Chapter 77: Trial 15 - Beavers VS Salamanders
The stillness that followed the kitchen’s frenzy was a lie. It was a collective inhalation, the island holding its breath before the next reckless exhale. The energy had to go somewhere. It traveled through the villa’s walls, a low-frequency buzz that unsettled dreams and pricked at the skin of those still awake.
Arman felt it in his teeth. The superficial, talkative richness that usually insulated him felt thin. He’d heard the vague, muffled sounds from the main lodge earlier—shouts, laughter, things breaking. Then silence. Then Kofi and Briv returning, smelling of sweat and something sweet, saying nothing. Arman’s arrogance chafed against being left out. He was used to being the center of attention, the rich kid with the stories, the one who did the flirting. Not the one left in the dark.
He needed air. Or better, he needed a stage. A walk would do. Let the others sleep. He’d find his own entertainment.
The night was velvet, heavy with humidity and the scent of frangipani. He wandered away from the villas, the manicured gravel path giving way to the softer moss around the main pool area. The underwater lights were off, leaving the pool a vast, black mirror reflecting a spray of stars. The only illumination came from a single, dim safety lamp on the far wall, casting long, haunting shadows from the stacked sun loungers.
Two of them were occupied.
Arman stopped, his sharp eyes adjusting. On two loungers pushed close together lay Loredana and Andra, both of Team Glorious Beavers. They were asleep, deeply so. Empty cocktail glasses stood on the tiles beside them. They were still in their swimwear from the afternoon—expensive, minimalist pieces designed to showcase rather than cover.
Loredana was on her back, one arm thrown over her forehead. Her black one-piece was cut high on the hips and plunging at the neckline, the fabric straining over her above-average sized breasts. The rise and fall of her chest was slow, steady. Andra lay on her stomach, her face turned toward Loredana. Her bikini was a dark emerald green, the ties of the top undone, the back of it a mere string bisecting her fit, big round ass. The swell of her big round breasts was visible from the side, pressed against the lounger’s cushion.
A slow, horny smile spread across Arman’s face. This was better than any stage. This was a gift. A silent, sleeping tableau of everything he valued—beauty, wealth, accessibility. His boldness, always simmering, boiled over. No one was around. The villa was a silent monolith in the distance. The only witnesses were the stars.
He didn’t hesitate.
His hands went to the drawstring of his linen trousers. He pulled, let them pool at his feet. He kicked them off, along with his boxer briefs. The night air was cool on his skin. His average-sized dick was soft. He looked at the two sleeping women, their precious, classy facades utterly relaxed in vulnerability.
He began to stroke himself. His hand worked his cock with a practiced, arrogant rhythm. He didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on them—on the curve of Loredana’s hip, on the shadowed cleft of Andra’s ass. He thought of Emilia, the Jaguar he couldn’t yet have, of the power that Kofi and Briv had just exerted. His own arousal surged, a competitive, possessive heat. His cock thickened, lengthened, growing firm and ready in his grip.
When he was fully hard, he stepped forward, his bare feet silent on the cool tiles.
He stood between their loungers, his erection pointing straight out. He looked from one parted, sleeping mouth to the other. Loredana’s lips were glossed, slightly open. Andra’s were softer, fuller.
The bold, horny impulse was irresistible. He shuffled closer to Loredana first. With one hand guiding his shaft, he brought the broad, spongy head of his cock to her lips. He pressed it against them. They were warm, pliant in sleep. He rubbed the slit across her lower lip, leaving a faint slick of pre-cum. She murmured something, a sigh, but didn’t wake. Her tongue darted out, a sleepy instinct, and brushed against his sensitive crown.
A jolt of electricity shot up Arman’s spine. “Fuck yeah,” he breathed, his voice a husky whisper in the vast quiet.
He turned to Andra. He repeated the act, painting her lips with the same damp, possessive stroke. She shifted, nuzzling slightly into the cushion, but remained under. The complete lack of resistance, the total passivity, fueled his arrogance into something darker, more entitled.
