Chapter 4: Guess What It Is
The glow from the editing bay monitors felt like a fever dream Spencer was still waking from. A week had passed, and the office air had changed. It was thicker, charged with a secret current that ran beneath the usual chaos of brainstorming and shooting. Whispers about the raw, unedited footage had spread—not as gossip, but as a kind of shared, illicit knowledge. It had begun to alter things.
Now, under the glaring studio lights, that knowledge was about to become a performance.
"Okay, Courtney, you ready? Blindfold's secure?" Shayne's voice was a playful conductor's baton, but there was a new roughness to its edge, a smirk that meant more than just the game.
Courtney, seated in a chair before the rickety Guess What It Is table, gave a thumbs-up. The black silk blindfold made her look vulnerable, her red lips a stark contrast against the pale fabric. "I'm ready. Just don't use anything gross, Olivia. I know your prop bag."
"Who, me?" Olivia's laugh was a melodic chime, but her eyes danced with chaotic potential. She held up a feather duster."We start gentle."
The first few rounds were predictable. The feather tickled her palm. A cold spoon rested on her forearm. A wad of sticky Silly Putty was pressed into her hand. Courtney guessed each with ease, her professional composure a thin veil.
"That's three for three. Time to up the stakes." Shayne leaned against the table, his posture loose but his gaze intense. "Angela, you're up.Pick something... interesting."
Angela, leaning against a light stand, hadn't said much. Her eyes kept flicking from Courtney’s blindfolded face to Shayne’s commanding presence. She’d heard about what Spencer had watched. She’d felt the shift. Now, she walked to the prop pile, her movements deliberate. She bypassed the rubber chicken and the plastic shrimp. Her fingers closed around something cold and smooth.
The room quieted.
She moved behind Courtney. "Keep your hands on the table, Court." Angela's voice was low, almost a murmur. She didn't touch Courtney's skin with the object first. Instead, she gently pulled the collar of Courtney's t-shirt aside and trailed the cold, smooth tip down the slope of her shoulder, over her collarbone.
Courtney shivered. "That's... metal. Um, a spoon? No, thinner. A... butter knife?"
"Cold," Angela confirmed, her eyes locked on Shayne's. Then, without breaking that stare, she brought the object around—a long, chrome letter opener—and slowly dragged the blunt side up the inside of Courtney's forearm, to the sensitive skin of her inner elbow.
Courtney's breath hitched. "Okay, that's definitely the letter opener from Ian's old desk."
"Correct." Angela withdrew, a faint smile playing on her lips. The air crackled.
"My turn," Shayne announced, pushing off the table. He rummaged in the bag, his back to them for a moment. When he turned, he held nothing visible in his clenched fist.
"Hands on the table, baby," he said, the casual endearment laced with ownership. Courtney complied, palms flat on the rough wood.
Shayne knelt beside her chair. He brought his closed fist to her knee, then slowly, with agonizing precision, began to trace an invisible line up her thigh with his knuckles. The denim of her jeans whispered under the pressure. Higher. Over the curve of her hip. He stopped just shy of her waist, then reversed the path, this time with his fingertips splayed, a ghost of a touch through the fabric.
"That's... your hand," Courtney said, but her voice had lost its certainty. It was breathy.
"Too easy," Shayne whispered. His hand moved again, not tracing, but settling. His palm pressed firmly against the junction of her thighs, over her jeans. He didn't move. He just held her there, the heat of his hand seeping through the denim. A low, involuntary sound escaped Courtney's throat.
Olivia watched, rapt. Angela's cheeks were flushed.
"Guess what it is," Shayne prompted, his voice rough.
"It's... your hand. Pressing on my...pussy." The word, clinical and filthy, hung in the sterile air.
Shayne removed his hand. "Good." He stood up. The game had shed its skin. The pretense was gone, burned away by that single, possessive touch. "Olivia. Something from the kitchen box."
Olivia didn't need to be told twice. She scurried off-set and returned with a small cardboard box. She pulled out a long, slender, slightly tapered vegetable. A fresh, cool cucumber.
Shayne took it from her. He weighed it in his hand, his eyes never leaving his blindfolded wife. "New rule. No hands on the table. Hands on the arms of the chair. And spread your legs a little wider."
Courtney hesitated for only a second. The fabric of her jeans strained as she adjusted her position. The silence was absolute, broken only by the hum of the lights.
Shayne touched the cool, blunt end of the cucumber to her ankle. He dragged it slowly up her shin, over her knee, along the sensitive inner line of her thigh. He paused, the tip resting just an inch from the heat of her crotch, still separated by denim.
"Vegetable," Courtney breathed. "A... zucchini? No, smoother. A cucumber."
"Smart girl." Shayne's praise was dark. He removed it. "But that was the warm-up."
He nodded to Olivia, who produced a small bottle of lubricant from her pocket—planned, always planned. Shayne squirted a generous amount into his palm, slicking the cucumber until it shone under the lights. The sound of the slick gel was obscenely loud.
