Chapter 56: More Trial 5 Duels
The taste of other men seemed to hang in the air, a bitter phantom on the salt-laced breeze. Briv stood apart from the main group, the image of Bianca’s grimacing swallow and Alya’s hollow eyes playing on a relentless loop behind his own. The sand beneath his feet felt unstable, as if the whole island was shifting, cracking open to reveal the ugly machinery of the game beneath.
Carmen had tried to talk to him, her tall frame hovering with concern, but he’d shrugged her off with a grunt. He couldn’t bear the pity, the unspoken I told you so. He watched Alya from a distance. She was now standing with Revan and Raze, the two bad boys flanking her like possessive bookends. She laughed at something Raze said, a high, sharp sound that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a performance, but for whom? For the cameras? For him? Or was it for herself, a desperate attempt to convince herself she was having fun?
“Alright, you beautiful mess!” Chris’s voice boomed, shattering the fragile pockets of conversation. He clapped his hands together, the sound like a starting pistol. “Let’s not let the drama fade! The sun’s still high, the stakes are higher! For our third duel… let’s see… Sean and Nicola versus Briv and Patricia!”
Briv’s head snapped up. The sound of his own name was a jolt back to the present. He saw Nicola, the smart, sexy blonde, flinch almost imperceptibly. Her partner, Sean, the hulking, moody ex-farmhand, just scowled, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked like he’d rather be mucking out a stable than standing on a beach.
Then Briv’s gaze found his own partner. Patricia. The influencer with the doll-like face and a body that seemed sculpted by some divine, horny artist. She offered him a small, hesitant smile. It was a world away from the predatory grins of the others. It felt… real. Or as real as anything could feel in this place.
They moved into the center. The sand was churned up from the previous duels, a testament to the violations that had just occurred. Briv could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. He knew what they were thinking: the cuckold, the jealous boyfriend, now thrown a lifeline in the form of a gorgeous woman. He felt a surge of defiant pride. Maybe this was his chance to show Alya he wasn't just some pathetic, pining fool.
“Teams are set!” Chris announced, strutting before them like a ringmaster. “You know the drill. One of you draws a challenge card. Who’s feeling brave? Or,” he added with a wicked grin, “who’s feeling lucky?”
There was a tense pause. Sean glared at Nicola. “Well?” he grunted, his voice low and rough. “You gonna do it, or what?”
Nicola looked from Sean’s unpleasant face to the ominous box. Her intelligence was warring with her revulsion. She had just watched Bianca drink a cup of come. She had seen Emilia trade a strategic kiss. She knew the cost of participation.
“No,” she said, her voice firm and clear. She crossed her arms, mirroring Sean’s posture but with an air of defiance rather than surliness. “I’m not drawing. I refuse.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Another refusal. Sean’s scowl deepened into something truly ugly. “Fucking coward,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Chris clapped his hands. “Nicola refuses! The ball is in your court, team Briv and Patricia! If you draw a card, any card, you win by default. No pressure!”
Briv looked at Patricia. Her beautiful face was a mask of concentration. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, then stepped forward. “I will draw,” she said, her accent lending a soft, musical quality to the simple statement.
She walked to the box, her movements graceful and assured. The silence was absolute, broken only by the gentle crash of waves and the frantic buzzing of a fly near a discarded drink cup. Briv held his breath. His mind conjured images of the card she might pull: Go down on your partner. Let your partner fuck you from behind, right here. Get on your knees and suck him off. His stomach twisted. He wanted to win, to advance, to show Alya he could play this game too. But the thought of performing some intimate, degrading act with a stranger, under these lights, with Alya watching… it felt like a different kind of loss.
Patricia’s slender fingers dipped into the box. She rustled through the cards for a moment, her brow furrowed, as if trying to sense their contents by touch alone. She pulled one out, her expression unreadable. She turned it over and read it aloud, her voice clear and devoid of drama.
“You’ve no challenge to do. You win a point.”
For a second, no one reacted. The anticlimax was a physical thing, a puff of air let out of a taut balloon.