Seeing they were still asleep, a gate in his mind crashed open. The thrill was too intense. He wanted more.
He positioned himself at the head of Loredana’s lounger. He cradled her head in his hands, tilting it back. Her mouth fell open further. His heart hammered against his ribs, a drum of pure, illicit excitement. He guided his cock to the opening. He pushed the head past her lips.
She made a soft, guttural sound in her throat—a sleep-choked protest that was more vibration than voice. Arman froze for a second, watching her face. Her eyes fluttered beneath their lids but didn’t open. Her body remained limp. Asleep.
Emboldened, he pushed forward. His cock slid deeper into the wet, incredible heat of her mouth. Her throat was relaxed, yielding. He fed her another inch, then another, until he felt the head nudge the back of her throat. He held it there, savoring the tight, velvety sheath. Then he began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts, fucking her mouth with a gentle, relentless rhythm. Her throat muscles contracted sleepily around him with each miniature intrusion. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips, glistening in the low light.
“Such a good, sleepy little slut,” Arman murmured, his tone dripping with arrogant possession.
After a minute of this, he pulled out with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected his shiny cock to her lip. He moved to Andra. He turned her head, his movements less gentle now. He pried her jaw open wider and shoved his cock inside. Andra’s response was a deeper, more distressed groan. Her body tensed for a second, her brows furrowing, but the deep drag of sleep and alcohol kept her submerged. Arman fucked her throat with more force, loving the way her nose pressed into his pubic bone. He set a faster pace, the obscene, slick sounds loud in the night air. He could feel every ridge of her palate, the tight clutch of her esophagus.
He was lost in it. The ultimate power. The ultimate fuck. No performance, no persuasion needed. Just taking.
He switched between them twice more, his cock glistening with their spit, his balls aching with need. But this wasn’t enough. He wanted everything.
He stepped back, his chest heaving. With hurried, clumsy hands, he went to work on their swimsuits. He tugged the straps of Loredana’s one-piece down her shoulders, peeling the fabric down to her waist, exposing her full, beautiful breasts, the nipples a dark pink in the cool air. He yanked the suit down her hips and legs, throwing it into the shadows. She was completely naked, her fit big round ass half on the lounger, her narrow waist a dramatic curve in the starlight.
Andra was next. He untied the string of her bikini bottom and pulled it away. He rolled her onto her back, her limbs loose and heavy. Her bikini top, already undone, fell away, revealing her big, round breasts with their large, aroused nipples. He tossed the fabric aside.
They lay before him, utterly exposed, utterly vulnerable. Two prized possessions, unconscious and ripe for use. The sight was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever known.
He started with Loredana. He climbed onto the lounger with her, the plastic groaning under their combined weight. He pushed her legs apart, kneeling between them. She was wet. Not from arousal, but from the natural moisture of sleep and the warm night. It was enough for him. He positioned his cock and pushed into her pussy in one smooth, bold stroke.
She was tight, unyielding at first, then giving. A long, sighing moan escaped her as he filled her. Her sleepy body accepted the invasion, her inner muscles clamping down instinctively around the sudden intrusion. Arman groaned, dropping his head back. “Fuck, that’s it. Take it, you sleeping beauty.”
He fucked her with deep, measured strokes, watching her breasts jiggle with each impact. He leaned down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, biting it gently. She whimpered in her sleep, her back arching.
After a few minutes, he pulled out, already dripping. He didn’t want to finish yet. He moved to Andra. He turned her onto her stomach, that magnificent ass presented to him. He spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and pressed against her entrance. He pushed inside her from behind, his hands gripping her hips hard. Andra’s face was mashed into the cushion, her muffled cries lost in the foam. He pounded into her, the slap of his hips against her ass a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to the night’s silence.
