Chapter 71: Trial 6
The silence after Patricia’s sobs was heavier than any noise. It was a thick, humid blanket smothering the beach, broken only by the relentless, cheerful crash of waves. Alya stood frozen, the image of Logan’s controlled release and Patricia’s ruined face seared onto the back of her eyelids. That could have been her. In a way, it already had been. This was just the public unveiling.
Briv watched her, his own jealousy now a cold, sick dread in his gut. He saw the way she stared at Logan—not with attraction, but with the terrified recognition of a prey animal that has just understood the nature of its predator. Logan met her gaze for a moment, then looked away as if she were insignificant, as if the violation he had just performed was as mundane as tying a shoe. That casual dismissal seemed to wound Alya more deeply than any direct confrontation could have.
“Well!” Chris McLean’s voice was a firecracker in the quiet, making several people jump. “What a stunning display of… determination! Congratulations, Patricia. You move forward.” He said it with the same breezy tone one might use to congratulate someone on winning a bingo game. Patricia was being led away by a producer, still trembling, a towel wrapped around her shoulders.
Carmen leaned close to Briv, her whisper a sharp blade in the tense air. “This is fucking barbaric.”
Briv could only nod, his throat too tight for words. His eyes were locked on Alya, willing her to look at him, to give him some sign that the person he loved was still in there, behind that mask of horror.
She didn’t. She just wrapped her arms around her slender frame and stared at the sand as if it might swallow her whole.
Nicoleta, meanwhile, stretched like a cat, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her painted lips. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just a mouth. It’s not like he used her ass.” She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Yet.”
“Have some fucking empathy, Nicoleta,” Dariana snapped, her athletic confidence seeming shaken for the first time. Her victory over Thomas suddenly felt cheap, tarnished by the brutality of what followed.
“I have empathy for the winners,” Nicoleta retorted, examining a tattoo on her wrist. “The rest are just scenery.”
Chris clapped his hands, cutting off the burgeoning argument. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s keep this train wreck on schedule! The drama is delicious, but we’ve got more connections to make! More points to earn! More… fluids to exchange!” He grinned, relishing his own crudeness. “The board is shaking up, and every single one of you is fighting for your place in this game. Remember, only the strong—and the willing—survive.”
He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. Briv felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. He was tied for fifth. It was a good spot, a safe spot. But safe was an illusion here. This challenge was a vortex, pulling everyone down into its degrading depths.
“So, who’s next to prove their mettle?” Chris’s eyes scanned the women, a predator selecting his next quarry. His gaze swept past Alya, and Briv felt a irrational surge of protective relief, before it landed on two other women. “Let’s see… how about a little international flavor? Fatima and Elena! You’re up!”
Briv’s heart stopped. Then it hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Fatima. The name echoed in his skull. The gorgeous, flexible dancer with the fiery red hair and a smile that could melt steel. And she was going to be on her knees. Blindfolded. For someone.
Alya’s head snapped up. For the first time since the challenge began, she looked directly at Briv. Her brown eyes were wide, not with jealousy, but with a desperate, silent plea. Don’t. The word was unspoken but screamed from every line of her face. Don’t be the man on that lounger. Don’t become part of this.
But it was already out of his hands. This was the game.
The production assistants moved in with their cursed black silk. Fatima, to her credit, looked calm. She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and offered a sultry, confident smile to the cameras. This was her element; performance was her currency. Elena, the South Korea enthusiast, looked more nervous, her eyes darting towards Kim for a split second before she composed herself, smoothing down her bikini.
“Now for the lucky gentlemen!” Chris announced, his hand diving into the bowl of names. The rustle of the paper was the only sound. Briv held his breath. He saw Joaquin lean forward, saw Naseer adjust his stance, saw Kofi’s arrogant smirk. He saw Logan, already seated again, watching with detached interest, his work done.
Chris unfolded the first slip. “For the captivating Fatima… we have… Briv!”
The world narrowed to a single, blinding point of light. A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the group. Briv felt every eye on him. He felt Carmen’s hand on his arm, a brief, grounding pressure before it fell away. He felt the heat of Alya’s stare like a physical brand.
No. Fuck, no.
He couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the sand. This was a specific, personalized hell. To have to participate in this, now, in front of Alya, after everything… It felt like a betrayal engineered by the island itself.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Fatima’s face. “Lucky me,” she purred, her green eyes locking onto him even as the blindfold was raised towards her face.
“And for Elena,” Chris continued, his voice dripping with amusement at Briv’s visible panic. “We have… Kofi!”
Kofi let out a loud, triumphant “Yeah!” and strutted forward, already unbuckling his shorts. “Get ready for a real experience, baby,” he said to Elena, who forced a smile.
Briv was numb. A producer gently guided him towards the vacant lounger. He sat down, the material cool against his bare back. He couldn’t look at Alya. He couldn’t look at anyone. He stared at the sky, a perfect, untroubled blue that laughed at his turmoil.
The blindfolds were tied. Fatima and Elena were led to their knees in the sand before them.
Briv looked down. Fatima was a vision of kneeling submission, her tanned skin glowing, her red hair a brilliant shock against the black silk. She was beautiful, undeniably, achingly so. And she was waiting for him.
He glanced furtively at Alya. She had turned her back again, her shoulders hunched. It was worse than if she had been watching. This silent dismissal was a condemnation.
“On my mark, ladies!” Chris called out.
Briv’s mind raced. He could refuse. He could stand up and walk away. But the points… the game… his competitive nature, that stupid, ingrained part of him, whispered that this was a chance to gain ground, to show strength. To show Alya he could move on, even if it was a lie.
“Begin!”
Fatima’s hands came up immediately. They were warm and sure, finding his thighs, her touch practiced and confident. She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, which was, to his utter self-loathing, already half-hard from a primal mix of terror, adrenaline, and the sheer overpowering presence of her.
“Relax, handsome,” she murmured, her voice a low, hypnotic thrum. Then she leaned forward.
Her mouth was hot. Unbelievably, expertly hot. Her lips closed around the head of his dick and her tongue swirled in a slow, deliberate circle that made his breath catch in his throat. It was nothing like the frantic, desperate efforts of Valentina or the brutal efficiency of Dariana. This was artful seduction. She took him deeper, her throat opening up without a single gag, accommodating his length with a smooth, wet pressure that made his toes curl in the sand.
A low groan escaped him before he could stop it. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. Don’t. Don’t enjoy this. Think of Alya. Think of her face.
But all he could think of was the heat, the wetness, the incredible, skillful suction of Fatima’s mouth. She varied her rhythm, starting slow and deep, then speeding up into a frantic, flicking motion with her tongue just under the head, before plunging down again, taking him all the way. She moaned softly as she did it, a vibration that traveled straight up his spine. She was performing, and she was a master.
He risked a glance to his side. Elena was working on Kofi with determined energy, her head bobbing steadily. But Kofi was loud, grunting and egging her on. “Yeah, just like that, suck that dick, baby. You love this big black cock, don’t you?”
It was crude, jarring. A stark contrast to the silent, intense world of sensation Fatima was building around Briv. She was pulling him into a private vortex of pleasure, making him forget the cameras, the crowd, the sickening context. Her hand joined her mouth, stroking what she couldn’t take, her thumb pressing insistently on the frenulum with every upward motion.
He was getting close. The pressure was building, a tight, coiling heat in his groin. Shame and pleasure warred within him, and pleasure was winning. He couldn’t help the way his hips began to lift slightly, meeting her thrusts. He couldn’t stop the soft, involuntary sounds coming from his mouth.
Then, from beside him, Kofi let out a roar. “FUCK! I’M CUMMING! TAKE IT! TAKE ALL OF IT!”
Briv’s eyes snapped open. He saw Kofi’s body seize, his back arching violently. Elena, blindfolded, held still, swallowing convulsively.
It was over.
Chris’s voice rang out, sharp and final. “Kofi cums first! Elena advances to the next round!”
The spell was broken. Fatima immediately pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her glossy lips to the tip of his still-throbbing cock. She reached up and removed her own blindfold, her green eyes meeting his. There was no disappointment in them, only a cool, appraising look. She had lost the round, but the faint, knowing smile on her face suggested she had won something else entirely. She had felt how close he was. She knew the power she had just wielded.
Briv looked away, his face burning with a humiliation that was far more profound than if he had simply lost. He had been fully, utterly seduced, and the only thing that had saved him from climaxing in Fatima’s mouth in front of Alya and everyone else was Kofi’s marginally faster trigger.
