Chapter 70: Before Trial 6
The morning sun was a liar. It painted the lagoon in dazzling shades of turquoise and gold, a postcard-perfect scene that felt like a mockery to Alya. She stood slightly apart from the group assembling on the sand, the memory of last night a cold, lead weight in her stomach. The taste was gone, scrubbed away with toothpaste and frantic gargling, but the sensation remained—a phantom pressure in her throat, a sticky shame on her skin. She avoided looking at Cabin 6, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky met the sea in a blinding line.
Briv, meanwhile, was a storm cloud. He’d barely slept, the finality of the phone call with Alya playing on a loop in his mind. Now, seeing her across the beach, looking so devastatingly beautiful and impossibly distant, sent a fresh jolt of angry confusion through him. He scuffed his foot in the sand, kicking up a small plume. Carmen, standing next to him, nudged his arm gently.
“You look like you’re trying to set the ocean on fire with your mind,” she murmured, her tall frame leaning towards him.
“Just contemplating the profound meaninglessness of everything,” he grumbled, shoving his hands in his shorts pockets.
“Right. Because that’s a super healthy breakfast thought.”
Their banter was cut short by the arrival of Chris McLean, who strode onto the central platform with the energy of a man who owned the very sunlight. He wore a crisp, short-sleeved shirt and a smile that was all teeth.
“Good morning, temptations!” Chris boomed, his voice effortlessly cutting through the sound of the waves. “I hope you all slept well, recharged your batteries, and are ready for another day of strategic backstabbing and emotionally charged connections! But first, let’s take a look at where you all stand. The board, if you please!”
A large digital screen flickered to life behind him. The group fell into a tense silence, all eyes lifting to the glowing rankings.
1ST - JOAQUIN - 53P
2ND - ALYA - 50P
3RD - ELENA - 49P
4TH - THOMAS - 38P
5TH - DARIANA, BRIV - 37P
6TH - NICOLETA - 35P
7TH - DILETTA - 31P
8TH - REVAN - 29P
9TH - FATIMA - 27P
10TH - EMILIA - 24P
11TH - JIM, NASEER, RAZE - 22P
12TH - KOFI, PATRICIA, ANDRE, VALENTINA - 21P
13TH - CARMEN - 18P
14TH - KIM, LOGAN - 16P
15TH - SEAN, BIANCA - 6P
16TH - NICOLA - 5P
A chorus of reactions erupted. Joaquin punched the air, a triumphant “¡Sí!” bursting from him as he wrapped an arm around a smiling Elena. Thomas clapped politely, his feminine grace masking a calculating gleam in his eyes. Up near the top was exactly where he needed to be.
Briv stared, his jaw tight. Tied for fifth. It was good, solid. But Alya… Alya was in second. A hollow feeling expanded in his chest. How? Was it sympathy points from their breakup? Or had she already… moved on? His eyes found her again, but she was looking at the board with a blank, almost disinterested expression.
From the back of the group, Logan stood impassively, his arms crossed over his chest. Fourteenth. He didn't seem bothered. His gaze, cool and assessing, swept over Alya’s ranked name on the screen, then down to her person. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. He had planted a seed in that fertile, broken ground. The points would come.
“Look at that, Alya! Number two!” Chris chirped, singling her out. “Bouncing back strong after a little romantic turbulence, are we? Gotta admire the resilience.”
Alya flinched as if the words were physical blows. She forced a thin, shaky smile for the cameras, saying nothing. The attention was unbearable.
Briv saw the flinch. He saw the fake smile. And something in him twisted. Was that pain? Or guilt?
“Oh, this is juicy,” Nicoleta purred from nearby, her dark eyes flicking between Briv and Alya. “The drama is literally scoring points.”
“Shut up, Nicoleta,” Carmen said, her voice losing its usual lightness.
Nicoleta just smirked, adjusting the strap of her provocatively small bikini top. “Make me, tall girl.”
Chris, savoring the tension, clapped his hands together. “Now, now, ladies. Save that energy for today’s challenge!"