He was a man possessed, driven by a horny, selfish greed. He went back to Loredana, taking her again. Then he put Andra on her back, lifting her legs over his shoulders, driving into her so deeply her whole body shifted up the lounger. He used them, one after the other, his breathing becoming ragged grunts, his skin slick with sweat.
The climax built, a furious pressure in his core. He pulled out of Andra for the last time. He stood over them, between their loungers, his cock jutting out, swollen and throbbing.
He looked down at their sleeping bodies—Loredana spread-eagled, Andra curled slightly on her side, both glistening with sweat and the evidence of his use. He took his cock in his fist, stroking fast and rough.
“This is what you’re for,” he panted, his voice raw. “This is all you’re for.”
With a guttural cry that echoed off the water, his orgasm ripped through him. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot from his pulsing cock. The first blast splashed across Loredana’s stomach and breasts, white against her tanned skin. The next landed on Andra’s hip and the curve of her ass. He kept stroking, milking himself, painting them with his release, marking them. Drops spattered their faces—a streak across Loredana’s cheek, a pearl on Andra’s parted lips.
He stood there, shuddering, as the last pulses dribbled from his tip onto the tiles. Exhaustion and a profound, arrogant satisfaction washed over him. They still slept, now adorned with him, violated and unaware.
He caught his breath, watching them. Slowly, he bent and retrieved his clothes. He dressed calmly, his horny boldness now a cool, post-coital arrogance. He didn’t clean them. He left them as they were—naked, spent, and soiled under the stars.
He turned and walked back toward the villas, the gravel crunching under his feet. The first faint hint of pale blue was bleeding into the eastern sky. Dawn was coming. They would wake, cold and sticky and confused, to the proof of the night’s corruption.
Arman smiled. Let Kofi have his kitchen. He’d just taken the pool. The game was everywhere.
=====
The game was everywhere, and its current was live in the villa’s wiring, humming through every sleepless mind. Mihnea felt it as a physical itch beneath his skin, a competitive fever that no cold shower could quench. He’d heard the disjointed whispers about the kitchen, seen Arman return with a smirk that spoke of private conquests, and the exclusion grated against his need to be seen as a leader, as a force.
His bare feet carried him down the dim hall of the Jaguars’ villa, a place he had no real reason to be. doors were shut, but one was slightly ajar, a sliver of lamplight cutting across the floor tiles. He paused, listening. A soft, rhythmic shuffle and a muffled curse came from within. He knew that voice. Antonia.
He pushed the door open without knocking.
She was there, alone, in the middle of the room. Dressed in loose basketball shorts and a cropped tank top, her dark hair was piled high. She was practicing a complex dance move, her body twisting in the air before landing with a slight stagger on her mat. “Damn it,” she muttered, her fun-oriented energy focused into frustrated determination.
“Practicing for the next chain?” Mihnea said, leaning against the doorframe.
Antonia spun, her dark eyes wide, then narrowing. “Spying, Parrot?”
“Just appreciating the view.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound was definitive. “Seems like you’re the only one not sleeping. Or not fucking.”
Her chin lifted. “Some of us have priorities beyond what happens in the dark.”
“Do we?” Mihnea moved closer. He was taller, lean, and his confidence was a cloak he wore tightly. “I saw Kofi and Briv. I see Arman’s walk. The dark is where the real game is moving. The chains are just theater.” He stopped in front of her, close enough to smell the sweat on her skin, a clean, sharp scent. “You’re Theo’s ex. That must sting, seeing him with others.”
It was a calculated dig, aiming for the raw spot beneath her boyish, party-animal exterior. Her jaw tightened. “Fuck you, Mihnea.”
“Maybe,” he said, his voice dropping. “Or maybe you stop pretending you’re just one of the boys. I see you. All that energy. It’s not just for dancing.”
He reached out, not for her body, but for the hair tie holding her bun. He pulled it slowly. Her black hair cascaded down around her shoulders, transforming her instantly. The fun-oriented girl receded; a woman surfaced, breath catching. She didn’t slap his hand away.
