The Hotwife Games Ch. 19

It was loud. Very loud. He clamped his hand over his mouth.

But it was too late...

Daisey turned to look.

Kevin looked over too. So did the eight studly bulls.

At first, Daisey seemed dazed by Rakesh's presence. Then comprehension poured over her. Finally, a gleam of frantic excitement spiked her eyes. She leaped off her haunches.

Rakesh was surprised by her beaming face. The racist hotwife had certainly never been this enthused to see him before.

"Rakesh!" she screamed.

With the heavy strap-on still fastened to her naked waist, she rushed towards him.

It hit him like a sledgehammer.

She was after the five million dollar prize. If she made him cum, all that money would be the Monets'. And now, somehow, miraculously, her golden goose had landed right in her lap!

Rakesh backpedaled fast.

The petite wife sped towards him. Her hair and skin were soaked, and the strap-on wobbled awkwardly at her waist.

Rakesh reached the door. He turned and worked the handle.

It was jammed. A wooden, medieval padlock prevented any egress.

Rakesh panicked, shimmying the lever hard. It didn't give.

He felt a body press up behind him as the synthetic heft of the strap-on hit his lower back.

"I'm going to make you cum, Rakesh," Daisey threatened.

Rakesh tried to wheel around, protesting — when suddenly, he was overpowered.

Two of the men that had been fucking Daisey were on either side of him. They pushed the young banker down onto his hands and knees. Rakesh gasped out.

He heard the racist hotwife giggle cruelly behind him.

"You're gonna cum no matter what," Daisey said.

Rakesh struggled desperately, but the iron grips of the larger men held him in place. His ass was poised up in the air much like Kevin's had been, mere seconds ago. His heart raced, sensing that a similar humiliation was coming.

He felt the hard knob of Daisey's strap-on dildo pry apart his cheeks and press against his vulnerable hole.

He knew what was coming.

And his dick was growing maddeningly hard.

"You're gonna blow your load, and I'm getting that five million."

The other men gathered around for the depraved spectacle. More hands joined the fray, forcing Rakesh's wriggling body to lock in place. Daisey began to push forward.

"Okay!" Rakesh shouted.

She paused. The bulge of the strap-on lingered at the entrance to his asshole.

"Okay, yes. Fuck me. I'm just... I'm not used to it yet," Rakesh said. "If it's smoother, I'll like it more. I'll cum faster."

"Fuck is he babbling about?" asked one of the bulls.

"Let me lube it up!" Rakesh said. He looked back over his shoulder at Daisey. "I'l suck on it. Like your good little brown slave..."

Rakesh noted the twinkle that suddenly shone into Daisey's eyes.

He had intuited, correctly, that the performatively progressive wife would thrill at the chance to dominate Rakesh racially.

"You can fuck my submissive brown ass... but let me suck your cock for you, madam."

She pulled her hips back, and the dildo slipped from between his ass-cheeks.

"Get him on his knees," Daisey commanded.

The other men released their grasps. Rakesh turned and they rough-housed him onto his knees before her. Daisey stood so the strap-on dangled obscenely in the banker's face.

"Suck my dick, you Indian bitch," Daisey cackled.

Rakesh could practically smell her pussy flowing with moisture behind the large black strap-on. The petite racist woman was thrilled to recklessly bring her prejudices out of the closet.

Rakesh stared at the big, glistening knob before his nose. He gulped.

Hep laced his hands on the back of Daisey's waist. He opened his mouth wide.

He began to suck the giant fake cock.

The men around cheered and jeered, applauding and mocking the humiliated cuckold. Daisey herself giggled headily, elated at her racist conquest.

"Suck! That! Dick!" chanted the Sri Lankan man, prompting the others to join in.

Rakesh's cheeks burned as he fellated the racist slut's strap-on dildo. But his hands fumbled about behind her...

The small crowd was caught up in cheering the depraved spectacle. Even Daisey had joined in the mocking chant, rocking her hips and face-fucking Rakesh.

They didn't notice Rakesh's fingers groping for the clasp on the strap-on's holster. He snapped it open.

He bit his teeth down on the rubbery rod and pulled clean backwards.

The strap-on came loose around Daisey's waist. He grabbed it, turned, leapt up, and smashed the heavy synthetic dick into the wooden padlock fastening the door.

A crack fissured through the wood. But it stayed intact.

Rakesh smashed down on it once more.

The others took a few seconds to process the sudden turn of events. And then they snapped into action.

A man yelled out, grabbing at Rakesh's arm.

Rakesh swung around and slammed the dildo hard into his assailant's eye.

The beefy attacker yelped in a pubescent voice. When two other men jumped forth, Rakesh brained them both with the heavy phallus.

The banker was in full fight-or-flight, swinging the dildo before him wildly, like a cornered animal defending its life.

With the rest of the men and Daisey holding back or dodging the flailing strap-on, Rakesh brought his free fist down on the padlock. The fractured wood fell to the ground and shattered.

Rakesh turned the lever, waving the black dildo incessantly. The door cracked open. He scurried through it.

On the other side, Rakesh jammed he heavy door shut. He pulled hard on the handle, as someone yanked it from the other side. There were loud bangs on the door. The men yelled for him.