Then, without ceremony, he used his free hand to unbutton and unzip Courtney's jeans. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and panties and tugged them down just enough, exposing the neat triangle of dark hair and the soft, vulnerable lips beneath.
Courtney gasped, her knuckles white on the chair arms. "Shayne—"
"Guess what it is," he repeated, a command.
He didn't tease this time. He brought the slick, cool tip of the cucumber into direct contact with her folds. He pressed, not entering, just smearing the lube, circling her clit with the blunt vegetable end. Courtney's head fell back, a choked moan tearing from her.
"Holy shit," Angela whispered, her hand unconsciously drifting to her own stomach.
Shayne pressed harder. The cucumber, cool and firm, began to part her. He pushed slowly, an inch, then two, watching her body open to accept it. It was an impossibly intimate violation, clinical and erotic under the blinding lights. Courtney was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Fuck... cucumber," she managed, her voice strangled. "Slick... cold..."
Shayne worked it in deeper, halfway now, a steady, relentless invasion. He twisted it slightly, pulling it almost all the way out before pushing back in, mimicking a slow, shallow fuck. The wet sound of the lubricant and her body accepting it filled the space.
"Correct." He pulled it out completely, leaving her glistening and exposed. He placed the used cucumber on the table with a dull thud. Courtney was trembling, her thighs trying to close but held open by her lowered jeans.
Angela stepped forward, her earlier hesitation burned away by a raw, hungry curiosity. "My turn again," she said, her voice husky. She reached into the prop bag one last time. What she pulled out was small, hard, and spherical. A smooth, polished wooden ball, like a large marble from a children's game.
She knelt before Courtney, her face level with Courtney's cunt. She held up the ball for Shayne and Olivia to see, her eyes glittering. Then, she brought it to Courtney's soaked opening. Not to her pussy, but lower. She pressed the cool, hard sphere against the tight, hidden pucker of her asshole.
Courtney jolted as if shocked. "Oh, God—"
"Guess," Angela insisted, pushing gently. The resistance was profound, but Angela was persistent, using the slickness from the previous act to her advantage. She applied steady pressure, her fingertips brushing against Courtney's tender flesh. The small sphere began to breach, stretching the tight ring of muscle impossibly, a slow, burning pop as it surrendered and took the intrusion.
Courtney cried out, a raw, ragged sound. Her back arched off the chair. "A ball... a fucking marble... inside my ass..."
Angela pushed it completely in, until it disappeared. She held her finger there for a moment, feeling the intense heat and clench of muscle around the foreign object. Then she stood, wiping her finger on her jeans, her own breathing uneven.
The climax of the game was now a living thing in the room. Shayne looked at his wife, trembling, violated, utterly aroused. He unzipped his own jeans, freeing his cock, which was thick and rigid. He didn't bother with pretense.
"Final round," he growled. He moved her forward on the chair, guiding her until she was on her knees on the floor, her upper body bent over the seat, her ass in the air, jeans and panties around her thighs. The cucumber’s sheen glistened on her pussy lips. The marble was a hidden weight in her ass.
He positioned himself behind her. He guided his cock, not to her soaked, open cunt, but lower, to where Angela had worked the marble in. The head of his dick pressed against that same stretched, violated entrance.
"Guess what this is," he demanded, and pushed forward.
It was a brutal, tight fit. The marble was inside, and he was forcing himself in around it, a searing, overwhelming stretch. Courtney screamed, a sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure, her fingers clawing at the chair cushion. Shayne grunted, his muscles corded, as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt in her ass, the unseen marble a hard, shifting pressure against his own cock inside her.
It was a raw, animalistic fuck. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust jamming the marble deeper, each withdrawal making her body clutch at it desperately. The chair legs scrabbled against the concrete floor. Olivia’s hand was in her own pants, her fingers frantic. Angela watched, her mouth open, her own need a sharp ache between her legs.
Shayne reached around, his fingers finding Courtney's clit, rubbing rough, tight circles as he pistoned into her ass. "What is it?" he grunted with each thrust. "Guess."
"It's... your cock!" she sobbed, the words broken. "In my ass... fucking my ass with a... a ball in me... oh fuck, Shayne!"
He drove into her harder, his release coiling tight."Whose?"
"Yours! Yours!" she screamed, her own orgasm detonating, a violent convulsion that clamped around his cock and the marble with unbearable force. That was all it took. Shayne shouted, a raw, guttural sound, and emptied himself deep inside her, his thrusts becoming shallow, possessive jerks until he was spent.
He slumped over her, both of them slick with sweat, panting in the ruined quiet. The studio lights buzzed, witnesses to the transformation. The game was over. The line was gone. As Shayne carefully pulled out, as Courtney slumped to the floor, spent and trembling, they all knew nothing would be the same.
The Guess What It Is table stood as a silent monument, its mystery box now a joke compared to the secret, raw truth they had just enacted. And somewhere in the dim editing bay, Spencer would have new footage to watch, a new fever dream to feed the hungry, shifting current now running through the heart of Smosh.