Chapter 87: Trial 17 - Salamanders VS Parrots
The night on the island was a living thing. It smelled of salt, blooming night jasmine, and the distant, greasy smoke of a barbecue that had been left untended. Cicadas screamed in the palms. Arman walked the path from the Salamanders’ villa towards the main beach, his motorcycle boots crunching on the crushed coral. The arrogance he wore was a brittle shell now, cracked by the shower-room trades. He needed to reforge it in fire. He needed a conquest that felt like his own, not a scripted part of some woman’s strategy.
He found them near the water’s edge, where the black sand was cool and wet. The four Parrots were a silhouette against the silvered path the moon laid on the sea. Dariana was doing slow, fluid stretches, her dancer’s body bending impossibly. Nicola sat on a driftwood log, sketching something in the sand with a stick. Elena Chiriac was skipping flat stones into the surf with violent, precise snaps of her wrist. Andreea stood with her feet in the water, her long black hair down, her stylish silhouette relaxed.
Arman approached, his hands in his pockets. “Ladies. Couldn’t sleep either?”
Dariana unfolded from a split, her dark eyes appraising him with a playful glint. “The night’s too pretty for sleep.” Her tone was inviting, but it was the invitation of a cat to a mouse—curious, but with claws sheathed just beneath.
Nicola looked up, her blonde hair glowing in the moonlight. She offered a kind, closed-lipped smile, the strategist giving nothing away. Elena Chiriac didn’t even turn around. “What do you want, Arman? Come to cry about your team losing members?”
Andreea turned, the water dripping from her ankles. Her friendly smile was genuine, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We heard about the trades. Must be unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” Arman barked a laugh, walking closer until he was in the center of their loose circle. The ocean breeze carried their scents: coconut sunscreen, clean sweat, perfume. “It’s a game. I play to win. And right now, I’m looking at four very good reasons to celebrate being on the winning side.”
“Your side hasn’t won anything yet,” Elena Chiriac said, finally turning. Her doll-like face was a mask of cool disdain. “And we’re not ‘reasons.’ We’re players.”
“Fine.” Arman’s smirk returned, fueled by a rising, desperate heat in his gut. He needed to break through, to shatter their collective front. He looked at Dariana. “You. Dancer. You move like you’ve got a body made for fun. Let’s see if it’s true.”
Dariana’s playful expression hardened just a fraction. “You don’t get to see anything by demanding it.”
“No?” Arman took another step. He was playing the only card he had left: brazen, offensive audacity. “I fucked three women in the showers and still felt empty. Maybe I need four. Maybe I need the Parrots’ best to make me feel something real.”
The crudeness hung in the air, a challenge. Nicola stopped drawing in the sand. Andreea folded her arms under her big round breasts. Elena Chiriac let out a short, contemptuous laugh. But Dariana… Dariana tilted her head. The challenge, the sheer ridiculous arrogance of it, seemed to intrigue her. She was precious, but only to men she was interested in. His brutal honesty was a perverse form of interest.
“You think you can handle four of us?” Dariana asked, her voice a low purr. She took a step towards him, her fit big round ass swaying hypnotically. “Your average-sized dick and your wounded pride?”
The insult to his cock, so casually delivered, was like gasoline on the fire of his need. “Come find out.”
Dariana closed the distance. She didn’t kiss him. She put her hands on his chest, pushed him backwards until his boots hit the soft, dry sand further up the beach. He stumbled, sat down hard. She stood over him, a goddess carved in tanned skin and moonlight. “You want to fuck a Parrot? You get on your back first.”
She knelt over his hips, her small hands working his belt, his zipper. She pulled his cock out—already half-hard from adrenaline and anger—and looked at it, a clinical curiosity in her dark eyes. “Hmm.” She spat into her palm, slicked him roughly, then guided him to her entrance. She was wearing a tiny silk shorts set; she simply pulled the fabric aside.
And she sank down onto him in one smooth, devastating drop.
Arman gasped. She was unbelievably tight, a silken, muscular vise that welcomed him with a punishing grip. Her feline grace was in this too; she began to ride him with a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that made his toes curl in his boots. She leaned forward, her small breasts inches from his face, her long brown hair forming a curtain. “This what you wanted? To be a toy?”
He grabbed her narrow waist, trying to thrust up into her, to reclaim control, but she clenched internally, paralyzing him with a spike of pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. “Don’t,” she whispered. “You take what I give you.”
