Chapter 185: Naseer & Logan's Votes
The silence after Chris’s pronouncement was a living thing, thick and suffocating, broken only by the ragged breaths of the used and the quiet hum of the studio lights. The smell was a punch to the senses: salt, sex, and something metallic, like fear made tangible. Nicola was being helped up by a producer whose face was a blank mask, her body moving stiffly, a marionette with cut strings. Carmen, who had been huddled near the bathroom door, wrapped in a thin towel, stared at the floor as if it were a precipice.
Briv couldn’t look at Alya. He focused on the grit under his fingernails, the phantom ache in his own jaw. The game had melted away, replaced by something colder, a direct economy of flesh. He understood now. This wasn’t about temptation. It was about ownership.
Chris let the horror settle, savoring it like a fine wine. He strolled between the two remaining men, Logan and Naseer, who stood like statues of opposing ideologies. Logan’s aged muscularity spoke of discipline and controlled power, his gray eyes scanning the women with a clinical, assessing coolness. Naseer radiated a different energy—entitled, impatient, his wealth and stature a visible armor even here. He looked bored, as if the preceding displays were merely distasteful preliminaries.
“A dilemma,” Chris chirped, his voice absurdly bright. “Two strong contestants. Both with… qualities. But the vote is tied. And after such a demonstration of commitment, we can’t have a simple hand-raise, can we? That would be… anticlimactic.” He grinned, a shark spotting blood in the water. “So. We’ll make it more interesting! 1v1 votes! You’ll vote for Naseer and Logan, one by one.”
He let the words hang, ensuring every camera drone was positioned for a reaction shot. The women, who had been trying to shrink into themselves, now froze, a fresh wave of dread washing over their faces.
“Here’s the new rule,” Chris continued, his tone conspiratorial. “If you want one of them to stay, you gotta let him fuck you! A personal endorsement. A physical vote. We’ll go back and forth. Naseer, then Logan. Until one has more votes, or until… well, until we run out of voters! Begin!”
The directive was so blunt, so savagely simple, it stole the air from the room. No strategy talk, no alliances. Just a direct line drawn between survival and violation.
A long, trembling moment passed. Then, Elena stepped forward.
Her movement was hesitant, but her face was set. Of all of them, her connection to Naseer made a twisted sense. She had always spoken of her fascination with powerful men from certain cultures, a fantasy she’d woven from K-dramas and now projected onto the bald, intimidating Emirati. She walked towards him, her dark hair swinging. She didn’t look at the others.
“Naseer,” she said, her voice small but clear. “I vote for Naseer.”
A flicker of something—amusement, contempt—passed over Naseer’s strong features. He didn’t smile. He simply nodded, as if accepting a service that was his due. He unzipped his tailored trousers, freeing a thick, uncut cock that was already half-hard, perhaps from watching the earlier spectacles. He wasn’t enormous, but he was imposing, like the rest of him.
“On your knees,” he commanded, his accent clipping the words.
Elena sank down, the tile cold against her knees. She reached for him, but he caught her wrist. “No. Mouth only. Do not use your hands.”
She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth. It was a submissive, earnest act. She worked with a fervent dedication, trying to please, her eyes closed. Naseer stared over her head, one hand resting on his hip, the other eventually tangling in her hair to set a slow, dominant pace. He fucked her mouth with methodical, deep thrusts, watching her throat bulge. He didn’t speak, didn’t groan. It was a transaction. When he came, he pulled out just enough to erupt over her tongue and lips, and she swallowed convulsively, a tear tracing a clean line through the mess on her cheek.
“One vote for Naseer!” Chris announced, as if calling a tennis score.
The spotlight swung. All eyes turned to the women clustered for Logan. Patricia, the doll-faced blonde, didn’t wait. She stepped out, her blue eyes wide but determined. She was a competitor. She had seen Nicola’s fate and calculated that Logan, the older, seemingly more controlled man, was the better bet. A safer violation.
“Logan,” she said, her voice firmer than Elena’s. “I vote for Logan.”
Logan gave a single, slow nod. “Very well.” His voice was gravel, but not unkind. He unbuckled his belt, his movements economical. His cock, when revealed, was a testament to his fitness—thick, veined, and standing rigidly upright. He pointed to a nearby weight bench, dragged out earlier for some forgotten challenge. “Bend over that.”
Patricia obeyed, leaning over the padded vinyl, her big, round ass presented in her tiny bikini bottoms. Logan hooked his fingers in the fabric and peeled them down, not tearing, just exposing her. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and without further ceremony, pressed into her.
