Week 2's Summary

The lights dimmed, a single spotlight dropping as Rhett strolled onto the stage with exaggerated solemnity. The LED wall behind him flickered red, emblazoned with the words:

DISQUALIFIED: ZEKE KENSINGTON III

He gave the audience a slow shake of the head and adjusted his lapel like he was about to deliver a eulogy for someone who’d choked on their own hubris.

“Let’s start with the obvious, shall we?” he said, his voice steady. “Zeke Kensington the Third. He came in like a Wall Street wolf. Tried to dominate a professor. Didn’t take no for an answer. And got precisely what you’d expect when you pull that shit with a Queen who has a black belt.”

The screen lit up with a dramatic slow-motion reenactment—Rhett’s production team had clearly had fun with this. A shadowy male silhouette was flipped over a desk by a sleek figure in heels. A voiceover muttered, “I said no,” followed by the exaggerated crunch of a shoulder hitting linoleum. The lights came back up to scattered laughter, applause, and a few gasps.

“Midweek, he got grabby. She responded like any trained martial artist would—with precision and probable paperwork. The show’s over for Zeke. Disqualified. Card removed. Life lesson gifted.”

He let that sit for a moment before clapping his hands together.

“But enough about what happens when you forget what consent means. Let’s turn to the people who actually played the damn game right. Week 2 was full of strategy, surprises, and some jaw-dropping plays. We're running in order, oldest to youngest. So buckle up.”

The screen behind Rhett shifted to footage of Helena Vasquez sitting at a polished wooden desk, dressed not for power like she normally did, but in a bright pink romper suit. She signed a glittery pastel contract with the handwritten title:

“Baby Girl’s Rules”

There was a doodle of a teddy bear in the corner and a sticker that read Be Soft But Bite.

Rhett leaned toward the screen. “Let's be clear - that might say Baby Girl's Rules and not **** Contract, but it's full of the same kind of language, surrendering rights to her 'Daddy', accepting responsibilities, and more. You can call a rose a fire engine, but it still has thorns!”

The room murmured as the clip played Helena standing, crossing her arms, and arching one brow at Graham before nodding once. Graham gave a subtle nod back. Cut to black.

“Okay. I have to ask,” Rhett said, turning to the board member. “How in the hell did you get a woman like Helena to sign that in under a week?”

A stunned voice in the crowd muttered, “That’s not seduction, that’s sorcery.”

Graham lifted his mic without fuss. “We’ve been in a DD/lg arrangement for months. This was just… formalizing it for the show.”

A beat passed before someone near the back called out, “That’s cheating!”

Another chimed in: “You smug bastard!”

Graham only smiled. “Who said life was fair? We play the hand we're given and I... well, I got given the best there is!”

Rhett grinned like a man watching a slow-motion train crash. “Two diamonds now—Delilah and Helena. Are we looking at a flush?”

“Maybe a straight. Or both,” Graham said mildly. “Plenty of runway left.”

Rhett’s tone shifted into something vaguely professorial. “Next, our dignified, rule-abiding professor, proving once again that tenure doesn’t guarantee results.”

The screen showed a dimly lit shot of Rebekah Flores sitting across from Simon in a campus café. They sipped coffee. She leaned forward… and then laughed softly, shaking her head. Simon leaned back. Fade to black.

The crowd exploded with groans.

“You didn’t even get a kiss?” someone shouted.

“Bro, don’t you know what office hours are for?” another added.

Rhett winced in sympathy. “Was that… a rejection or a philosophical detour?”

Simon straightened his collar. “We had a deeply stimulating conversation about the ethics of mutual objectification in romantic partnerships.”

Cassie tilted her head. “Translation: you got friendzoned by a six.”

"Should have offered her an A to suck your D!" yelled someone in the audience.

Simon cleared his throat. “I locked in four points last week. I'm not worried.”

Tank snorted. “Maybe don’t talk about stimulation until you’ve had some.”

Rhett’s smile widened as the footage changed. “And now, our returning champ. Calm. Collected. Calculated. She scored with Kaori last week and went after Lila Moreno this round. Let’s see what she’s been up to.”

The screen played a dim but evocative clip—Lila on her stomach, her fingers gripping the sheets as Cassie moved behind her. There was no mistaking what was happening, and Lila was cooing in delight.

"Anal!" said Rhett.

From off-camera, a voice in the audience asked the dumbest possible question: “Wait, how’d you do anal with another girl?”