From his vantage point, Arman saw the other three women approach. They formed a semicircle around them, watching. Nicola’s expression was analytical. Andreea looked turned on, her lips slightly parted. Elena Chiriac watched like a referee at a fight, ready to call a foul.
Dariana increased her pace, her ass slapping against his thighs, her breathing coming in controlled pants. She was fucking him to prove a point, and the point was that she was in charge. Arman felt his orgasm build, humiliatingly fast. He was going to come inside her, powerless.
Just as he was about to tip over the edge, Dariana lifted herself off him, his wet cock springing free into the cool air. The denial was a physical shock. She stood up, looking down at him. “One,” she said, as if keeping score.
Before he could react, Andreea was there. Her friendly demeanor had melted into pure, sensual hunger. She pushed him flat onto his back in the sand and straddled his face. “You talk too much. Shut up and eat my pussy.”
Her fit big round ass settled over him, blocking out the moon. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his senses. She ground herself against his mouth. “Lick me, Arman. Lick me like you mean it or I’ll get up and you’ll get nothing.”
He obeyed, his tongue lapping at her folds, probing her opening. She was already dripping. She moaned, a genuine, melodic sound, and rocked her hips against his face. “Yes… just like that… you arrogant prick, your tongue isn’t completely useless.”
While he ate her out, he felt another set of hands. Nicola. The precious, hard-to-get strategist knelt in the sand by his hip. She took his throbbing, neglected cock in her cool, slender hands. She didn’t look at him; she looked at Andreea’s face, gauging her pleasure. Then she began to stroke him, her touch firm, methodical, alternating with soft squeezes to the head that made him jerk his hips.
“He’s very hard, Andreea,” Nicola observed, her voice calm, clinical.
“Good,” Andreea gasped, riding his face harder. “Don’t let him come. Just keep him there.”
Arman was in sensory overload. The taste of Andreea, the feel of Nicola’s perfect handjob, the sand grating his back, the three other women watching. He was a instrument being played by a skilled, merciless quartet.
Andreea came with a shuddering cry, her juices flooding his mouth. She collapsed off him, rolling onto the sand beside him, breathless. Nicola released his cock.
Elena Chiriac stepped forward now. The karate expert. The most dangerous. She toed off her sandals. “My turn. Get up.”
Arman rose, unsteady, his cock aching, dripping with spit and pre-cum. Elena pointed to the driftwood log. “Bend over it.”
A command. After being used, after being denied, this was a order he could follow to feel some semblance of action. He bent over the rough wood, presenting his ass.
He heard the rustle of clothing. Then he felt her press against him, not her body, but the head of his own cock, which she had taken in her hand. She guided him backwards, into her own heat.
She was different. Tighter than Dariana, but with a fierce, unyielding quality. She sheathed him fully in one aggressive impalement, taking his entire length. Then she began to fuck him.
She used his body, her hands gripping his shoulders for leverage, her fit round big ass slamming back against him with each thrust. She wasn’t riding him; she was fucking herself on him, using his cock as a pure tool for her own pleasure. “This is what you’re for,” she grunted in his ear, her breath hot. “You’re a dildo with a pulse. A bad, arrogant, stupid dildo.”
Each word was a lash. Each deep, brutal stroke was a confirmation. Arman could only brace himself and take it, the pleasure monstrous and degrading. He felt his climax coiling again, an unstoppable wave.
“He’s close,” Nicola announced from the sidelines, her voice still eerily calm.
Elena Chiriac didn’t stop. “Come then. Come inside me, you useless rich boy. It’s all you can do.”
The permission, delivered as an insult, broke the last dam. Arman roared into the night, his body convulsing as he emptied himself deep into Elena Chiriac’s clutching depths. She milked him with powerful, rhythmic contractions, sucking every last drop from him until he was utterly spent, gasping, hollow.
She pulled off him with a wet, final sound and stepped back, adjusting her clothes. She looked at the other three. “Two,” she said, echoing Dariana’s score.
Dariana had fucked him. Elena Chiriac had fucked him. Andreea had used his mouth. Only Nicola, the precious blonde strategist, had not taken him inside her.
Arman slumped to his knees in the sand, his cock already softening, smeared with his own come and their combined wetness. He was a wreck.
Nicola walked over to him. She crouched down, her kind face level with his. She reached out and brushed a bit of sand from his cheek, a strangely tender gesture. “You wanted to fuck as many of us as possible,” she said softly. “You managed two. And you serviced a third.” She smiled, a smile that was both pitying and utterly superior. “Not a very good percentage, Arman. Maybe your strategy needs work.”