Patricia gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Logan’s penetration was slow, inexorable, filling her completely. He set a pace that was punishing in its consistency, each deep thrust pushing her body forward on the bench. He placed a large, calloused hand on the small of her back, holding her in place. It wasn’t violent, but it was utterly relentless, the fuck of a man with exceptional stamina who saw this as a task to be completed efficiently. He didn’t speak, just breathed heavily through his nose, his face a mask of concentration. Patricia’s whimpers turned into muffled cries against the vinyl, her fingers clawing for purchase. When he finally came, it was with a series of hard, grinding pushes, a low grunt escaping him. He held himself inside her for a long moment before pulling out, leaving her shuddering over the bench.
“One for Logan! We’re tied at 1-1!” Chris crowed.
The pace quickened. The ice was broken. This was the new currency, and they were all learning to spend it.
Valentina was next for Naseer. She practically skipped forward, eager for the spotlight, even this horrific one. Her judgy, gossip-loving nature twisted into a performative seduction. “My vote is for Naseer, of course,” she simpered, touching his arm. “A real man.”
Naseer looked down at her as one might look at an insect. He liked the adoration but despised the source. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
Valentina pouted but complied, pressing her palms against the cool concrete. Naseer yanked her shorts down, revealing her small, round ass. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He shoved himself into her dry, making her yelp in genuine pain.
“You wanted a real man,” he growled behind her, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Now take him.” He pounded into her, a brutal, jarring rhythm that knocked her head against the wall with each thrust. Valentina’s performance shattered; her cries were real, panicked. “Oh god, oh fuck, wait, it’s too—” He smacked her ass, a sharp crack that silenced her. He fucked her with a focused aggression, using her tight, small body for his own friction, his breath hot on her neck. When he came, he bit her shoulder, a sharp, possessive sting, as he emptied into her with a guttural curse in Arabic.
“Two for Naseer!”
Dariana, the athlete, stepped up for Logan. She was all taut muscle and fierce pride. She looked Logan dead in the eye. “I vote for you. Don’t go easy.”
A ghost of a smile touched Logan’s lips. He appreciated the challenge. “On the floor. On your back.”
Dariana lay down, spreading her legs. Logan knelt between them, pushing her thighs apart wider. He entered her in one smooth, powerful stroke, making her back arch off the floor. Her athleticism met his; she matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. It became a contest of endurance, a grueling, sweaty coupling. Skin slapped against skin, their breathing synchronized in harsh gasps. Logan’s control wavered here, a flicker of raw enjoyment breaking through his icy exterior. He gripped her narrow waist, his fingers sinking into her tanned skin, driving into her with deep, penetrating force. Dariana wrapped her legs around his back, pulling him deeper, her face a grimace of strain and unexpected pleasure. He came with a roar, collapsing on her for a second before pushing himself up.
“Two-two! The tension is exquisite!” Chris was practically dancing.
The pattern was set. A brutal, alternating rhythm. The women moved forward now with a numb resignation, their individual personalities flashing in brief, tragic moments before being subsumed by the act.
Alya’s turn for Naseer came.
Briv’s heart stopped. He felt his hands fist at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He couldn’t watch. He had to watch.
Alya walked forward. Her angelic face was pale, but her jaw was set. She didn’t look at Briv. She looked at Naseer, and in her eyes, Briv saw a terrible, calculating light. It was the same look she’d given him earlier. She was choosing power. She was choosing the man who had just brutalized Valentina. To survive. To maybe even win.
“Naseer,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake.
Naseer’s eyebrow lifted slightly. He recognized her quality, her beauty. He pointed to a low, wide speaker cabinet. “Sit on the edge.”
Alya hoisted herself up, her skinny frame looking childlike against the black box. Naseer stepped between her legs. He didn’t touch her with anything resembling tenderness. He pushed her back so she was lying on the speaker, her legs dangling. He leaned over her, his muscular frame blocking the light. He took his cock, still wet from Valentina, and rubbed the head through her sparse pubic hair, then against her slit. She was dry. He spat onto his fingers and rubbed it against her, a crude, cold lubrication.
“Open your legs wider,” he ordered.
Alya complied, staring at the ceiling. Naseer guided himself into her. Alya’s breath hitched, a small, broken sound that carved a hole in Briv’s chest. Naseer fucked her with a ponderous, deep rhythm, each thrust lifting her slight body on the speaker. He leaned down, his bearded face close to hers. “You are a pretty little thing,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “But you are empty. A pretty shell.” He drove into her, his pace increasing. “This is all you are for now. A warm hole for a real man’s cock. Do you understand?”
Alya didn’t answer. A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path into her hairline. Naseer grunted, his hips slapping against her thighs. He came inside her with a series of short, powerful jerks, staying embedded for a moment before pulling out and turning away, already tucking himself back into his trousers as if the transaction was complete.
Briv tasted bile. The love he’d had for her, the mutual respect of their breakup—it felt incinerated, replaced by a white-hot rage that had no target.
“Three for Naseer!”