===
"Save that energy for today’s challenge!" Chris's grin widened, a predatory flash of white in his tanned face. He let the anticipation build, his eyes scanning the crowd of suddenly nervous contestants. "We're mixing things up today. This isn't about strength or puzzles. This is about... connection. A very specific, very intimate kind of connection."
A low murmur rippled through the group. Briv felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He watched Alya, who had gone perfectly still, her arms wrapped around herself as if for protection.
"Ladies, prepare yourselves for Trial Six!" Chris announced, his voice booming with theatrical delight. "This will be a blowjob duel! Girls will compete one versus one. Each girl will suck a man's cock, but the women will be blindfolded, so... surprise! The woman who makes the man cum first, advances to the next round!"
A wave of stunned silence crashed over the beach, followed by a burst of chaotic reactions. Nicoleta threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. Jim's jaw hung open, his eyes wide with porn-addled glee. Joaquin was already adjusting himself, a confident smirk plastered on his face.
Briv felt like he’d been punched. His eyes locked onto Alya. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked like she might be sick. The memory of her on her knees in the bathroom, the phantom taste Logan had forced into her mouth—it was all being dragged into the harsh sunlight and turned into a spectator sport.
"No," Briv whispered, the word torn from him.
"Dariana and Valentina, you're up first!" Chris continued, his cheerfulness a brutal contrast to the tension he’d created.
Two production assistants stepped forward with black silk blindfolds. Dariana, the athlete, looked determined, her jaw set. Valentina, however, was practically vibrating with a mixture of terror and excitement, her eyes darting around to see who was watching.
"Please, no," Alya murmured, her voice so low only Briv, standing several feet away, could possibly hear it. He saw the tremor in her hands.
The men were chosen seemingly at random from a bowl. Chris drew two names. "For Valentina... Sean! And for Dariana... Thomas!"
Sean grunted, a flicker of dark amusement in his moody eyes as he strode forward. Thomas put on a show of gentle surprise, placing a hand on his chest. "Oh my," he said, his voice a soft, feminine lilt that felt utterly incongruous with the situation. "What an honor."
Two loungers were placed side-by-side in the sand. Sean and Thomas sat, leaning back. They lowered their shorts, exposing themselves. Sean was thick and uncut, resting heavily against his thigh. Thomas was longer, leaner, already half-hard with anticipation.
The blindfolds were tied securely. Dariana and Valentina were led to their respective partners and guided to their knees in the sand.
"On my mark, ladies!" Chris called out. "Begin!"
Valentina’s hands fluttered nervously in the air before finding Sean. Her touch was tentative, unsure. She leaned forward and took the head of his cock into her mouth, her movements hesitant and clumsy.
Sean looked down at her, his expression one of bored contempt. "Not like that," he grunted, his voice low and rough. "Use your tongue. Or are you as useless at this as you are at everything else?"
Across from them, Dariana’s approach was entirely different. Her hands found Thomas’s hips, her grip firm and confident. She didn’t hesitate. She took his entire length into her mouth in one smooth, practiced motion, her head beginning to bob with a steady, relentless rhythm.
Thomas gasped, his performative calm shattered. "Oh, fuck... yes," he moaned, his head lolling back. His hands came up and tangled in her hair, not to force her, but to guide her, his hips already making tiny, involuntary thrusts.
The contrast was stark and brutal. Valentina gagged, pulling back with a string of saliva connecting her lips to Sean’s shaft. "I can't," she whimpered, the blindfold now damp with tears.
"Pathetic," Sean spat, not even looking at her.
Dariana, meanwhile, was a machine of efficient pleasure. She deep-throated Thomas with an athlete’s control, her nose pressing into his pubic bone with every downstroke. The wet, slapping sounds of her work filled the air, punctuated by Thomas’s increasingly desperate groans.
"Right there, oh god, don't stop," he begged, his body tensing.
