Risk it all and try for the last sack of cash, obviously!

Marcus is done playing it safe. Continuing the game comes with some serious risks, but he's way too tempted by the thought of $30,000 to just stop now.

He pauses a moment to come up with a strategy. The floor is totally slimed now, and the pool of cream beneath the cock statue is starting to expand outward toward the bags he's already saved sitting right beneath it against the wall. He moves them further away so they don't get caught in the growing lake of ooze.

Then he starts sprinting for bag five in the far right corner. As he gets closer, the cock starts bucking and spraying like never before. The audience gets hosed. The ceiling gets sprayed. A torrent of jizz busts across the room and slams into Marcus. He's knocked down and completely enveloped in a tidal wave of spunk. Struggling to stand on the slippery floor, Marcus gingerly wades toward sack number 5.

Every inch of his body is dripping with spooge. He realizes seconds before touching the bag that his hands are coated with cum. He needs to think fast or he'll have subjected himself to a hurricane of cock juice for no reason.

The announcer's voice is downright gleeful: "OH, NOOOO! Marcus is totally soaked! He can't possibly win now!"

Of course! He just needs to get the cum off his hand, right? He goes to town licking his hand clean, being careful to suck every drop from his fingers. Marcus grabs the bag with his newly cleaned hand and waits to see if it disappears.

It doesn't.

"Clever boy!" yells the announcer.

Marcus carefully makes his way back toward the starting position. The golden rod spurts wildly, but he manages to dodge the few ropes of jizz that come close.

Just as he approaches, though, everything goes horribly wrong. First, the cock rears up and begins spewing its biggest load yet. It pours down the back wall and a wave of cum begins rushing across the studio toward Marcus. He'll only have a few seconds before it washes up to his side of the room. All three of the recovered sacks lay in a corner nearby; if he doesn't slap the big low-hangers above him right now he's going to lose everything.

Marcus tries to take a running jump toward the big, golden orbs pulsing above, but he slips in the slimy pool of spunk below his feet and wipes out. As he lays there on his back, looking up at the throbbing metal fuckstick above him, the rushing wave of slick man-juice crashes over him. All three remaining bags of cash are soaked and immediately vanish.

The crowd squeals with delight at his misfortune.

The cock unloads another hurricane's worth of jizz.

The announcer wails, "OH, WOW! BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME! What a show! What a show! I wonder how long it'll take him to slap those balls and end the game, folks. Every second he spends soaking in that spooge is a even messier load from his cock!"

Another wave of spooge washes over Marcus. He's washed away toward the audience. There's so much he's swimming in it at this point, trying to paddle his way back toward the glistening, golden dong so he can slap its nuts and end this shitshow. He's **** on cream as it invades his nose and mouth.

By the time he makes it there, the room is full of spunk and he actually has to swim down below the surface to slap the golden nutsack.

A bell rings.

Marcus finds himself suddenly transported to a small room with three strangely black cards resting on a table before him. He is completely alone, but the announcer's voice seems to fill his head.

"Welcome to the third and final round, Marcus. Before you are three cards. You can turn over all of them or none of them or any number of them you choose. On the other side of each of the cards you'll find two scenarios you are **** to choose between. It's a game we like to call Would You Rather!"

Marcus was familiar with the game. He'd played something like it in college, except the scenarios didn't come true. This could be fun. Or, it could go very, very wrong.

"So what do you say, Marcus? Wanna play?"