She stood up and rejoined the others. The four Parrots looked at him one last time—a pitiful, used figure on his knees in the sand—then turned as one and walked back up the beach towards the path, their quiet laughter carried away by the wind.
Arman remained there, the cool night air raising goosebumps on his slick skin. The ocean hissed on the shore. He had gotten what he asked for. He had interacted. He had fucked two of them. And he had never felt more completely, definitively defeated. The shell of his arrogance was not just cracked now; it was crushed to dust, washed away by the salt tide of their collective, effortless control.
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The shell of his arrogance was not just cracked now; it was crushed to dust, washed away by the salt tide of their collective, effortless control. Further down the crescent of beach, where the black sand gave way to smooth, wave-polished stones, Mihnea watched Arman’s silhouette stagger up the path. He’d seen the entire performance. The spectacle should have been a warning, but it only lit a more frantic fire in his gut. He couldn’t end up like that—a used, kneeling supplicant. He had to be different. He had to succeed where Arman had failed.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, a pointless gesture in the humid night, and walked towards the soft, orange glow of a driftwood bonfire. The three Salamanders were there: Elena EM, Valentina, and Madalina. They were passing a bottle of rum, their laughter sharp and clear over the crackle of flames and the shush of the sea. He had to fuck as many of them as possible. It was the only way to scrub off the shame of the showers, the pity in Nicola’s eyes, the feeling of being a project.
“Well, look what the tide washed in,” Valentina called out, her superficial smile not reaching her eyes. She took a swig from the bottle. “Lost, Parrot?”
Mihnea forced a relaxed posture, stopping at the edge of the firelight. “Just admiring the view. It’s a better night for Salamanders than I expected.”
Madalina, the model, stretched languidly on a woven beach mat, her fit big round ass highlighted by the fire’s dance. “Is that a line? Because it’s a bad one.” She laughed, but it was an invitation to try harder.
Elena EM, the sociable one, patted the sand beside her. “Come sit, Mihnea. You look tense. The game getting to you?” Her friendliness was a well-practiced tool, and he knew it. He sat, accepting the bottle she offered. The rum was cheap and burned, but he welcomed it.
“The game is just beginning,” he said, the alcohol giving his voice a false steadiness. He looked at each of them: Valentina’s annoyed curiosity, Madalina’s sensual appraisal, Elena EM’s deceptive kindness. “And I think we could help each other. My team is… volatile. Yours just lost two members. Information has value.”
Valentina snorted. “Your team is a fucking mess. Elena Chiriac is a psycho, Dariana plays with her food, and you…” She let the sentence hang, a brutal omission.
“I what?” Mihnea challenged, the fire heating his face.
“You try too hard, baby,” Madalina purred, rolling onto her stomach, her average-sized breasts pressing against the mat. “It’s transparent. You want to be a leader? Leaders don’t beg for alliances on a beach. They take.”
Her words were a spark to tinder. He saw his opening, crude and direct. It was all he had left. “You’re right. So let me be clear. I’m not here to beg. I’m here to fuck. All three of you.”
The silence was profound, broken only by the popping fire. Valentina’s mouth dropped open. Elena EM’s eyebrows raised, a flicker of genuine surprise in her dark eyes. Madalina just smiled, a slow, predatory curl of her lips.
“All three?” Valentina finally squeaked. “Your average-sized dick and your fragile ego think you can handle that?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Mihnea said, standing up. The rum and the desperate adrenaline made him feel taller. “It matters what you want. You want to feel what it’s like to break the guy who’s trying so hard? You want to see if you can make me cry? Here’s your chance. But you have to take it.”
He was mirroring Madalina’s own words back at her, turning his desperation into a challenge. It was a suicidal gambit, but it shifted the energy. They weren’t Parrots; they were Salamanders, drawn to heat and immediate gratification.
Madalina was the first to move. She stood, closing the distance between them. “I do want to break you,” she whispered, her voice husky. Her hands went to his belt, her fingers nimble and sure. “I want to see that confident act shatter when you’re buried inside me and realize you’re still nothing.” She yanked his pants and boxers down to his knees, freeing his cock. It was already fully hard, betraying his frantic state.
She didn’t lead him to the mat. She turned, bent over, and placed her hands on her knees, presenting her fit big round ass right there in the sand at the fire’s edge. “Do it. Fuck me like you mean it, try-hard. Show me you’re more than talk.”
