Chapter 7: Must See TV
A week later, the living room felt like a different planet. Same cracked leather, same trophies gathering dust, same lingering smell of takeout and dad’s forgotten gym socks. But the air had changed. It was lighter, or maybe I was just existing inside my own skin in a way that didn’t feel like a secret anymore. I was sprawled on the floor on my stomach, my chin propped on a cushion, my ass—clad in a simple black thong tonight—aimed at the ceiling. The TV hummed, casting blue shadows across Chad, Darius, and Kenji scattered on the couches.
We were watching Exile Island. It wasn’t Survivor, but it was the same damn thing. Muscled people starving on a beach, forming alliances, backstabbing each other for a million dollars. My brain should have been tracking the strategy. But it wasn’t.
It was stuck on Tucker. Tucker was this brick shithouse of a guy from Montana, with a tribal tattoo sleeve and a perpetual sunburn. The cameras loved him. Right now, they loved him trudging through a swamp during a reward challenge, his boxer-briefs soaked through and clinging to every thick inch of his thighs, the definite, heavy outline of his bulge unmistakable even through the mud and the standard-definition broadcast.
A low whine escaped my throat before I could stop it. I shifted on the floor, the rough carpet biting into my knees, my own dick pressing insistently against the inside of my thong. It was a stupid, reflexive heat, but it was so sharp it felt like need.
“God, Tucker is so fucking hot,” I muttered, the words leaving me in a rush of breath.
Darius, without looking from the screen, chuckled. “Dude’s about to lose that challenge. His tribe is garbage.”
“I don’t care about the challenge,” I groaned, pushing myself up to my elbows. The movement made the thong ride up, and I didn’t adjust it. “Look at him. He’s all… primal and sweaty and just walking around in his wet underwear. It’s not fair.”
Chad took a long sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on the immunity idol hidden in a fake tree stump. “Life’s not fair, Blake. He’s probably straight as an arrow and thinks about cross-fit while he jacks off.”
“That just makes it hotter,” I sighed, collapsing back onto the cushion. The pressure between my legs was becoming a genuine ache, a hollow feeling that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the image of Tucker, filthy and exhausted, collapsing into a shelter. My brain supplied the rest: him peeling off those wet briefs, the heavy drop of his cock, the way he’d grunt…
“I need to be filled,” I said, the statement plain and true in the dim room. “Like, now. I can’t even think.”
Kenji glanced over from the armchair, a small smile on his lips. “Then go get it.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard him,” Chad said, finally tearing his gaze from the TV to look at me. There was no mockery in his green eyes, just a flat, amused practicality. “You’re horny. We’re watching the tribal council setup. Go get your toy and ride it on the coffee table. Multitask.”
The casualness of it was a shock of cold water that somehow made me hotter. They weren’t asking. They weren’t even making a big production of it. It was just the obvious solution, like telling someone to grab a bag of chips from the kitchen. My face flushed, but it was a flush of excitement, not shame. This was the new normal. I scrambled up, my bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum of the hallway as I hurried to my room.
The foot-long silicone cock was in its usual drawer, next to a tangled mess of other thongs. I grabbed the bottle of lube too, my hands shaking just a little. When I walked back into the living room, they were arguing about whether a contestant named Vanessa was playing a smart social game or was just a flip-flopper.
“She’s a dead woman walking,” Darius insisted.
“No way, she’s got Paul wrapped around her finger,” Kenji countered.
I stepped over Kenji’s outstretched legs and stood beside the heavy, glass-topped coffee table. It was covered in empty cans, a pizza box, and a bowl of stale popcorn. I swept a clear space with my forearm, the crumbs sticking to my skin. The silence then was deliberate. They were waiting.
I poured a generous amount of lube into my palm, the slick, cool sound absurdly loud. I worked it over the toy, making it shine under the TV’s light. Then, without ceremony, I hitched my thong to the side and climbed onto the table. The glass was cool and solid under my knees. I positioned the blunt silicone head at my entrance, facing the TV, my big ass on display for all of them. This was perfect--it seemed so obvious now. I could satiate my hungry man-cunt and still pay attention to the show!