It would be seconds before more of them grabbed the lever and overpowered him.

Thinking fast, Rakesh looked at the strap-on in his fist. He squeezed it through the door handle, jamming its rubbery tube in just far enough to block the door from being pulled open.

It may not buy him a lot of time, but it would get him just enough.

He swung around and huffed up a tunnel of stairs.

Rakesh's legs burned and his breaths were ragged. Medieval iconography blurred past him on both sides.

Finally, he found himself in front of a door whose edges glowed with faint, promising light.

An exit.

—

Rakesh emerged from the dark torture den into the fading daylight. Clouds had gathered in the formerly pristine sky, now leaden and gray. Rakesh had been so fixated on finishing his libidinous quest within the three-hour time limit that he'd hardly noticed the changing skies. But as an early twilight melted in around the island, he understood why the Games had timed the last challenge as they had.

In the final fifty minutes remaining to him, the world would go dark. On Gael's remote tropical paradise, there were several passages with almost nothing around to light his way.

And still, a propitious sight loomed in front of him. The KraftBank building stretched up into the dusky sky, its windows gleaming with light.

Rakesh began to move for it. He halted just as fast.

A screen was mounted up on the young kauri tree directly outside the exit. It flickered faintly, signifying that it was turned on. But the feed was dead.

Rakesh knew instantly that Diana had moved away from the office building.

The searching husband felt his heart drop like an anchor-weight. He looked at his watch. Forty-nine minutes and change.

He wheeled around, realizing that, for the first time, he didn't have the faintest clue about where to proceed next. A helpless, desperate angst compressed his throat.

The office tower was finally before him — but its presence had turned moot. A rocky shelf to his left led up to a thicket of flowering shrubs, beyond which was the faint outline of Gael's gymnasium, shimmering in the violet evening. To his right the hillside sloped down through a brambled dirt path where a —

Hold the fuck on.

Rakesh blinked in astonishment.

In seconds, his feet were moving of their own volition, making a beeline towards the improbable artifact sitting at the mouth of the thin dirt road.

Gael's ruby-red roadster.

At first the young financier didn't know if it was, in fact, the same open buggy he had driven from the gym and ultimately crashed into the barricade outside the Sapphic Garden. Then, as he neared it, he saw that the front bumper was warped and scraped from that same collision.

He didn't understand. Had Gael driven the buggy all the way here, just for his benefit?

The sheaf of paper lodged in the steering wheel further affirmed Rakesh's intuitions.

He unfolded a map of the island. It was akin to the ones he'd spotted in the audience members' hands, at the outset of the Challenge and outside the soundstages.

It was detailed, with marked pathways, and every structure labeled neatly. A thrill shivered up Rakesh's arms and neck.

A particular spot stood out on the map. It was a squat gray patch proximal to Gael's mansion, so nondescript that Rakesh had obviously missed it from his bird's-eye vantage point at the top of the hill.

It stood out because it had been marked by a thick, felt-tip marker.

A large, red 'X' covered it prominently.

Rakesh's heart raced.

Holy shit, the fucker really did like him.

Was it their mutual love for Diana? Was it the reconciliatory conversation they had had that morning, after the erotic, three-way shower? Or was he just doing this so that Diana could have the five million too? — After all, Gael did consider her the love of his life.

He could ponder Gael's motivations as he drove. It was time to find Diana.

At long last, it was time to win the Hotwife Games.

—

INT. CONTROL CENTER - EVENING

Amelia squints closely at the screen. On the monitor, an angle that should have a clear view of Rakesh near the roadster is obscured by thick leaves in the extreme foreground.

AMELIA

"What's going on with 15Z?"

(wheeling on her techs)

"Did someone move the camera... into a bush?!"

The TECHNICIANS are jus as befuddled.

AMELIA

"Did no one see this happening? Check 16 through 20."

The screens toggle to other camera views.

DARK. Also DARK. Still DARK...

AMELIA

"The hell is going on? Who has access to these feeds?"

Before the other techs can respond, Amelia already has the answer.

AMELIA

"Gael..."

—

Rakesh whipped the open buggy over dirt paths and cobblestones, with far more speed than before. He didn't know his descent was protected from the view of the disconnected cameras, and he didn't have the mental space to comprehend it anyway. He cared about one thing: Diana. She was so close he could smell her.

He had the map spread out on his lap as he descended the hill, and soon enough he wound his way to the demarcated target.

Rakesh stepped out from the roadster. He understood why he hadn't noticed the structure from his viewpoint atop the island.

The gray edifice was, basically, an overlarge electrical kiosk. Wires and thermoplastic piping ran in criss-cross patterns into the outer walls of the low shed.

This was the final hiding spot for Diana?

Rakesh blinked.

Of course.

He would never have suspected it in a million years.

His timer ticked down past forty-five minutes. His pulse quickened with each careful step as Rakesh approached the big, concrete box. There was a small, brick-red door that stood slightly ajar. He opened it. It gave a long, low creak.

—

Rakesh entered the dark space.

He blinked as his eyes attempted to adjust to the suffocating gloom.