Chris burst out laughing, a sharp, barking sound. “Well, isn’t that a twist! After all that buildup! ‘You’ve no challenge to do.’ Boring!” He shook his head, still chuckling. “But, anyways, that means team Briv and Patricia advance to the next round!”
There was a smattering of applause, more from relief than anything else. Sean spat into the sand and stalked off without a backward glance at Nicola, who looked profoundly relieved.
Briv felt a wave of dizzying confusion. He had won. He had advanced. He looked at Patricia, who was offering him a genuine, warm smile now, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well,” she said, walking back to him. “That was lucky, no?”
“Yeah,” Briv managed, his voice hoarse. “Lucky.”
But as he stood there, the unearned victory felt hollow. He had been braced for a fight, for a test, for something that would either break him or prove his mettle. Instead, he’d been given a free pass. It felt like pity from the universe. He glanced over at Alya. She was watching him, her expression unreadable. Was that disappointment in her eyes? Had she been waiting, hoping to see him be forced to debase himself with another woman, just as she had?
The game wasn’t just about the challenges in the box. It was about the ones you manufactured in your own head. And as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of fire and blood, Briv realized his challenge was just beginning. He had avoided a public performance, but the private war inside him was raging, and he had no idea which side he was on anymore.
===
He had avoided a public performance, but the private war inside him was raging, and he had no idea which side he was on anymore. The hollow victory with Patricia felt like ash in his mouth, a meaningless token in a game that was systematically dismantling everyone. He watched Alya accept a drink from Revan, her fingers brushing his as she took the glass, and the casual intimacy of the gesture was a hot needle in Briv’s gut.
“Don’t let it get to you,” a voice murmured beside him. It was Nicola, her blonde hair catching the dying sun. She had a sharp, knowing look in her eyes. “She’s just playing the game now. You should too.”
“What game?” Briv snapped, his voice tighter than he intended. “The one where we all pretend we’re not being emotionally filleted for ratings?”
Nicola just shrugged, a graceful lift of her shoulders. “The only one on offer.”
Before he could retort, Chris’s amplified voice cut through the simmering tensions, pulling all attention back to the center of the beach. “The drama never stops, does it, folks? Let’s keep this train wreck rolling! For our fourth duel… Thomas and Diletta versus Logan and Fatima!”
The new contestants moved forward. Thomas, with his feminine affectations and predatory smile, looked thrilled. His partner, Diletta, the famous Spanish TV hostess, maintained her polished, positive vibe, though her smile seemed a little too fixed. Across from them, Logan, the imposing ex-trainer, stood like a granite slab, his expression unreadable. Fatima, the flexible dancer with fire-red hair, looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Alright, lovebirds and lone wolves!” Chris chirped. “Who’s drawing first? Don’t be shy now.”
Diletta, ever the professional, stepped forward smoothly. “I will do it,” she said, her accent melodic. She offered the crowd a charming, television-ready smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reached into the dreaded box, her movements confident.
She pulled a card and read it aloud with perfect enunciation. “You’ve no challenge to do. You win a point.”
A collective groan mixed with relieved sighs rippled through the group. Chris threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “That stupid card again! Who put it in there! Is this a prank?” He scanned the production crew with a playfully accusatory glare before turning his attention to the other team. “Anyways, Fatima, your turn. The pressure’s on. Draw a card to challenge, or… you know the drill.”
All eyes shifted to Fatima. She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her green eyes fixed on Thomas. He was watching her with a faint, smug smile, his head tilted in a way he probably thought was sympathetic. She had seen what happened to Bianca. She had seen Valentina’s grimace. The calculation was visible on her face—a swift, brutal cost-benefit analysis of her dignity.
Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “I refuse,” she stated, her voice flat and final.
Thomas’s smile widened into a triumphant grin. Logan simply grunted, a sound of pure disdain, whether for the game or for his partner’s decision, it was impossible to tell.
“That means,” Chris announced, drawing out the moment, “team Thomas and Diletta advance! Fatima, you gotta drink a cup of Thomas’s semen!”