I took a breath, tightened my core, and lowered myself onto it.
The initial stretch was a bright, familiar burn, a splitting fullness that stole the air from my lungs. I gasped, my hands slapping flat on the cool glass for balance as the thick silicone invaded, deeper and deeper, until my asscheeks pressed against the base. A guttural groan ripped out of me, echoing in the room. The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming, a shocking contrast to the mundane chatter on the TV.
“Easy, tiger,” Darius said, his voice amused. “Don’t break the table. Your dad wouldn't be happy.”
I barely heard him. My world had narrowed to the brutal, glorious stretch inside me and the image of Tucker on the screen, heaving a sack of coconuts onto a makeshift sled. I began to move, a slow, testing rise and fall that sent shivers up my spine. The wet sound of my motion joined the show’s soundtrack.
“Okay, but Jessica is actually playing a better game than you’d think,” Kenji said, his tone academic. He took a sip of his soda, his eyes flicking from the screen to my undulating form and back. “She’s leaning into the dumb blonde thing, but she’s listening to everything.”
I picked up my pace, my knees finding a steady rhythm on the glass. Each downward plunge sent a jolt through my gut, my balls slapping against the silicone. “She’s—ah—campy,” I panted, forcing my brain to form words. “She should stick around. More fun than Marcus.”
“Marcus is a controlling prick,” Chad agreed, his arms crossed. He was watching the show, but a faint smile played on his lips. “He’s telling everyone how to vote. That’s a surefire way to get blindsided.”
The camera cut to a confessional with Marcus, his face smug and condescending. I fucked myself harder, the table squeaking under my weight, using the irritation I felt at his TV persona to fuel my thrusts. My breath came in sharp hitches. Tucker flashed back on screen, shirtless now, digging in the sand.
“Fuck, look at him,” I moaned, my rhythm stuttering as I stared at the defined V of Tucker’s hips, the trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.
“Stay on task, Blake,” Chad said, not unkindly. “You think Tucker’s alliance is tight? I think Paul is looking for a reason to flip.”
“Paul’s an idiot,” Darius argued. “He’s gonna follow Marcus right to the jury.”
I was losing the thread of the conversation, the pleasure coiling too tight. My movements became more frantic, less controlled. The dildo hit my prostate with each descent, a lightning bolt of pure sensation that made my toes curl. Sweat dripped down my chest, matting my hair. Kenji’s hand came to rest on the small of my back, a warm, steadying pressure.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured. “Just like that. Root for Jessica with your whole body.”
A commercial break suddenly blared, a jingle for pickup trucks shattering the tension. I froze, buried to the hilt, panting like I’d run a mile. The abrupt shift from strategic discourse to loud advertising was surreal.
“Thank god,” Darius said, grabbing the remote to mute it. “My brain needs a break from their stupidity.” He turned his full attention to me, his eyes gleaming. “Yours looks pretty busy, though. You’re still thinking about Tucker, aren’t you?”
I whimpered, giving a small, desperate bounce. The need was still there, throbbing and unsatisfied.
“Come on, Blake,” Chad grinned, leaning forward. “Commercial’s the best part. Tell us. What’s the fantasy? You’re on the island. Tucker wins immunity.”
The invitation, the focused attention, was a different kind of fuel. I slowed my movements to a gentle, rolling grind, the toy still seated deep inside me. I kept my eyes closed, constructing the scene.
“He… he’d come back to camp after the challenge,” I began, my voice raspy. “All pumped up, adrenaline still going. He’d be sweaty, covered in sand and mud.” I swallowed, another slow roll of my hips. “He’d see me just lying there in my… in my little survivalist thong.”
Darius barked a laugh. “A survivalist thong. I’m fucking dying.”
