Week 4 Summary and Point-based Elimination

The camera opens on the Sigma Epsilon Phi common room—reimagined for Sunday night tradition. Gone are the beer pong tables and half-zipped hoodies. In their place: polished floors, theatrical lighting, and the centerpiece of the night—a massive wall-mounted digital display casting a quiet glow over everything.

This is The College Spread, and tonight, the house becomes a temple.

Rhett walks into frame with that signature mix of frat boy swagger and late-night host timing. His blazer is midnight blue, shirt open at the collar, one hand already in motion as the screen behind him begins its weekly cycle—stats, player names, rotating footage from the challenges you’re all about to see.

“Ladies, legends, and libidinous liabilities—welcome back to The College Spread.”

The crowd roars. Students pressed close to the camera line shout and wave their drinks. Further back, the noise softens to eager tension.

“It’s Week Four. Draft ran oldest to youngest—because nothing says fairness like punishing freshmen for their birthdates.”

A few boos. Some laughs. The digital display flashes the draft order and score standings, scrolling cleanly behind him.

“We’ve seen heat, heartbreak, and enough questionable decision-making to qualify as its own poli-sci case study. And now it’s time to see what stuck—what scored—and who’s about to wish they spent more time on foreplay.”

Behind him, the screen flares to life with full profiles of each player. The room quiets slightly as the list settles.

“As always, we go in pick order. And that means we’re starting with the boardroom bruiser himself. The man with the diamond plan. Graham. West.”

The image swells—Graham’s face larger than life, one eyebrow cocked like he’s already halfway to his next deal.

“Let’s see if he cashed in—or got taken for a ride.”

The lights shift. The College Spread screen behind Rhett flickers into motion, and a new set of images begin to roll.

The first is simple. Stark.

Kaitlyn Reid—5♦, Marketing, 21—is on her knees on a thick rug, hands cuffed loosely behind her back. She’s wearing a burgundy camisole that matches her sweater from the card photo, now falling off one shoulder. Her head is bowed, expression calm, almost meditative. You can just make out the corner of Graham’s expensive shoes in the frame.

Rhett gestures to the screen behind him with a wry grin.

"Starting with the 5 of Diamonds—Kaitlyn Reid. A card that, according to her file, 'tries hard, but doesn’t stand out.' Graham... you made her stand out just fine. How’d you get her to sign on for a BDSM scene?"

Graham leans forward slightly, fingers templed, voice smooth.

"I'd say you got the 'does not stand out' very wrong. She’s a master’s student at 21. She in advanced marketing. Smart. Focused. Going places. I offered her full tuition, books, housing—all covered for her degree. Call it talent acquisition. I plan to hire her in three years. Call this... onboarding."

There’s a ripple of noise from the crowd—half whistles, half groans. Several are booing him trying to buy the game.

"Damn!" Rhett laughs, shaking his head. "You didn’t just play the game, you bought a piece of the future."

The screen shifts.

Now we see Yvonne Moreau—Empress♦, International Business, 40. She’s seated at an upscale restaurant, elegant as always in a crimson sleeveless dress. Her lipstick matches her nails. One hand holds a wine glass. The other? Is sliding confidently into Graham’s lap. She turns her head just enough to wink directly at the hidden camera.

The crowd erupts.

"And let’s not forget the Empress! Tenured Professor Yvonne Moreau... and what looks like a very hands-on approach to international affairs."

Graham chuckles.

"Let’s not kid ourselves, Rhett. The game doesn’t just pull random faculty from the directory. The deck’s been carefully curated. These ladies? Some of them are already open to a little extracurricular contact. The professor and I just had a long, civil conversation about emerging markets... and some mutual interests emerged."

"So, Graham... this is the week you lock in your flush?"

"Absolutely. No more waiting."

The screen flashes again. One by one, the five cards making up the diamond flush appear across the screen:

2♦, 5♦, 8♦, 10♦, Empress♦

Each lights up in turn, their challenge scores calculate in front of your eyes and are totaled. The total itself blows up by a factor of 10 for the flush multiplier and the score counter explodes with diamonds, flashing "TOTAL SCORE: 2990!" The screen lights up with the ranked score table once more and Graham's score of -80 gets the new hand added, sending him right to the top on 2910.

The audience roars.

