Chapter 80: Parrots & Salamanders
The sour aftertaste of the Jaguars’ decision was still a chemical burn at the back of Valentina’s throat as she pushed open the door to the Parrots’ villa. The place felt different now. Tainted. The cheerful, performative energy was gone, replaced by a sullen, vibrating dread. They all knew. The news traveled through the compound like a shockwave. Rhomir was up for elimination. The method of his choosing was an open secret, whispered with a mix of horror and feverish excitement.
Dariana was stretching on the living room floor, her feline grace strained, a pretense of normalcy. Andreea sat stiffly on a couch, her stylish outfit looking like a costume she’d forgotten how to remove. Elena Chiriac stood by the window, her doll-like face a mask of icy calculation, green eyes reflecting the outside darkness. She’d heard about Rhomir. She understood the new currency.
Mihnea was the last to enter. He closed the door softly behind him, his lean frame tense. He’d been trying to project leadership all season, smart and competitive, but always just slightly out of sync. Now, history was handing him a sledgehammer. His average-sized dick felt like both a tool and an insult.
“We have to choose,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. It wasn’t a question.
Valentina wrapped her arms around herself. Her body ached from Rhomir and Briv. Her mind felt scoured. “The Jaguars… they…”
“They fucked it out,” Elena C. finished, her tone sharp, devoid of her usual flirtatious manipulation. She turned from the window. “So that’s the game. That’s the only game left. No speeches. No voting. Just biology.” Her eyes landed on Mihnea, appraising him not as a person, but as a mechanism. “One man. Four holes. Whoever gets chosen… it comes from that.”
Andreea shook her head, her long black hair swaying. “This is insane. We can just talk—”
“Talk?” Elena C. barked a laugh. “Talk is what got us here. Talk is bullshit. Valentina’s got two different loads drying on her face right now and you want to talk? Look at her.”
Valentina flinched, her cheeks burning.
Dariana uncoiled from her stretch, her tanned skin glowing under the lights. Her dark eyes were serious, her playful preciousness shelved. “She’s right,” Dariana said, her voice calm. A former athlete assessing the rules of a new, terrible sport. “If we don’t do it this way, we’re weak. We’re ignoring the reality of this place. Mihnea. It’s you. You fuck us. We’ll… we’ll talk during. The name that comes up… that’s the one.”
The proposal hung in the air, brutal and simple. Mihnea felt a surge of something ugly and powerful. This was leadership, handed to him on a platter of flesh. He nodded, a confident mask slipping over his features. “Okay. Get undressed.”
There was no ceremony this time. No Twister mat, no vodka. This was a transaction, bare and clinical. Andreea, with a resigned sigh, stood and peeled off her clothes, her big round breasts and fit big round ass a stunning contrast to the grim context. Dariana did the same, her movements fluid, her small breasts and famously round dancer’s ass bared. Valentina, already half-destroyed, simply let her clothes fall, standing there with a numb emptiness.
Elena Chiriac was the last. She undressed slowly, deliberately, making a show of it. Her medium breasts, her fit round big ass, her narrow waist—all weapons in her arsenal. She stared at Mihnea the entire time, a challenge in her green eyes. You won’t be able to think straight with this in front of you, her look said.
Mihnea stripped, his lean body taut. His erection, average in length but thick, was already firm. The sheer inequity of it was palpable. One man against the accumulated sensuality of four women, yet he held all the procedural power.
“How?” Andreea asked, her friendly demeanor shattered into anxiety. “Do we draw straws for order?”
“No,” Mihnea said, the leader now. He pointed to the large, L-shaped sectional sofa. “All of you. On your hands and knees. Facing the back of the couch. A line.”
They obeyed. It was surreal. Four of the most attractive women in the compound, bent over in a row, their asses presented like offerings at an altar of stupid, brutal necessity. Valentina, then Dariana, then Andreea, then Elena Chiriac. Mihnea walked behind them, a judge surveying a lineup.