Emilia, the psychologist, was next for Logan. She moved with a quiet, unsettling calm. Her intelligent eyes took in everything, filing it away. She stood before Logan, her small breasts rising and falling with steady breaths.
“My vote is for Logan,” she said, her voice soft, analytical. “I believe in your stability.”
Logan studied her. He saw the strategist behind the pretty, harmless girl facade. He nodded. “How do you want it?”
The question, offering a sliver of choice, was more devastating than any command. Emilia paused. “From behind. But… slowly. I want to feel it.”
Logan nodded again. He had her get on her hands and knees. He knelt behind her, his large hands running over her small, round ass with a surprising, almost clinical gentleness. He entered her with deliberate care, sheathing himself inch by inch. Emilia let out a long, shuddering sigh. He began to move, a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that was intensely intimate. Emilia’s head dropped, her long brown hair sweeping the floor. She pushed back against him, meeting his slow thrusts. It looked almost like lovemaking, a grotesque pantomime of connection. Logan’s hands gripped her hips, his thumbs rubbing circles on her skin. He lowered his head, his lips near her ear. “You’re using this,” he breathed, not a question. “You’re feeling every second, storing it away. Using me.”
Emilia moaned, a sound that seemed genuine. “Yes,” she whispered.
That admission seemed to excite him. His rhythm lost some of its control, becoming harder, faster. “Clever girl,” he grunted, pounding into her now, the earlier gentleness gone, replaced by a fervor that her intellectual complicity had unlocked. He came with a strangled gasp, his body rigid against hers.
“Three-three! Deadlock!”
The air was a stew of conflicting energies: violence, calculation, shame, and a terrifying, burgeoning arousal for some. The women were being used as physical ballots, and their bodies were casting votes in a language of grunts, slaps, and stifled cries.
Nicoleta was next for Naseer. The goth influencer, with her tattooed skin, big ass, and bossy demeanor, sauntered forward as if she were choosing him at a club. Her confidence was a shield, but her eyes were wary.
“Naseer,” she said, a challenge in her tone.
He appraised her, his gaze lingering on her ample curves, her defiant posture. “On your back. On the floor. Legs in the air.”
Nicoleta lay down, hoisting her legs, exposing herself fully. Naseer knelt, but instead of entering her immediately, he gripped her big, fat ass with both hands, squeezing and spreading her. “A good body,” he stated. “For fucking.” He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance and pushed in without preamble.
Nicoleta’s confident mask slipped. Her eyes widened as he filled her, his girth stretching her. He set a brutal, pounding pace from the start, his balls slapping against her ass. He was rougher with her than with the others, perhaps threatened by her faux-confidence. He leaned forward, putting his weight on her. “You dress like a whore,” he hissed, driving into her. “You act like a queen. But here you are, just another cunt getting railed on camera.” He fucked her with a vicious intensity, his words meant to break her. Nicoleta tried to hold his gaze, to stay defiant, but her body was betraying her, responding to the raw, aggressive friction. Her moans became involuntary, a mixture of pain and unwanted pleasure. “That’s it,” Naseer sneered, feeling her tighten around him. “Your body knows its purpose.” He climaxed with a powerful surge, pumping into her deeply, his face contorted in a grimace of release.
“Four for Naseer! Logan needs a vote to stay alive!”
Bianca, the kind, intelligent beginner psychologist, stepped forward for Logan. Her face was streaked with tears, but she moved with a resolved dignity. She looked at Logan, her dark eyes full of a sorrow that seemed deeper than this moment. “I vote for Logan,” she said softly.
Logan’s stern expression softened a fraction. He saw her genuine distress, her lack of calculation. “Come here,” he said, his voice lower.
He didn’t bend her over or throw her down. He led her to a slightly cleaner patch of matting and sat down, pulling her onto his lap, facing him. He helped her sink down onto his erection, a slow, guided descent. Bianca wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder as he filled her. Logan held her, his strong arms encircling her waist, and began to move her on his cock, a rocking, almost comforting motion. He fucked her with a deep, rhythmic patience, one hand cradling the back of her head. Bianca wept silently against him, her body shaking with each of his upward thrusts. It was the most devastating scene yet—a violation wrapped in a perverse semblance of care. Logan’s endurance was on full display; he maintained this gentle, devastating pace for a long time, until Bianca’s tears subsided into shallow hiccups and her body began to move with his, seeking a release from the torment inside her
He finished inside her with a low, shuddering sigh, holding her tight as his hips stilled. Bianca went limp against him, all fight and dignity spent.
"Four-four!" Chris announced, his voice taut with excitement. "The final votes! We have two voters remaining. Fatima. Diletta. The power is literally in your hands. Or, well, you know."