He hastily pulled up his shorts, the fabric feeling coarse and alien against his sensitive skin. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Alya. He didn’t need to. He could feel the chill of her judgment from across the sand.
He had not been the man on the lounger. He had been a boy, helpless against a skilled mouth, his love for Alya proven to be as fragile as glass in the face of raw, physical temptation. And as he stood there, exposed and ashamed, he understood the true, vicious genius of the game. It wasn’t about who won or lost the challenge. It was about showing you exactly who you were, deep down in the dark, when no one was watching.
Even when everyone was.
===
Even when everyone was.
The humiliation was a physical film on Briv’s skin, sticky and hot. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, least of all Alya’s. He focused on the granular details of the beach, the way his footprints collapsed in on themselves, the mocking perfection of a single seashell. Fatima’s knowing smile was a brand on his memory. She had felt him tremble on the edge, and that knowledge was her victory, more tangible than any points.
Chris McLean’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, relentlessly cheerful. “What a performance! The chemistry, the tension! That’s what we like to see! But the show, as they say, must go on.” He clapped his hands, the sound like gunshots. “The board is waiting. Who’s ready to shake it up next?”
A collective tension seized the group, a visible stiffening of spines. No one was ready. They were all just raw nerve endings, exposed to the salt and the sun and the host’s predatory glee. Briv risked a glance at Alya. She was still turned away, but her posture had changed. The hunched defeat was gone, replaced by a terrifying stillness, the calm before a storm.
“Let’s see,” Chris mused, tapping his chin as his gaze swept over the remaining women. It lingered on Nicoleta, who stared back with defiant boredom, then slid over Carmen, who looked like she might be sick, before finally landing on its target. “How about we test some true resolve? Alya and Bianca! You’re next!”
The air left Briv’s lungs. No. Not her. Not like this. Not after what he had just done, after what Logan had already done to her in the shadows. This was a public execution.
Alya didn’t flinch. She turned slowly, her angelic face a mask of serene acceptance. She had known it was coming. She had felt it in the pit of her stomach, this inevitable, brutal collision with the game’s mechanics. Her eyes, those deep brown pools Briv loved, found his for one fractured second. There was no plea in them now. Only a hollowed-out finality that was worse than anger.
Bianca, the kind-faced psychologist, looked pale. “Oh, god,” she whispered, her hand fluttering to her throat.
“Now for our esteemed participants!” Chris announced, his hand diving into the bowl with a theatrical rustle. The silence was absolute, broken only by the cry of a distant gull. Briv’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He found himself praying for a miracle, for Naseer or Andre, anyone but the worst possible options.
Chris unfolded the first slip. “For the lovely Bianca… we have… Raze!”
Raze, the pale, charmingly mysterious one, stepped forward. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He gave a slight, almost mocking bow in Bianca’s direction. “An honor,” he said, his voice a low purr.
One down. One to go. Briv’s fists were clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. The world narrowed to Chris’s hand, to the single remaining piece of paper.
“And for Alya,” Chris said, drawing out the moment, savoring the palpable dread radiating from Briv. He unfolded the paper, his eyebrows lifting in feigned surprise. “Well, well. This should be interesting. Alya, you’ll be serving… Jim!”
A burst of incoherent noise erupted from Jim. It was a sound of pure, porn-sick elation. “Yes! Fuck yes!” he yelped, jumping up and down like a child who’d just been told he could have all the candy. He fumbled with his shorts, his awkward, skinny frame all jerky movement. “Oh man, oh wow, Alya. You’re gonna… wow.”
Briv felt something inside him snap. Jim. The nineteen-year-old addict with the social grace of a startled insect and the long, infamous dick. The humiliation for Alya would be complete. It wasn’t just the act; it was the context, the partner, the utter degradation of it. This was worse than Logan. This was a joke, and Alya was the punchline.
He took a step forward, a protest forming on his lips, but Carmen’s hand shot out and gripped his arm, her fingers like steel. “Don’t,” she hissed, her voice low and urgent. “You’ll only make it worse for her. They’ll love it.”
He shook her off, but the moment was gone. The producers were already herding Alya and Bianca toward the center of the circle. The black silk blindfolds appeared in the assistants’ hands, fluttering like malevolent flags.