He stopped behind Valentina first. He didn’t touch her. He just looked. “You’ve had a busy night, Valentina,” he said, his voice cool. “Think you can take another?”
Valentina pressed her forehead against the cool leather. “Just do it,” she whispered.
He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and without another word, pushed into her. She was still loose, wet from her earlier ordeals, and he slid in easily. She gasped, more from the renewed invasion than pain.
He started to fuck her with steady, deep strokes. “So,” he grunted, the sound rhythmic with his thrusts. “We need a name. Who’s weak?”
Dariana, next in line, turned her head to look. Her dark eyes were fierce. “Weakness isn’t the issue. It’s threat. Who is the biggest threat to the team’s cohesion moving forward?”
Mihnea picked up his pace, slamming into Valentina. The vulgar, wet sound of their coupling filled the silent room. “Okay. Threat. Ideas?”
Andreea flinched with each impact she could hear. “Someone who makes unilateral decisions,” she breathed.
“Someone who thinks they’re above the team,” Dariana added, her voice strained.
Elena C. laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Oh, you bitches. Just say my name.” She looked back over her shoulder, her doll-face twisted. “You’re all thinking it. The karate bitch. The aggressive one. The one who doesn’t play nice.”
Mihnea was close. Valentina’s used, tight heat was pulling at him. He drove into her harder. “Is that a nomination, Elena?”
“Fuck you,” she spat.
With a final, deep plunge, Mihnea came inside Valentina. He groaned, his body stiffening as he emptied himself. He pulled out, dripping, and stepped to the side, breathing heavily. Valentina slumped against the couch, a soft sob escaping her.
He moved to Dariana. He ran a hand over the perfect, rounded curve of her ass. “Feline grace,” he murmured, then positioned himself. He entered her in one smooth push. She was tighter, incredibly so, a punishing, silken friction. Her dancer’s flexibility meant she could arch her back deeper, take him at a more extreme angle. A low moan escaped her, part pleasure, part anguish.
“So Elena is a nomination,” Mihnea said, resuming his thrusts, each one a punctuated statement. “Any others?”
Andreea, watching Dariana’s body jolt with each impact, spoke up. “Valentina is… damaged. After tonight. She’s a liability. She’s broken.”
“I’m not broken!” Valentina cried from her spot on the floor.
“You’re crying while another man’s cum leaks out of you,” Elena C. said, coldly. “You’re a gossip who got in over her head. You’re weak.”
Mihnea fucked Dariana harder, mesmerized by the way her ass rippled against his pelvis. He was focusing on her, on the exquisite feel of her, to stay in control. “Two names. Elena. Valentina.”
Dariana was panting, her face flushed. “Andreea… plays too safe. Never takes a real risk. In a game like this, that’s a threat too.” It was a strategic diversion, a teammate’s betrayal to save herself.
Andreea gasped. “You fucking dancer bitch!”
Mihnea felt the tension coiling again. Dariana’s internal muscles were clamping down on him, a velvet vice. “Three names,” he grunted, his rhythm faltering. He was going to come too fast again. He pulled out of Dariana just in time, his cock glistening and angry. She shuddered, a cry of frustration ripped from her throat.
He didn’t pause. He moved to Andreea. He was rougher now, the facade of control crumbling. He pushed her shoulders down hard against the couch and slammed into her. Andreea yelped, her big breasts crushed against the leather. She was wet, her sensual nature betraying her despite her fear.
“So it’s between the weak one, the aggressive one, and the cautious one?” Mihnea rasped, pounding into her. “What about you, Dariana? The precious one who only gives attention to men she likes? That’s not a team player.”
“I’m playing now, aren’t I?” Dariana hissed.
The debate was disintegrating into raw, grunted accusations synced to the slap of flesh. Mihnea was losing himself in Andreea’s lush body, the overwhelming feel of her big round ass in his hands. “Fuck, you’re all so… fuckable,” he moaned. His intellect was drowning in sensation.