“Shut up, let him cook,” Chad said, his voice low.
“He’d just… take charge,” I continued, the fantasy gaining vivid, filthy detail. “No words. He’d just walk over, his big hands still dirty from the challenge, and flip me over. He’d tear that thong right off.” I moaned at the thought, my grip tightening on the table’s edge. “He’d spit in his hand, just enough, because he’s a animal out there. And he’d just… shove in.”
“In front of everyone?” Kenji prompted softly, his hand still rubbing my back.
“Yeah,” I breathed, my movements starting again, a little faster. “Right in the shelter. Jessica would be there, and Paul, and Marcus. All of them. The cameras would be on us, the night-vision ones, getting all of it.” My voice climbed, getting louder, more urgent. “I’d be riding him, bouncing on his cock just like this, and he’d be grunting, telling me what a good little survival slut I am, how I’m his reward for winning.”
The fantasy consumed me. I was no longer in my living room. I was on that beach, the fire crackling, the sea air salty, the eyes of the tribe and a million viewers on my bouncing ass.
“And I’d come,” I gasped, my thrusts becoming punishing, the table rocking. “I’d come all over his dirty abs, screaming, and the whole tribe would see it. And Jeff Probst would have to talk about it at Tribal Council.”
My hips slammed down, the fantasy peaking, the silicone shaft hitting that perfect, devastating spot. "And he'd— oh god— he'd just keep going, wouldn't even care—"
The creak of the front door was a dry, sickening snap of reality.
It was a familiar sound, one I’d heard a thousand times, but now it cut through my panting and the muted TV like a gunshot. My rhythm faltered. The world, which had narrowed to the heat in my core and the image of a sweaty survivalist, violently expanded. I knew the weight of that footstep on the entryway tile. I knew the jingle of keys being tossed onto the side table.
My head swiveled, my body still impaled, my ass in the air.
My dad stood in the archway between the living room and the front hall, a bag of groceries dangling from one hand. He was still in his work boots and flannel shirt, his face etched with the long day he always carried home from the construction site. He wasn’t looking at the TV. He wasn’t looking at Chad, Darius, or Kenji, who had all gone perfectly still.
He was looking directly at me. At the foot of glossy silicone disappearing into my body. At my thong, stretched and useless off to the side. At the absolute, undeniable spectacle of his son fucking himself raw on the living room furniture.
Time didn’t slow. It shattered.
A tidal wave of pure, freezing shame crashed over me. It was sharper than anything Cody had ever said, more profound than any public exposure. This was my father. The weight of his silent observation pressed the air from my lungs. My face, already flushed from exertion, burned with a catastrophic heat. I wanted to vanish, to disintegrate, for the glass table to swallow me whole.
But my body betrayed me.
The shame was intense, but the arousal was a live wire, a throbbing, animal demand that hadn’t been satisfied. The conflicting currents locked my muscles. I couldn’t pull off. I couldn’t move. The desperate need for release, now tangled with horror, short-circuited my brain. The pleasure, wound so tightly, refused to unwind. A desperate, broken sound leaked from my lips.
My dad’s eyes, a faded version of my own blue, didn’t widen in shock. They just… assessed. He took in the scene: his son, his son’s friends, the dildo, the casual chaos of it all. His expression was unreadable, a blank mask of weary comprehension.
Horniness blurred the shame, smearing it into something frantic and absurd. I had to say something. Anything. I had to make this normal.
“H-h-ey, Dad,” I choked out, my voice strangled and too high. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary twitch, a shallow grind down onto the toy. I couldn’t stop. The physical need was a frantic drumbeat underneath the panic. “You’re… home early.”
I was talking to my father while actively fucking myself. The surrealism of it made my head spin.
He blinked slowly. He shifted the grocery bag in his hand. “Supplier meeting got cancelled,” he said, his voice its usual gravelly tone. Nothing in it indicated he was looking at anything stranger than me doing homework. “Brought stuff for burgers.”