Alya stood motionless as the cloth was tied over her eyes. She was retreating inward, Briv could see it. She was building a wall between her mind and what her body was about to do. Bianca was crying, silent tears tracking through her makeup as her own blindfold plunged her into darkness.
Jim was already on the lounger, his cock, long and unnervingly thick, standing proudly from his lanky frame. He was panting with excitement. “Just like in the videos, right? This is gonna be so cool.”
Raze, in contrast, sat with a languid, almost reptilian calm. He watched Bianca’s trembling approach with detached interest, as if observing a mildly fascinating specimen.
“On my mark, ladies!” Chris called, his smile a gash of white in his tanned face. “Begin!”
Bianca’s hands shook as she reached for Raze. Her touch was feather-light, uncertain. She leaned in, her movements hesitant, her lips barely making contact.
Raze said nothing. He didn’t move. He just watched her struggle, his silence a more effective tool of domination than any of Logan’s commands or Sean’s insults.
Alya, however, moved with a dreadful, automated precision. Her hands found Jim’s bony knees, then moved upward. She didn’t fumble. She wrapped her fingers around the base of his erection, her grip firm. Jim let out a high-pitched whimper. “Oh, yeah, just like that.”
Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
Briv wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. He wanted to launch himself across the sand and tear Jim limb from limb. He saw the shape of her lips stretched around Jim’s girth, saw her jaw working. Jim’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Oh fuck, your mouth is so… oh my god, Alya.”
She worked with a brutal, dispassionate efficiency. There was no art to it, no seduction like Fatima’s. This was a transaction. Her head bobbed in a steady, mechanical rhythm, deep and relentless. She was trying to end this, to make him finish and get it over with. She was using her body like a tool, divorcing her mind completely from the act.
Jim was babbling, a stream of filthy, incoherent praise. “Suck my dick, yeah, you fucking angel, take it all the way. I’ve wanted this since I got here. I’m gonna cum so hard.”
On the other lounger, Bianca was failing. Her timid licks and nervous kisses were having no effect on Raze’s cool composure. He was like stone. A fresh sob escaped her, muffled by the blindfold.
But Alya was a machine. She deep-throated Jim with a shocking lack of gag reflex, her throat muscles working to accommodate his length. The wet, rhythmic sounds were the only thing Briv could hear, drowning out the ocean, drowning out everything. Jim’s breathing became ragged, his hips starting to buck uncontrollably.
“I’m close, I’m so close, don’t stop!” he shrieked.
It was happening. She was going to make him finish. She was going to win this vile round. A perverse, desperate hope flared in Briv’s chest. Let her win. Let her have that, at least. Let her have the points and the victory and end this torment.
But then, a shift.
Raze, who had been utterly passive, moved. His hand came up and cupped the back of Bianca’s head. It wasn’t a violent gesture, but it was firm, directive. He guided her mouth onto him, setting a slow, deep, exacting rhythm.
“Like that,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic thread. “Just like that. Now keep going.”
Empowered by the clear instruction, or broken by it, Bianca found a new resolve. Her movements became more confident, more focused. She matched his rhythm, her desperation channeling into a determined effort.
It was a race now. A horrific, silent sprint between Alya’s automated proficiency and Bianca’s newly guided determination.
Jim was writhing, his body tensing like a bowstring. “Alya! Fuck! I’m gonna—!”
But Raze was faster.
A low, controlled groan escaped his lips. His body stiffened, his hips lifting once, twice, in a final, powerful thrust into Bianca’s mouth. He held her there for a long moment, then relaxed back onto the lounger, a look of serene satisfaction on his pale face.
Chris’s voice exploded into the tension. “Raze cums first! Bianca advances to the next round!”
The sound stopped. Alya immediately pulled back from Jim, who was left groaning in frustrated, unspent agony. She reached up with a hand that was perfectly steady and untied her own blindfold. Her eyes were dry. They were empty. She looked at no one, least of all at Jim, who was still panting beneath her. She simply stood, turned, and walked away from the circle, a ghost in the bright sunlight.
She had lost. But as Briv watched her go, the hollow victory he had wished for felt like ashes in his mouth. She had lost more than a challenge. She had sacrificed a piece of her soul in that mechanical, brutal performance, and he had been forced to watch every second of it.