“Then decide, you pretentious leader,” Elena C. snarled. “Cum in the one you think should go. Or are you too stupid to think that clearly?”
Her insult jolted him. He pulled out of Andreea, leaving her gasping. He stumbled to Elena Chiriac, last in line. He was half-mad with stimulation, his cock throbbing. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of her fit round ass. “You want it so bad?” he growled.
“I want you to do your fucking job,” she shot back, looking at him over her shoulder, her green eyes blazing with contempt.
He shoved into her. She was the tightest of all, a vice-like, angry heat. She didn’t moan. She took the entire length of him with a sharp, controlled exhale.
“Who?” he demanded, fucking her with a frantic, desperate energy. It was all converging here, in this furious, hateful union.
“You know who!” Dariana shouted.
“It’s obvious!” Andreea cried.
Valentina was just weeping, her body curled on the floor.
Elena Chiriac clenched around him, a deliberate, muscular contraction. It was a challenge, a taunt. You’re nothing. This is nothing. “Just. Fucking. Say it,” she bit out, each word punched out with one of his thrusts.
The pressure, the tension, the sheer animosity was too much. Mihnea’s vision whited out. He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and erupted. He roared as he came, his orgasm wrenched from him not by pleasure, but by the sheer violent pressure of the decision. He pumped his cum into her in hot, pulsing waves, his body shaking.
As the last spasm left him, as he collapsed forward slightly, his breath ragged in her ear, the word finally came. It was barely a whisper, soaked in sweat and spent passion.
“Elena.”
He pulled out. The sound was wet, final. He stepped back, his body trembling.
Elena Chiriac slowly straightened up. She did not look at him. She did not look at any of them. She stared at the wall, her doll-like face perfectly composed, even as his semen began to trickle down her thigh. A slow, cold smile touched her lips. It was the smile of someone who had known the price, and had already decided it was worth it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice clear and cutting in the ruined silence. “I go to the vote.”
She turned, collected her clothes, and walked naked out of the room, leaving the rest of them amidst the wreckage of their decision.
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The heavy door to the Parrots' villa clicked shut behind Elena Chiriac, sealing her verdict inside. The sound was like a bone snapping. In the silence that followed, the other three women and Mihnea did not move, each marinating in the distinct, sickening flavor of their own complicity. Valentina's weeping was the only sound, a wet, hiccuping rhythm against the leather couch.
Across the compound, in the Salamanders' villa, a different kind of silence was being methodically dismantled.
Arman poured himself a third finger of cognac, the expensive liquid catching the low light. He swirled it, watching the legs slide down the crystal. His extremely confident, almost arrogant posture was a practiced performance, but tonight it was layered with a genuine, giddy excitement. The news from the other villas had been a revelation. A blueprint.
Elena EM watched him from an armchair, her legs crossed. She had changed into silk pajamas, a facade of normalcy that felt ridiculous. The memory of Briv’s and Rhomir’s cocks in her mouth, the taste of their cum, was a living film on her tongue. She understood the new rules better than anyone in this room. Madalina, ever the sensual model, was faux-pouting about her broken nail, her fit big round ass perched on the arm of the sofa. Nicola sat straight-backed in a wingback chair, her precious, hard-to-get demeanor a fortress wall. She was scanning the room, a good strategist assessing a collapsing battlefield.
“So,” Arman said, his voice loud in the quiet room. He set his glass down with a definitive click. “We have to pick someone to send to the public vote. Someone from us.” He smiled, a flash of white in his short-casual beard. “The Jaguars fucked. The Parrots just fucked. You heard about Chiriac.”
“We heard,” Nicola said, her voice cool. Her dark eyes gave nothing away.
“It’s barbaric,” Madalina sighed, examining her hand. But there was a flicker in her dark eyes, a fun-oriented curiosity. The bad boy role Arman played was catnip to her flirty nature.