Graham just leans back, calm and confident.

"Calculated Closer," Rhett says with a grin. "Ladies and gentlemen... Mr. West."

The screen behind Rhett shifts with a soft chime, the College Spread logo giving way to sultry, candle-warm lighting. A video begins to roll.

Isadora Bloom appears on screen, seated comfortably in a dark academic office lined with leather-bound books. Her red curls cascade over one shoulder, her wine-colored dress clinging in all the right places. She’s laughing—low, confident, and utterly in control—as she leans forward, one hand casually resting on the thigh of a man just out of frame.

Her voice is picked up clearly enough for the audience to catch the punchline. “And what if the student asks the professor to correct her grammar… while inside her?”

The crowd loves it.

Rhett grins, turning to where Rourke sits, calm as ever in his seat near the edge of the stage.

“Now that,” Rhett says, “wasn’t exactly a pop quiz. Care to explain how you managed to coax a Jenny like Isadora Bloom into a Regular challenge?”

Rourke lifts his tablet slightly in a muted gesture of acknowledgment. His voice, when it comes, is smooth and unhurried. “She’s an accomplished writer. I’ve been helping her shape a new manuscript—something a little taboo, exploring intergenerational power dynamics. I provided some... structural support.”

Rhett raises an eyebrow, smirking. “And by that you mean?”

“She found the shape convincing.”

That earns another burst of laughter from the room.

Rhett composes himself, then continues. “So what are we registering for the challenge?”

“Regular sex. Multiplier of five.”

“And are you locking her in?”

“Naturally,” Rourke says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The screen updates. Professor Rourke's previous score of 4 turns into a 79, leapfrogging your score of 10.

Rhett gestures to the numbers. “From four points to seventy-nine in one week. Quiet hustle from our oldest player. Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Rourke—proof that even tenure can come with extra credit.”

The crowd whoops as the scene fades and Rhett turns toward the next player. Perhaps it's time to reassess the kind of player Rourke is, and the threat he poses.

The lights shift hue again—deeper now, edged with crimson—as the wall-sized screen behind Rhett fades into a new image. The unmistakable silhouette of a woman mid-stride on a running track fills the frame. Her posture is electric, every muscle in her legs and glutes pulled taut under a black sprint suit, a golden spike hanging loosely from one hand.

Amina Okoye

10 of Clubs

Sports Medicine, 20

“Catch her if you can.”

The audience whoops. Some cheers come from the athletes’ section of the house; clearly, her name carries weight outside the game too.

Rhett grins. “Well, well... she can be caught. Provided you’ve got a little tactical cunning—and maybe a reputation like our returning champ.”

He gestures broadly to where Cassie Li is seated, legs crossed, unbothered, sipping a drink like the whole thing’s beneath her notice.

“Cassie, tell us—was this just pure skill, or did you bait the trap with something extra?”

Cassie gives the barest shrug. “She was curious. I was convincing.”

Rhett laughs. “That’s one way to frame it. You didn’t just convince her—you brought her into the fold and completed a full Regular Sex challenge.”

A nod from Cassie. “She wanted to know how it felt to lose control without ever losing the race. I let her feel fast. Then I caught her. I used a strap on as a baton and taught her how to REALLY run a relay.”

The audience roars. Even a few players clap.

Rhett raises an eyebrow. “Question is—are you locking Amina in for points... or holding her to build your hand?”

Cassie sips again, lets the silence breathe, then says, “Locking.”

Rhett nods, impressed. “Bold. But it makes sense. With Kaori at 6♥, Lila at 7♥, and Camila at 8♥ already in your hand or reserve, there's no point burning their hearts for a night at the club.”

He swivels back to the camera as the scene of Amina unzipping her sprint suit in Cassie’s dorm flashes up behind him, her laugh just audible through the studio speakers.

“A solid ten-point card, ×5 for the challenge—that’s fifty more points added to Cassie’s rapidly growing total.”

A quick hand motion brings the scoreboard up on the side panel.

Cassie Li – Total Score: 165

The scoreboard doesn't change as she maintains second place.

Rhett glances back over his shoulder at Milo, mock-serious. “Which, by the way, makes both Okoye sisters now officially in play. Milo’s still holding Amara, the 8♠. Maybe we should have made their mother an honorary professor?”