Fatima, the dancer with the fiery red hair and flexible body, looked from Logan to Naseer and back. Her seductive confidence was frayed, her green eyes hollow from watching. She licked her full lips, a nervous tic. She walked toward Logan.
"My vote is for Logan," she said, her voice lacking its usual melodic lilt. "Just… get it over with."
Logan, still seated with Bianca draped on him, gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He helped Bianca off his lap, his cock, slick and still hard, gleaming under the lights. He stood, his knees cracking faintly. "Against the wall," he said to Fatima, pointing to a space of bare concrete.
Fatima turned, pressing her palms flat on the cool surface, presenting her big, round ass. She arched her back, a dancer's pose, making it an offering. Logan moved behind her, his hands rough on her narrow waist. He didn't guide himself; he just slammed forward, burying his entire length in her flexible depths in one brutal thrust.
"Fuck!" Fatima gasped, her forehead hitting the wall.
Logan set a punishing, metronomic rhythm. He used her like a piece of gym equipment, his thrusts deep and mechanical, each one driving the breath from her lungs. Her flexibility meant he could angle her relentlessly, hitting spots that made her body jolt. "You're just a warm, tight machine," he grunted, his voice devoid of anything but effort. "A fuck-machine. Nothing more." He pounded into her, his stomach slapping against her ass, the sound wet and obscene. Fatima's moans were forced out of her, sharp little cries with each impact. Her hands slid down the wall, leaving sweaty streaks. When Logan came, it was with a series of hard, final pumps, a guttural noise escaping his clenched teeth. He pulled out, and Fatima slumped to the floor, her legs unable to hold her.
"Five votes for Logan! Naseer, you need this last one to stay! Diletta, the pressure is on!"
All eyes locked on the famous Spanish TV hostess. Diletta, with her breathtaking beauty and curated positive vibe, looked like she might vomit. Her smile was a ghastly, twitching thing. She looked at Naseer, then at the broken forms of the other women. She had watched her friend, Elena, swallow his cum. She had seen what he did to Nicoleta.
She walked to him, each step measured. "Naseer," she said, her accent thickening with stress. "I vote for you."
A slow, cold smile spread across Naseer's bearded face. It didn't reach his eyes. "On the table," he commanded, pointing to the low wooden platform where Chris often stood.
Diletta hoisted herself up, the wood cold against her bare thighs. She lay back, her luxurious blonde hair fanning out. Naseer didn't remove his shirt or his watch. He unbuckled, freed himself, and climbed onto the table, kneeling between her legs. He pushed her dress up to her waist, exposing her. He didn't touch her. He just looked, his gaze like a physical violation.
"You are used to being adored," he stated. He spat into his own hand, lubricating his cock. "Now you will be used."
He entered her with a slow, crushing pressure. Diletta cried out, her hands flying to his wrists, but he pinned them above her head on the table with one powerful hand. He fucked her with a deep, rolling pace, each thrust a claim. "Your smile is for the camera," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "This face you make now—this is real. This pain. This degradation. This is truth." He drove into her, his body a crushing weight. Diletta turned her head, the positive vibe utterly shattered, her face contorted in a silent scream. Naseer fucked her with a relentless, possessive fury, as if imprinting himself on her very celebrity. The table rocked, its legs screeching on the floor. He came with a roar, pumping his release into her, his body rigid with triumph.
He rolled off, leaving her splayed and shaking on the public platform.
"Five votes each!" Chris screamed, spreading his arms. "A perfect, filthy tie! That means both are safe!" He let the announcement hang, his eyes glittering with malicious delight. "And that, by the immutable laws of our little game, means the contestant with the lowest previous vote total is eliminated. Carmen. You're out."
The words landed not with a bang, but a terrible, hollow finality. Carmen, who had only received four votes in her own ordeal, who had been huddled and shattered by the bathroom door, simply nodded. She had known. They all had. In this new economy, her earlier violation had been deemed insufficient currency. She was bankrupt.
Two producers moved in, not to help, but to escort. She didn't look at Nicola, or at Briv. She walked out between them, a shell, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound that echoed in the silent, reeking room.
Chris beamed at the remaining contestants. "What a night! Alliances shattered! New bonds forged in the fire! Or, you know, in the spunk." He winked. "Get cleaned up. Tomorrow… we raise the stakes again."
The lights dimmed, leaving them in near darkness. The silence was now punctuated by soft weeping, the rustle of clothing, the ragged inhalations of those trying to reassemble themselves. Briv finally looked at Alya.
She was staring straight ahead, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she turned and met his gaze. There was no apology there, no shared horror. Only a cold, clear calculation that had solidified in the heat of Naseer's thrusts. She had voted. She had survived.
And Briv, his own body aching with a useless, jealous rage, understood with chilling clarity that the person he'd once loved was gone. In her place was a competitor who now knew exactly what she was willing to pay.