Cassie didn’t miss a beat. “You free later? I’ll let you feel how good I am with a strap on. I have several.”

Laughter. Loud, prolonged, and slightly stunned.

Rhett just stared at her with mock reverence. “That’s the moment I knew we had a champion.”

Cassie smirked. “Some people build empires. I build collections.”

“And what are you building now?” Rhett asked. “Flush? Straight?”

“I’ve got two hearts and momentum. Call it a rising curve.”

“Next up,” Rhett announced, “the man everyone dismissed as the strong-but-dumb type. Then he started stacking clubs like he was building a weapons arsenal for cavemen.”

The screen played a smooth edit: Claire’s playful blowjob in Week 1, Tamika’s slick handjob at a study table, and Shawna—yes, reserved Shawna—gasping as Tank bent her over a philosophy book.

Then the cards appeared: 2♣, 3♣, 4♣.

The murmurs started immediately.

“He’s building a straight flush,” someone whispered.

Cassie blinked. “Wait… you reserved a card and scored with her the same week?”

Tank shrugged modestly. “Seemed smart. Wasn’t going to wait around.”

Cassie chuckled. “I didn’t think of that. You mean football players actually have a brain? Who knew?”

Rhett pointed. “From our champ, that’s the equivalent of a standing ovation.”

Tank just grinned. “Three cards down. Two to go.”

“And if he lands both?” Rhett said. “Straight flush. Even low cards’ll go nuclear.”

The screen flickered to life again—this time, a night-time rooftop shot. Milo leaned against a telescope as Wendy straddled him, back arched, riding him hard while silhouetted against the city skyline. There was no doubt they were on camera. The lights of the science building blazed behind them. A few distant cheers echoed from a nearby frat house balcony.

“Public Sex ×8,” Rhett announced. “With actual witnesses and a cosmic backdrop.”

Milo raised both hands. “She wanted to swing on a star... I told her to smile for the camera.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “Smile? Don't you mean scream?”

“Are you holding or locking?” Rhett asked.

“Holding,” Milo said. “Maya and Wendy are both spades. I’m feeling lucky.”

The lights dimmed again.

“And finally,” Rhett said, “our fresher. The guy who made his debut with a public stream in Week 1. This week, he pulled a ten. Literally. And not just any ten. Chloe Davenport. Marketing major. OnlyFans royalty. 100% into women.”

The video began: Chloe straddling him, his arms bound tight to the chair. Her voice echoed from the screen: “Let’s be clear—he doesn’t matter. This is a science experiment.”

The footage cut to her post-coital smirk.

“Nope. Still gay. This one’s off the list.”

The audience roared with laughter. Someone shouted, “She graded your dick!”

The protagonist shrugged. “She still gave me a pass… more or less.”

Rhett choked on laughter. “And what are you doing with the card?”

There was a pause. Then you spoke with determination.

“I’m locking in the score. BDSM ×7. Fifty points. But I’m asking you to take Chloe out of the deck. She’s not part of this game. She did this for herself—and maybe a little for Kailani—but it’s not her scene. She shouldn’t be drawn again. Ever.”

A hush fell as people considered you letting the possibility of a high straight go to respect a stranger's desires. Rhett gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

“Consider it done.”

Rhett tapped his tablet, and the scoreboard appeared on the LED wall behind him. Six names remained. One had been removed completely.

“Well, here’s where we stand,” he said, pacing slowly as the numbers glowed.

Protagonist: 50 points (locked BDSM with Chloe)

Simon Rourke: 4 points (locked kiss with Madison)

Everyone else: Still holding. Still gambling.

“Only two of you have locked in anything. One of you did it with a woman who literally left the game immediately after—respectfully, of course.” He winked.

“Others?” He gestured at Graham, Cassie, Milo. “You’re building hands. Bluffing. Stacking suits and praying the next draw doesn’t screw you sideways.”

He stopped at Tank.

“And one of you is three cards deep into a low-stakes nightmare that might just cash out like a straight flush from hell.”

A ripple of laughter followed.

Then his tone sharpened.

“Remember—after Week 4, the player with the lowest locked score is out. Doesn’t matter how good your hand looks if you never play it.”

He let that hang.

“You’ve got two weeks. Two shots. No do-overs. Pick your partners. Play your cards. And for the love of sex-positive strategy, lock something in before you get Zeke’d.”

He clapped once.

“Week 3 begins now.”