Mihnea stepped forward, guided himself into her. She was wet, impossibly so, and hot. He sank into her with a groan that was part relief, part agony. She was tight, but welcoming, her walls clenching around him in a practiced, rhythmic pulse. He grabbed her narrow waist and began to thrust, hard and fast, setting a punishing pace from the start. The sand grated under his shoes.
“Is this… what you wanted?” he gritted out, fucking into her with deep, claiming strokes.
“Harder,” Madalina moaned, pushing back against him. “Fuck, yes. Use that pathetic energy. Put it all in me.”
He obeyed, his hips slapping against her ass, the sound lewd and sharp. He was using her, trying to lose himself in the physical act, to become just a body performing. But he was acutely aware of the two other women watching, their eyes on him. Valentina had moved closer, her medium-sized breasts straining against her thin top, her hand drifting to her own crotch. Elena EM watched with a placid, interested expression, sipping rum.
Madalina came first, her body shuddering around his cock, her cries swallowed by the night. She clamped down on him, milking him, and he knew he couldn’t last. He pulled out just as his orgasm ripped through him, strings of hot come splashing across the small of her back and the perfect curves of her ass.
He stood there, panting, dripping, spent. One.
Before he could even catch his breath, Valentina was on him. The gossip-lover, easily annoyed, now looked ravenous. “My turn. You made a mess of her. Clean it up.” She shoved him down onto the mat. He landed on his back, his softening cock already aching.
Valentina straddled his face, just as Andreea had done to Arman. The parallel was not lost on him. “Lick me,” she commanded, lowering herself onto his mouth. “And you’d better be good, or I’ll tell everyone you’re the worst fuck on the island.”
Her taste was different, musky and strong. He licked and probed, his hands coming up to grip her fit round ass, holding her in place. She ground against him, her motions impatient and demanding. “Faster, you idiot. Use your tongue, yeah, just like that.”
As he serviced her, he felt a hand on his cock. Elena EM. She had knelt beside him, her above-average-sized breasts brushing his arm. She stroked him, her touch surprisingly gentle, coaxing him back to hardness while Valentina rode his face. “You’re doing well, Mihnea,” Elena EM murmured, her voice a deceptive balm. “Just let go. Be our toy for a while. It’s easier.”
Her kindness was the most terrifying thing he’d ever experienced. It made him want to weep. Instead, he focused on making Valentina come. He sucked her clit, and she shrieked, her orgasm hitting her like a seizure. She rolled off him, panting, a smug smile on her face. “Okay. Not the worst.”
Two. He had serviced two.
Elena EM helped him sit up. His cock was fully hard again in her clever hand. “You’ve done two,” she said softly, as if congratulating a child. “But you promised three. And I don’t think you have another one in you.” She was right. He felt hollowed out, a shell being manipulated.
“I do,” he lied, the words raw.
“Prove it,” she whispered, and then she kissed him. It was a deep, exploring kiss, totally at odds with the transactional violence of the last hour. It felt intimate, and that broke him completely. She laid back on the mat, pulling him on top of her. “Just be gentle,” she said, guiding him into her. “Make love to me, Mihnea. Pretend, for a minute, that you’re not desperate.”
He entered her, and she was a warm, soft haven. He moved slowly, his face buried in her black hair, his thrusts shallow and tender. She held him, her hands running down his back, whispering false comforts. “It’s okay. You’re enough. Just like this.”
It was the ultimate manipulation, giving him exactly the validation he craved in a package he knew was poisonous. He fucked her with a heartbreaking tenderness, and when he came inside her, it was with a quiet, shuddering sob he couldn’t contain. She held him through it, stroking his hair.
Three.
When he finally rolled off, spent in every conceivable way, the three women looked at each other. Madalina was already wiping his come from her back with a corner of the mat. Valentina was fixing her hair, her earlier annoyance replaced with a gloating satisfaction.
Elena EM sat up, her friendly, classy demeanor fully restored. She picked up the rum bottle, took a sip, and handed it to him. “You managed all three,” she said, her tone light. “Congratulations.”
But there was no victory in her words. Only a verdict. He had fucked them all, serviced them, come for them. And as he lay there on the borrowed mat, the fire dying to embers, he understood. He had succeeded in the act, but he had lost completely. He had been what they needed him to be: a desperate boy proving his worth through stamina, then a pliant instrument soothed by counterfeit affection. He was not a leader. He was a function. A resource they had collectively drained. The bonfire popped, sending a spiral of sparks into the black sky, a brief, pretty light that vanished into nothing.