Another tiny, helpless thrust escaped me. A soft, wet sound accompanied it. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white. “Oh. Cool. Burgers.” I was nodding, a frantic, jerky motion. “We’re just… watching Exile Island. This is, um. This is part of it.”
My dad’s gaze flicked to the muted TV, where a frozen image of a contestant mid-confessional was now replaced by a pulsating video game ad. He looked back at me. A long, silent beat passed. Chad was a statue on the couch. Darius had his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking silently. Kenji stared fixedly at the floor.
Then, my dad nodded once. “Part of it,” he repeated, his tone flat. He turned and walked toward the kitchen, his boots heavy on the floor. “Don’t let me interrupt your… show.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. The swing of the door cut off the view.
The permission, however absurd and forced, was all the excuse my treacherous body needed. The shame dissolved, consumed by the blinding, imperative need to finish. A guttural groan tore loose from my chest. My focus narrowed again, but now it was fused with the knowledge that my dad was just feet away, listening to the sounds of me coming apart.
I rode the dildo in earnest, my movements becoming rough, selfish, and desperate. The table protested with sharp squeaks. I couldn’t be quiet now. I didn’t want to be.
“Dad!” I called out, my voice cracking on the word. I was panting, each downward plunge punching the air from my lungs. “Does Marcus… fuck… does he have the votes?!”
From the kitchen, the sound of the refrigerator door opening. A clink of glass bottles. Then his voice, calm as a pond. “Marcus is an arrogant prick. He’s gone tonight.”
His analysis, delivered so normally, tipped me over the edge. My orgasm ripped through me with a force that bent my spine. “YES! God, YES!” I screamed, not for Tucker, not for the fantasy, but for the surreal, unbearable truth of the moment. My release shot into the pouch of my thong, hot and soaking, as my ass clenched rhythmically around the silicone, milking nothing.
I collapsed forward onto the glass, spent and trembling, a mess of sweat and cum.
The door from the kitchen swung back open. My dad walked back into the living room, holding a beer. He glanced at me, a damp, shuddering heap on the table, then at the TV as the show’s theme music swelled back in.
“Commercial’s over,” he stated, taking a seat in his worn recliner. He didn’t look at me again.
Chad unmuted the TV. The solemn sounds of tribal council filled the room. I slowly, achingly, pulled myself off the toy and slid off the table, my legs weak. I tugged my thong back into place, wincing at the wet, warm mess. I sank onto the floor between the couch and the coffee table, pulling my knees to my chest.
My dad took a sip of his beer. “So you really think Jessica flips?” he asked Darius, as if I wasn’t there.
Darius, recovering, grinned. “I told you, man. Paul’s looking for a reason.”
“He’s a follower,” my dad grunted.
“Blake?” Kenji whispered, nudging me with his foot. His eyes were kind. “You okay?”
I just nodded, my brain too full to form words. I was hovering in a strange, numb space between dimensions.
“Shhh!” Chad hissed suddenly, leaning forward. “They’re reading the votes.”
The room fell silent, all of us—my father included—drawn into the flickering light of the screen. The host’s voice was a low drone. One vote for Jessica. One for Marcus. Another for Marcus. Then, a vote for Paul.
My dad nodded. “There it is.”
The next vote was for Marcus. Then another. The camera cut to Marcus’s face, his smug certainty dissolving into confusion, then dawning horror. He wasn’t holding the hidden idol. He had been completely fooled.
“I told you,” my dad murmured, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
When the final vote was read, sealing his fate, Marcus stood up. His face contorted, not with grace, but with a raw, childish fury. He snatched his torch, barely let the host snuff it, and stormed out of the tribal council set, his shoulders hunched, footsteps heavy and dramatic against the night sand.
“Wow,” I breathed, the word leaving me in a sigh.
My dad took another long pull of his beer. “Biggest baby on the island,” he said, and he almost smiled.