That was all the surrender he needed.
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, a conquest, his mouth hard and demanding on hers. For a second, she resisted, her body stiff. Then a shudder ran through her, a release of that pent-up, competitive energy. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and she kissed him back with a hungry, angry fervor, her teeth scraping his lip.
They tore at each other’s clothes. His shirt ripped at the seam. Her tank top was yanked over her head, her small breasts freed. He backed her towards the bed, his mouth leaving hers to suck a dark mark onto the tanned skin of her neck. She gasped, arching into him, her fingers digging into his back.
“Get on the bed. On your knees,” he ordered, his voice rough.
Wordlessly, she complied, crawling onto the mattress. She looked back over her shoulder, her dark eyes blazing, her fit round ass presented to him. He shucked his trousers and boxers, his average-sized dick springing out, already fully erect and leaking. He didn't bother with preamble. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned the head at her entrance.
“You want this?” he goaded.
“Just shut up and fuck me,” she snarled, pushing back against him.
He drove in, a single, deep, punishing thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound, her head dropping between her shoulders. She was incredibly tight, a vice of heat around him. He set a brutal pace immediately, his hips slamming into her ass, the sound a wet, meaty slap that filled the room. Each thrust drove her forward, her small breasts swaying.
“Is this better than dancing?” he grunted, his hands gripping her narrow waist for leverage.
“Yes—fuck—yes!” she yelled, the words torn from her. Her earlier frustration was channeling directly into raw, physical release. She met him thrust for thrust, her body surrendering completely to the mindless rhythm. “Harder, you fucking asshole, harder!”
He obliged, pounding into her until the bedframe screeched against the wall. He felt his climax coiling, tightening in his balls. But a wider, more arrogant idea was forming. He wanted an audience. He wanted proof.
He pulled out abruptly, his cock slick and glistening. She whimpered at the sudden emptiness. “Call Emilia,” he said, breathing hard.
Antonia, dazed, her body throbbing, twisted to look at him. “What?”
“You heard me. Call her. Get her in here. Now.” His tone brooked no argument, the leader-role he coveted finally feeling real.
A complex flicker passed over Antonia’s face—shame, curiosity, a twisted sisterhood. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers fumbling. She sent a quick text. Need you. My room. Now.
Less than two minutes later, the door opened. Emilia stood there, her long brown hair loose, dressed in a silk robe. Her dark, intelligent eyes took in the scene: Antonia on her knees, naked and flushed, Mihnea standing over her, fully erect. A slow, mesmerizing smile touched Emilia’s lips. She didn’t look surprised. She looked… interested. Sociable. “Party and I wasn’t invited?”
“Get in and close the door,” Mihnea said. His confidence surged. This was power.
Emilia let her robe slither to the floor. She was naked beneath, her tanned skin flawless, her small breasts perfect, her round ass a deliberate offering. She walked in, her gaze locked on Mihnea’s cock. “I heard things were getting interesting elsewhere. Seems the news was late.”
Mihnea grabbed her, pulling her into a kiss. It was different than with Antonia—more tactical, a duel of tongues. Emilia gave as good as she got, her hands roaming down his chest to wrap around his shaft. She stroked him, her touch expert, manipulating his flesh as easily as she manipulated people. “Impressive,” she murmured against his mouth, though her tone suggested otherwise.
“On the bed. Next to her,” he ordered.
Emilia complied, lying on her back beside the still-kneeling Antonia. She spread her legs, presenting herself. “Come here, then. Let’s see what the Parrots’ would-be leader has.”
Mihnea moved between her thighs. He drove into her in one stroke. Emilia’s gasp was calculated, a performance of pleasure. She was wet, but the tightness was different—a controlled clench. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him in, her hips moving in a sinuous, rolling rhythm that threatened to steal his control. “Is this what you wanted?” she breathed in his ear, her voice a deceptive purr. “To use the smart one? The influencer?”