Briv couldn’t watch, but he couldn't look away. His gaze was fixed on Alya. She was staring at the scene, her face a mask of horror and recognition. She was watching a public version of her private shame, and every groan from Thomas seemed to flay her alive.
Thomas’s back arched violently off the lounger. A raw, guttural cry was torn from his throat. "I'm cumming! Fuck, I'm cumming!"
Dariana held him deep, her throat working as she swallowed. She pulled back only after he was completely spent, a slick, satisfied look on her face despite the blindfold.
Chris’s voice cut through the heavy air, crisp and triumphant. "Dariana advances to the next round!"
The blindfolds were removed. Valentina scrambled away from Sean, crying openly now. Dariana simply wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a cool, victorious gleam in her eyes as she looked at Thomas, who was panting, spent and utterly disarmed.
Briv finally turned away, the image burned into his mind. He looked at Alya, who met his gaze for one fractured second. In her eyes, he saw a reflection of his own revulsion, his own fear, and a terrifying question: which one of them would be forced to kneel in the sand next?
===
The connection shattered as Alya wrenched her gaze away, turning her back to him and the grotesque spectacle on the loungers. She hugged herself tighter, her knuckles white. The salt air, once invigorating, now felt thick and suffocating, carrying the phantom scent of sweat and sex.
Briv’s own revulsion curdled into a hot, sharp jealousy. Was that why she looked away? Out of guilt? The image of Dariana’s efficient, victorious performance was now superimposed over his memory of Alya’s face, and his mind, poisoned and hungry, supplied the rest.
“Next up!” Chris’s voice was a razor blade wrapped in silk, slicing through the heavy atmosphere. “Let’s see which of our lovely ladies can really rise to the occasion. Or, well, kneel to it!” He chuckled at his own joke, a sound that made Briv’s stomach turn.
The production assistants with the blindfolds stepped forward again. All around them, the other contestants held their breath, a mixture of morbid curiosity and naked fear on their faces. Nicoleta looked bored, examining her black-painted nails. Kofi smirked, openly adjusting himself in anticipation.
“Emilia and Patricia,” Chris announced, drawing the names with a flourish. “You’re next!”
A ripple went through the crowd. Emilia, the quiet strategist, and Patricia, the doll-faced influencer. Patricia let out a small, nervous giggle, her hands fluttering to her blonde hair. Emilia’s expression was unreadable, a calm mask of acceptance. She offered no reaction, simply stepping forward when prompted.
Briv watched Alya’s shoulders tense even further. She was rigid, a statue of dread.
The selection for the men began. Chris reached into the bowl, his movements slow, theatrical. He drew the first name. “For our lovely Patricia… we have Logan!”
Logan didn’t smile. He simply stood, his movements economical and powerful, and walked to the vacant lounger with the air of a man taking his rightful throne. His eyes, cold and knowing, swept over the crowd and lingered for a fraction of a second on Alya’s back. The message was clear. This was his domain.
Alya flinched as if struck by a physical force. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence, a predatory pressure shift in the space around her. Her breath hitched, a tiny, trapped sound.
“And for Emilia,” Chris called out, pulling the second slip of paper. “We have… Kim!”
Kim’s face broke into a wide, practiced smile. He gave a little bow to Emilia. “A great honor,” he said, his voice oozing fake sincerity. He strode to the other lounger, his confidence a stark contrast to Logan’s silent menace.
The blindfolds were tied. The world went dark for Emilia and Patricia. They were led to their knees in the soft, warm sand before the two seated men.
Patricia’s hands were trembling as she reached out, her fingers brushing against Logan’s thick, muscular thighs. She hesitated, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants. “I… I can’t see,” she whispered, a pathetic plea.
Logan said nothing. He simply watched her, his gaze like chips of granite.
Emilia, meanwhile, was already moving. Her hands found Kim’s hips, her touch surprisingly firm and assured. She didn’t fumble. She leaned forward, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, and without preamble, took Kim’s hardening length into her mouth.
