called.
The women reached his thighs. This was new territory. Carmen’s face was now level with his groin. She paused, her eyes flicking up to his. He saw the conflict there—friendship warring with survival instinct. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, an apology, then leaned into his inner thigh. Her tongue was broad and flat as she lapped at the chocolate there, her nose brushing against his scrotum. Briv sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. He clenched his fists at his sides.
Emilia, on the outer thigh, was less direct but more thorough. She was cleaning him like she was detailing a car, ensuring no patch was missed. She moved to the front of his thigh, her head dipping, her mouth closing over a large patch of chocolate just beside his penis. He felt her breath, hot and damp, through the thin layer of candy.
His cock, despite his horror, thickened further, pushing against the viscous coating.
“Looks like someone’s enjoying the spa treatment!” Joaquin laughed from the sidelines. A few other men chuckled uneasily.
Briv shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at Alya. He couldn’t.
“Two minutes! Moving up, ladies, moving up!”
Carmen and Emilia rose onto their knees, working on his hips and lower abdomen. This was worse. They had to get in close, their bodies pressing against the pool’s edge, their faces inches from his fully erect cock, which now jutted out, glazed in brown. Carmen was blushing furiously, her neck and chest mottled red. She focused on the hip bone, licking and sucking. Emilia, however, looked at his erection with a detached curiosity. She didn’t shy away. She leaned in and, with a clinical precision, began to lick the chocolate from the shaft.
It wasn’t a blowjob. It was a cleaning. But the sensation was undeniable. Her tongue, firm and agile, ran from the base to the tip, circling the head where chocolate had gathered under the foreskin. Briv gasped, his hips twitching forward minutely. A low groan escaped him, one of utter mortification. He was hard, in public, being serviced by a near-stranger for points.
Emilia pulled back, her mouth slick and brown. “The underside is still coated,” she said calmly, to no one in particular, and ducked her head to run her tongue along the sensitive frenulum.
“Fuck,” Briv whispered, the word torn from him.
Carmen, seeing Emilia’s ruthless efficiency, seemed to realize her friendlier approach was costing them time. A desperate, competitive glint entered her eyes. She moved to his other side, and with a grimace, took his balls gently in one hand, lifting them, and began to lick the chocolate from the sac beneath. Her tongue was softer, more tentative than Emilia’s, but the effect was electric. The dual sensation—Emilia’s focused work on his shaft, Carmen’s tender, awful attention to his balls—drove him to the edge of a climax he did not want, a climax that would be a final, unforgivable humiliation.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, focusing on the pain.
“Three minutes! Torsos!”
They moved upward, saving him. Carmen attacked his stomach, her long hair trailing in the chocolate pool as she lapped at his navel, cleaning it out with the tip of her tongue. Emilia was on his chest, her small breasts pressing against his chocolate-smeared ribs as she sucked the candy from his nipple. He felt her teeth graze it lightly, a calculated scrape to remove a stubborn bit. It was intimate and cold at the same time.
They were both filthy now. Chocolate streaked their faces, their necks, their breasts. Carmen had a long smear across one cheek. Emilia’s lips were dark brown. They looked like they’d been in a food fight from hell.
Briv stood, trembling, as they worked over his pectorals, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. He was mostly clean now from the waist down, his skin glistening with their spit, his erection flagging slightly from overstimulation and acute shame. The clean patches felt bizarrely exposed, vulnerable.
“Four minutes! Back and finish!”
He turned, presenting his back. This felt like a small mercy—he didn’t have to see them, to see the audience. He felt four hands on him, guiding him to kneel in the pool so they could reach his shoulders. Their tongues set to work on his back—Carmen on the left, Emilia on the right. It was slower here. The chocolate had dried. He felt the scratch of teeth again, the insistent pressure of tongues probing along his spine, licking into the dimples at the base of his back.
Then Emilia’s voice, quiet, pragmatic. “The cleft. It’s full.”
Briv froze. He felt a hand—he couldn’t tell whose—part his buttocks. The air hit the cleaned skin, a cool shock. Then a tongue, firm and wet, licked a slow, deliberate path from his perineum up through the cleft of his ass.
He jerked forward, but Carmen’s hands were on his hips, holding him in place. “Almost done, Briv,” she murmured, her voice thick with tears and chocolate. “Almost.”
The tongue delved again, cleaning him out with a thoroughness that was beyond degrading. It was a violation, performed with bureaucratic diligence. He pressed his forehead against the cool plastic rim of the pool, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted. He dissociated, floating somewhere above the scene, watching a skinny, brown-haired man being eaten clean by two women under a blinding sun.
The tongue withdrew. Hands patted his lower back, a signal.
“Time! Five minutes, eight seconds!”
The beep of the timer was a canon shot of release. Briv slumped forward, catching himself on his hands. He knelt there, head down, breathing ragged. He was clean. He was dripping with spit. He was naked and utterly broken.
A cold hose spray hit him. He didn’t move as the water sluiced the last of the saliva and stray chocolate from his skin. It was over. A towel was shoved into his hands. He didn’t look at Carmen or Emilia as they were wrapped in robes and led away, Emilia already whispering to Carmen, doubtless debriefing their performance.
He stumbled out of the pool, wrapping the towel around his waist. His legs were weak. He didn’t look at anyone as he walked back to the fringe of the group. His skin felt raw, new, as if the top layer had been licked off. The taste of blood was still in his mouth.
Chris was already moving on, his energy undimmed. “A study in contrasts! Now, let’s see some speed! Next up…”
But Briv didn’t hear the name. His hearing was muffled, underwater. He found a spot on the sand and sat, drawing his knees up. He felt a presence beside him. Dariana. She didn’t look at him, just sat, shoulder almost touching his.
“You dissociated,” she said quietly, not a question. “It’s the only way to get through it.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“The points will be good,” she continued, her voice flat. “That’s all that matters now. The points, and the fact that you didn’t break. You held still. That’s a kind of strength.”
He looked at her then, really looked. She was staring straight ahead at where Chris was pulling two more names from the bowl, her athlete’s profile set in stone. She had been through Logan’s boot camp. She understood.