"Diana?" he called. His voice came out hopeful, but shaky.

There was no response.

Everything was eerily quiet. The musty bunker of a room was nearly totally dark, the only light slanting in from the semi-shut door.

The dim chamber was chock-full. Full of... things. The walls were collaged with papers. They looked like images and typescript — all indiscernible in the dingy light, taped against exposed wiring. It looked like a fire hazard waiting to happen.

Rakesh edged forward and almost tripped. Manila boxes littered the floor, bellied and spilling over with more indistinct paraphernalia.

Just one thing was clear as day. Diana was nowhere in sight.

And yet, the tiny hairs on the back of Rakesh's neck were suddenly standing up...

Something. Something about the few details he could discern in the patchy half-light...

In a way, Diana was here.

The naked financier uneasily groped his way forward. In the murk, he saw something reflecting the pale light from outside. It was a naked lightbulb, hanging off the ceiling.

A long brass chain dangled down to shoulder-level. Rakesh yanked it.

A sickly glow crawled over the walls, revealing the chamber's sordid secrets.

—

CAMERA rotates a slow 360 degrees. Mirroring Rakesh's rotation in the opposite direction.

His breath intensifies as he turns, taking in the full import of the stuffy room.

—

The entire space formed a portrait of a sickening obsession. An obsession that had mushroomed over decades.

There were printed text conversations, grayscale screenshots, long transcripts. There were elaborate, detailed plans and counter-plans, sketched into meticulous flowcharts.

There were photographs — many photographs — including some obviously culled from social media and public records.

But more disturbingly, there were several that Rakesh had never seen before: Shots taken through office windows and on rainy London streets. Shots through a long, telephoto lens. Shots from outside the windows of the Vaibhavs' home.

They were all pictures of Diana.

Tracing her upwards from college age all the way to the present day, they formed an eerie, stalkerish shrine to Diana that sent ice shooting down Rakesh's spine.

Rakesh's memory flickered to the game room the night before. He'd been given the impression of an impromptu, halted plan for revenge, concocted after an offhand chat with a hacking consultant. This room painted a completely different picture. The online tracking seemed to have merely been the third act of a long, disturbing mania, bordering on psychopathy.

The boxes on the floor overflowed with transcripts of texts, e-mails, and even vacation itineraries. Rakesh only had to give them a cursory glance to know that they were all familiar to him. They were his and Diana's.

There was also a flat-screen propped up in the corner. Its reflective surface was currently dark. Rakesh shuddered to think about exactly what illicit surveillance had played on it over the years.

A coil space heater flickered a dull orange in the corner. It was a small, chipped, long-dated metallic model — perhaps installed years ago to keep the room warm on long, cold island nights.

And then there was the chair.

An unassuming brown leather low-back sat in the very center of the small room, facing the covered walls. Its upholstery had thinned out nearly all the way. The leather was heavily worn. Someone had spent a lot of time sitting in it.

It also signaled something else with certainty, something that had been clear to Rakesh since he had stepped into the musty den: not only was Diana not here, but this kiosk played no part in the final challenge at all. It had nothing to do with The Hotwife Games.

Behind Rakesh, the door creaked open.

—

BLACK.

TITLE CARD:

VI.

Gael Sankur

in

SONG OF VICE AND FIRE

—

Gael stepped into the sallow light of the room.

"It isn't always this messy," he lied with a smile.

Rakesh wasn't smiling back. He was white as a sheet.

"You're fucking crazy," he whispered.

Gael stepped closer. The pale yellow of the bulb caught his handsome features, which only reinforced Rakesh's assertion. Gael's grin stretched over his mouth like saran wrap. There was a spiky, unhinged quality in his eyes that the other man hadn't perceived until this moment.

Of course he'd never seen that crazed gleam before. Gael was one of the finest actors in the world.

"You didn't have a 'change of heart' about your revenge plan," Rakesh said, the words forming as the truth cascaded over him. "This was all part of it... This was your plan for revenge..."

"You're so smart," Gael said. The saran-wrap grin stuck as he edged closer. "For a little banker boy."

"You used those acting skills to say all the right things to Diana, all the right things to win her over."

"And to make your wife fall in love with me. All over again," Gael responded. The sick grin stretched impossibly wider. "I am good, aren't I? Tell me I'm good, Rakesh."

Rakesh didn't know why he found himself backing up, slowly, towards the crammed wall behind him.

Perhaps it was the way Gael was advancing, slowly, his hands clasped behind his broad back, his odd, unsmiling eyes boring a hole into him.

The financier had a gut-wrenching realization.

"And me, too," he said. "That little chat in the gym. The shower today. Letting me borrow that roadster. You won my trust, too... All along, I was a fucking pawn."

Gael stepped closer. Rakesh stepped back.

"Is that it, Gael? You wanted Diana, and I was just collateral damage..."

The other man slowly shook his head.

"Wrong," Gael said.

Rakesh's eyes dropped. The movie star's right arm extended in his direction.

"For a smart boy, you need to get your tenses right," Gael said, the strange grin clenching wider. "You are collateral damage."

He was holding a sub-compact Beretta pistol. It was pointed at Rakesh.

—

More coming soon...