Kim gasped, his performative coolness vanishing. “Oh, yes,” he moaned, his head falling back. “Just like that.”
On the other lounger, Patricia was still faltering. Her lips tentatively touched Logan’s cock, which was already fully erect, a thick, veined testament to his control. She gave a timid, unsure lick.
Logan’s voice cut through the air, low and utterly devoid of warmth. “Is that all you’ve got?” The contempt in his tone was a physical slap.
Patricia jumped, a tear leaking from under her blindfold. She tried again, taking more of him into her mouth, but her movements were jerky, unpracticed. She gagged almost immediately.
The contrast was brutal. Emilia worked on Kim with a quiet, methodical intensity. Her head bobbed in a steady rhythm, her throat relaxing to take him deep. The sounds were wet and efficient. Kim was already losing himself, his hips beginning to twitch, his moans growing louder.
“Faster, baby, yes,” Kim grunted, his hands clenching at his sides.
Logan, meanwhile, remained almost preternaturally still. He watched Patricia’s struggle with detached interest, offering no guidance, no encouragement. He was a wall, impenetrable and cold.
“He’s not even hard for her,” Kofi muttered nearby, a cruel laugh in his voice.
But he was wrong. Logan was fully, intimidatingly hard. His lack of response was a weapon, a psychological game designed to break her. Patricia’s efforts became more frantic, more desperate. Sobs shook her shoulders as she tried and failed to elicit a single sound from him.
Briv couldn’t watch Logan. His eyes were fixed on Emilia. There was something unsettling about her calm expertise, the strategic way she was dismantling Kim’s composure. It wasn’t passion; it was calculation. She was playing the game, and playing it ruthlessly well.
Kim was unraveling fast. “I’m close, I’m so close,” he whined, his body tensing. His back arched, his fingers digging into the fabric of the lounger.
Emilia increased her pace, her suction audible. She was a machine of pleasure, closing in on her objective.
Then, a shift.
Logan’s hand moved. It wasn’t a gentle gesture. He placed a large, calloused hand on the back of Patricia’s head. He didn’t shove, not yet. The pressure was just a promise.
“Open wider,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble that carried over Kim’s panting.
Patricia, startled, complied with a whimper.
Logan began to move her head, setting a slow, deliberate, and punishing rhythm. He was fucking her face now, using her mouth with a brutal efficiency that mirrored Emilia’s work but was infused with a terrifying dominance. The wet, gagging sounds replaced Patricia’s feeble attempts.
Alya squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still hear it. The sound was identical to the one she had made in the bathroom. It was her sound. Her shame, broadcast for everyone.
Logan’s breathing remained even, controlled. His eyes were locked on the back of Patricia’s head, his focus absolute. He was a man accomplishing a task.
Kim was losing the battle. “I’m gonna—!” he cried out, his voice cracking.
But Logan was faster.
With a final, deep thrust that made Patricia choke violently, Logan held her there. A low, guttural groan, the first sound of real effort he’d made, escaped his lips. His body stiffened, and he emptied himself into her throat.
He held her pinned until he was finished, then released her. Patricia collapsed forward, coughing and sputtering, strings of saliva and cum dripping from her chin onto the sand.
Logan leaned back, completely composed, as if he’d just completed a set of reps at the gym.
Chris McLean’s voice exploded with excitement. “Logan cums first! Patricia advances to the next round!”
The announcement was met with a stunned silence. Kim, who was on the very edge, slumped in frustrated defeat. Emilia slowly pulled away, removing her own blindfold. Her face was calm, wiped clean of any emotion. She had lost, but she looked like she had simply concluded a business transaction.
Patricia was sobbing openly, the blindfold soaked through, her doll-like beauty utterly ruined.
Briv looked from Patricia’s broken form to Logan’s impassive face, and then finally to Alya, who had turned around and was staring at Logan with a look of pure, undiluted horror. In that moment, Briv understood. This wasn’t just a game. It was a demonstration. And Alya had already been part of a private rehearsal.