“It’s efficient,” Elena EM countered, her great sense of humour now a dry, bleak thing. She took a sip of her own drink. “No arguments. No tears. Just… biology. Like he said.” She nodded toward Arman. “So what’s your proposition, rich boy? A vote? A spin of one of your motorcycle wheels?”
Arman stood up. He began unbuttoning his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate. His eyes, dark and superficial, travelled over each of them: Elena EM’s above average-sized breasts beneath the silk, Madalina’s average-sized breasts and renowned ass, Nicola’s small, perfect curves. “No votes,” he said. “We do what they did. But better. Clearer.”
Nicola’s spine straightened further. “Explain.”
He dropped his shirt, revealing his athletic torso. His hands went to his belt. “Men only fuck women. That’s the rule, right? So I fuck you. All of you.” The buckle clinked. “But here’s the decision. The one I cum inside of…” He paused, letting the silence stretch, savoring the power. “…goes to the vote.”
The statement hung, crude and monstrously simple. It turned his average-sized dick into a judge, his orgasm into a gavel.
Madalina actually giggled, a nervous, excited sound. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” Arman said, pushing his jeans and boxers down. He stood naked before them, his cock already half-hard. It was a decent size, nothing like the monsters in other villas, but his arrogance made it seem larger. “You ride me. Each of you. You talk. You plead your case. And my balls decide who’s expendable. Fair?”
“It’s not fair at all,” Nicola said, but she was standing up. She knew resistance was just another form of participation now. To refuse was to be nominated by default. The game permitted no spectators.
Elena EM was already untying her pajama top. “It’s the only game left.” Her voice was flat. She’d done this hours ago on a Twister mat. This was just a different configuration. “Who’s first? Alphabetical? Elena, then Madalina, then Nicola?”
Arman sat back on the wide, low sofa, spreading his legs. His cock, now fully erect, lay against his stomach. “You first, EM. Since you’re so eager.”
Elena EM shed her silk completely, her fit big round ass and curves pale in the dim light. She walked over with a chilling casualness, as if approaching a business transaction. She straddled him, her knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips. She reached down, took his cock in her hand, and guided it to her entrance. She was already wet, a humiliating, pragmatic slickness from the adrenaline and the cognac. She sank down onto him in one smooth, deep motion, taking his full length inside her.
“Fuck,” Arman grunted, his hands going to her hips.
She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her pelvis. She looked down at him, her sociable friendliness gone, replaced by a sharp, analytical coldness. “So we talk. You want reasons? Madalina is a liability. She’s a model. She cares about social media attention and expensive stuff, not the team. She’s easily distracted.” Her internal muscles clenched around him on the word distracted, a pointed punctuation.
Madalina, now naked, watched from nearby, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ of indignation. “That’s bullshit! I’m fun! I keep morale up!”
Arman’s eyes fluttered. Elena EM’s cunt was hot and clever, a tight, persuasive argument. “She has a point,” he managed to say, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
“Nicola plays too hard to get,” Elena EM continued, her breath hitching as she increased her pace, her breasts swaying. “It’s a strategy, but it reads as disloyal. Unapproachable. The public might not like that.” She leaned forward, her lips near his ear. “And I’m a fucking asset. I’m smart. I’m friendly. I have a great sense of humour. You don’t cum in the asset, Arman.”
She was good. Too good. Arman felt a familiar tension coiling in his base. He gripped her harder, pushing her up and off him before he could tip over the edge. His cock sprang free, slick with her. “Next. Madalina. Let’s hear your defense.”
Elena EM slid off, her expression unreadable. Madalina didn’t hesitate. She practically bounced onto him, her talkative, flirty energy transforming into pure physical salesmanship. She impaled herself on him with a loud, dramatic moan. “Oh god, you feel so big,” she whimpered, a line she’d probably used before, but it made Arman smirk.