The production assistant was already moving with the now-familiar clear plastic cup. Thomas didn’t wait. He unzipped his pants with a flourish, his eyes locked on Fatima the entire time. There was a performative quality to his movements, a theatricality that made the whole act feel even more violating.
He worked himself quickly, his slender fingers moving with practiced efficiency. He stared at Fatima with an intense, possessive gaze, as if trying to imprint this image onto her soul. His breathing hitched, his body tensed, and he spilled his come into the cup with a soft, satisfied sigh.
The assistant carried the cup to Fatima. Her tanned skin seemed to pale. She looked at the milky fluid, her full lips twisting in disgust. She hesitated for a beat longer than Bianca had, her dancer’s body rigid with tension.
Then, with a sudden, violent motion, she snatched the cup from the assistant’s hand. She didn’t look at Thomas. She didn’t look at anyone. She threw her head back and poured the contents into her mouth, swallowing convulsively once, twice, to get it all down.
A powerful shudder wracked her frame immediately after. She doubled over, coughing, one hand flying to her throat as if she could claw the taste out. She stumbled away from the group, towards the water’s edge, spitting into the sand repeatedly, a raw, guttural sound of revulsion tearing from her chest.
The crowd was silent. The spectacle had lost its shock value and curdled into something darker, something weary and grim. Briv watched her, and the hollow feeling in his own stomach expanded. This wasn’t a game. It was a corrosive ritual, and they were all willingly bathing in its acid, each refusal and each swallowed humiliation etching itself deeper into the collective psyche of the group. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the island was plunged into a deep, bruised twilight, the games far from over.
===
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the island was plunged into a deep, bruised twilight, the games far from over. A collective exhaustion had set in, a heavy blanket smothering the earlier tension. People shifted on their feet, looking towards the path that led back to the villas, desperate for an escape from the sand that felt stained with humiliation.
Then Chris’s voice, slick and untroubled, cut through the gloom. “Hold on, hold on! One more little piece of business.” His teeth gleamed in the gathering dark. “Nicola! Get over here.”
Nicola, who had been quietly talking with Carmen, froze. A wary confusion settled on her features. “What? Why?”
“A clerical error, sweetheart. A production oversight.” Chris spread his hands in a gesture of mock apology. “You lost against Briv’s team. You refused to draw, your partner was a grumpy bastard, and you lost. The penalty for that is a drink. We forgot to give it to you. So… yeah!”
Briv’s stomach plummeted. He watched the color drain from Nicola’s face. “No,” she said, her voice a tight wire. “That’s not fair. That was rounds ago.”
“Fair?” Chris laughed, a short, sharp sound. “This is television, honey. Now, Briv. If you’d be so kind.” He gestured to the waiting production assistant, who already held the familiar, hateful plastic cup.
All the air left Briv’s lungs. This wasn’t winning. This was being made an executioner. He saw Alya watching him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. He saw Nicola’s betrayed glare. His hands trembled as he fumbled with his zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet.
“Just get it over with,” Nicola muttered, her gaze fixed on the darkening ocean, refusing to look at him.
He turned away, trying to block out the dozens of watching eyes. He thought of Alya and Revan, of the deep, wet kiss he’d been forced to witness. A hot, angry shame fueled him. He gripped his cock, his mind a riot of images—Alya’s submission, Nicola’s disdain, his own powerlessness. He worked himself roughly, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and within a minute he was spurting into the cup, a thick, hot release of frustration and spite.
The assistant carried it to Nicola. She took it without a word, her hand steady. She looked at the contents, then directly at Briv, her eyes holding his with an unnerving intensity. Then, in one fluid motion, she raised the cup to her lips and drank. She didn’t shudder or gag. She swallowed, licked her lips slowly, and handed the empty cup back to the assistant.
“Happy?” she asked Chris, her voice dangerously calm.
“Thrilled!” Chris beamed. “Now the party can really start!”
The group began to disperse, a slow, stunned migration up the beach. Briv stood rooted to the spot, watching Nicola walk away. She paused, glanced back over her shoulder at him, and that look wasn’t one of disgust. It was a challenge. It was a promise.