“Fuck yes,” he grunted, pistoning into her. He looked over at Antonia, who was watching, her hand moving between her own legs. “Touch her,” he told Emilia.
Emilia’s hand snaked out, her fingers finding Antonia’s wetness. She began to circle Antonia’s clit as Mihnee fucked her, a dual assault. Antonia cried out, her body bowing. The sight of the two women connected under him, both submitting to his orchestration, was intoxicating. But Emilia’s dark eyes were watching him, appraising, not submitted at all.
As he felt another peak approaching, he pulled out of Emilia. “Call Daria,” he commanded, his voice hoarse.
Emilia didn’t hesitate. She picked up her phone, her breathing only slightly hitched. “Daria. Come to Antonia’s room. Bring your competitive spirit.” She hung up, her smile now holding a razor’s edge. “She’s coming.”
Daria arrived like a storm, her sporty, dominant energy crackling in the doorway. She took in the scene, her dark blonde hair tied back, her expression cool. She wore only boy shorts and a sports bra. “A team meeting?” she asked, her voice challenging.
“Get naked,” Mihnea said, his cock aching, pulsing in the air.
Daria’s eyes flashed, but she did it, peeling off her clothes with deliberate slowness, showcasing her very big, round ass, her narrow waist. She walked to the bed, her gaze on his erection. “This what you need? Something to dominate?”
“On your hands and knees. Behind Antonia.”
Daria, ever competitive, took the position, creating a line of three women: Antonia on her knees, Emilia on her back beside her, Daria on all fours behind. Mihnea moved to Daria. He entered her from behind without a word. She was the tightest yet, a muscular, defiant clutch around his cock. She let out a low, grunting moan. “Come on, then. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He did, his thrusts becoming ragged, frantic. He was a conquering king, moving from one to the other. He’d fuck Daria for a few strokes, then pull out and plunge into Emilia, then turn and push into Antonia’s waiting mouth. They became a single, wet, moaning entity beneath him, a symphony of slaps and gasps and filthy, encouraging cries.
“Who’s your leader?” he grunted, driving into Daria.
“You are!” Antonia whimpered.
“Fuck yeah, you are!” Daria growled, pushing back against him.
“Cum for us, leader,” Emilia purred, her tone slick with deceit.
It was too much. The pressure shattered. He pulled out of Daria, stumbling to the foot of the bed. “Mouths,” he gasped, stroking himself furiously. “All of you. Now!”
They moved with a sudden, unified purpose. Antonia, Emilia, and Daria lined up on their knees at the bed’s edge, their faces turned up, mouths open. Three very different women, one directive. Mihnea’s climax exploded. Thick, white ropes jetted from his pulsing cock. The first burst splashed across Antonia’s tongue and cheek. He swung, the next painting Emilia’s lips and chin. The final pulses shot into Daria’s open mouth, spilling over her lips.
He groaned, empty, spent, triumphant. He watched, dazed, as they swallowed, as they licked their lips clean, a filthy, submissive act that crowned his victory.
Then Emilia stood up. Then Daria. Then Antonia.
Their submitted expressions melted away, replaced by a cool, united blankness. Without a word, they moved towards him. He was still gasping, a smile touching his lips.
The smile died as their hands, all six of them, shoved hard against his chest. He was slippery with sweat, off-balance. He stumbled backwards, through the open doorway, into the hall.
“Arrogant little boy,” Daria said, her voice devoid of warmth.
“A useful tool,” Emilia corrected, her smile cold.
“Pathetic,” Antonia spat, her energy now pure contempt.
The door slammed in his face. The lock clicked.
Mihnea stood naked in the cold, dim hallway, cum drying on his stomach, utterly confused. The corridor stretched empty in both directions, silent except for the hammering of his own heart. He had been inside, the center of everything. Now he was out, exiled, and the game had reversed on him with a vicious, unanimous silence.