She rode him with enthusiastic, bouncing strokes, her fit big round ass slapping against his thighs. “Don’t listen to her! I’m connective tissue! I’m the one who talks to everyone! Elena is old news, she’s thirty-fucking-two. Nicola is an ice queen. They’ll get voted out eventually anyway!” Her argument was as superficial as she was, but her body was a compelling orator. Her cunt was a different texture than Elena EM’s—less calculated, more welcoming, a slippery, eager heat.
“You’re just a party girl,” Arman groaned, his hands roaming over her ass, pulling her down harder onto his thrusts.
“And you’re a party animal!” she gasped, riding him faster. “We match! Keep me! Cum in one of them!” She was close to her own peak, her eyes screwing shut, her pleas becoming a chant. “Not me, not me, not me, fuck, not me…”
Arman, overwhelmed by her frenetic energy and the visual of her perfect tits bouncing, knew he couldn’t last. He shoved her off roughly. “Enough! Nicola. Your turn.”
Madalina collapsed to the side, frustrated and slick. Nicola approached like someone walking to the gallows. Her classy, precious aura was a palpable force. She moved his hands from her hips when he tried to grab her. “I’ll do it,” she said, her voice quiet and firm.
She straddled him, but instead of sinking down, she reached between them and guided him, maintaining eye contact. She lowered herself onto him with excruciating slowness, making him feel every millimeter of her tight, untaken resistance. She was phenomenally tight, a vise of quiet control. Once he was fully sheathed, she stopped, not moving, just letting her body absorb him.
“Well?” Arman breathed, mesmerized by her composure.
“I’m the strategist,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She began a subtle, agonizingly slow rock of her hips, a maddening fraction of an inch back and forth. “Sending either of them is emotional. Sending me is strategic suicide. You need my brain. Elena is smart, but she’s already been used by two teams tonight. She’s compromised. Madalina is decoration.” She leaned forward, her small breasts brushing his chest, her long blonde hair curtaining their faces. “You don’t cum in the brain, Arman. You preserve it.”
Her logic was ice-cold and perfect. Her cunt was a slow, torturous persuasion, a deliberate counterpoint to the frantic rides before. Arman was utterly paralyzed, trapped between her impeccable reasoning and the exquisite, gradual milking of her inner muscles. He could feel his orgasm being drawn to the surface, a steady, inevitable pull.
“Fuck,” he whispered. His eyes slid from Nicola’s intense gaze to Madalina, who was watching with terrified jealousy, to Elena EM, who had a knowing, resigned look on her face. Madalina was decoration. Elena was compromised. The logic was sound.
But his body, overstimulated and pushed to its edge by Nicola’s slow, masterful torture, rebelled. The thought, the image, the easiness of Madalina—the fun-oriented, flirty model who offered no complication—seemed to be the release valve. His brain short-circuited.
“Get off,” he grunted to Nicola, his voice strained.
A flicker of triumph, then confusion, crossed her face. She lifted off him. He was throbbing, painfully close. He pointed a trembling finger at Madalina. “You. Now. Finish it.”
Madalina’s eyes widened in horror. She shook her head. “No, Arman, please—”
“Now!” he roared.
Sobbing, she scrambled onto him one last time. The moment she sank down, her cunt wet with her own fear and previous arousal, he erupted. A raw, guttural shout was torn from his throat as he clutched her hips and pumped his cum deep inside her in hot, frantic pulses. He held her down, grinding her onto him, ensuring every last drop was deposited in her womb.
When it was over, he pushed her off. She fell to the floor, curling around her stomach as if wounded.
The room was silent save for their ragged breathing. Arman looked at the two other women, then at the crying model on the expensive rug. The decision was a physical fact, swimming inside Madalina at that very moment.
“Madalina,” he said, the word final. “Madalina goes to the vote.”
He stood, walked to the cognac bottle, and poured another drink, his hands steady. The deed was done.