Laughter ripples through the room. Milo just tips his glass in salute.

Rhett gives a final nod to the camera. “Two Okoyes, one power move. Let’s see if Cassie plays the long game straight into a flush. But for now—on to our next contender.”

He turns his attention to the college quarterback, Tank Marshall, who looks very uncomfortable to be under the spotlight right now.

"Tank," says Rhett. "Last week you played a power play card for 20 points that meant if you FAIL a challenge this week it would counts as a SUCCESS for a kiss challenge instead, right?"

Tank just nods.

"And that's why you're sitting at -45 right now?"

Another nod.

Rhett looks into the darkness of the room. "Moderator, will you play along with me for a moment please? I want to examine the... shall we saaaay INTERESTING relationship our quarterback has with the field of mathematics. Reset his score to what it would have been had he not made that power play. We'll factor it back in later."

At once the score on the board changes to -25. The positions don't change of course. He's still sandwiched between Milo on -80 and you on 10. A 35 point difference just to draw equal.

"Now, if we turn to the screen... we see a club come swinging onto the scene, a 6 of clubs actually. Rebekah Flores, the card you had in reserve."

The scene shifts to show an attractive young woman with dark hair kneeling demurely at Tank's feet. She looks up with soft eyes and say. "I hereby pledge myself to my mighty master Tank Marshall..." and she holds up a signed contract.

"That, my friend, is what I'd call a good play. She might only be a six but you actually got her to agree to be your sex ****?"

"For one night... that's ok isn't it? I mean, I had to promise to help coach her kid brother's football team for the year, but she did it."

There's some chuckling around the room. Cassie actually winces into a laugh. Tank must have been **** here.

"How long a contract lasts depends on the two people who sign it," says Rhett. "I'm assuming you're locking those 60 points in since you're in dire straights right now?"

Tank nods. At once the scores adjust. The 60 points is added to his current score making it 35. He leapfrogs you into a position that, with just a 2 to play, would have been unbeatable.

"Now, what happened with your other card, the one you actually selected this week. Priya Patel, the four of clubs."

Tank's actually blushing and shifting very uncomfortably in his seat. "I'd... er... rather not talk about it," he mumbles. "Let's just say I tried the **** contract and failed."

Rhett laughs. "Failed... Yeah, that's one word for it. She kicked you in the balls for suggesting it and stormed off and while you didn't send in any footage, you were caught by the security cameras and thankfully our head of security is a prior player of the game. He sent us this."

The screen changes again to show a young Indian woman storming off into the distance as Tank rolls on the ground howling and clutching his groin.

"Shame they don't have mixed football here really," says Rhett. "She looks like she'd be a lot better than the guy we're using as a kicker now."

He waits for the roars of laughter to die down. A cheer picks up slowly through the crowd "Tanks junk got sunk!" Finally they quiet down again.

Rhett turns back to the board. "Still, if we go with the points from last week if you HADN'T played that power play card you would STILL be at an unassailable 35 points. It's not exactly a lot but our fresher wouldn't have a chance of beating you with the card he pulled. But we'll consider the actual state of play in a moment."

He turns to Milo. "And now we have the Jackson Pollock of the College Spread players, our own art student who lives for Chaos, Milo Gutierrez."

Milo raises a hand in greeting, but the smile he has doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Milo," says Rhett. "At the start of this week, you were on -80, joint last with Graham, the man we've just seen roar into first place like the Ferrari he drives."

There's a round of mixed discussion, cheering and boos. It looks like most of the audience have not forgiven Graham for buying his lead rather than competing for it on his own terms. He gives them the look of someone used to shutting down objections.

"And you decided to go for Dr. Selene Ravensmoor to complete your hand. If you got her that would be a full spade flush with three face cards, the Jenny, Queen and Empress included. That would be one hell of a coup, but as we know Selene was attacked in week two by someone I am choosing not to even mention so she MUST have been a nearly impossible woman to get any kind of score from..."

The noise from the crowd is picking up. Nobody could have got her to agree to do ANYTHING with them after that and when he Milo had to tell her it was for a sex game and she realized that's why she had been attacked... she'd go ballistic. But Rhett wasn't just dropping hints, he was flying damn flags. Milo had somehow managed the impossible.

"I hear you," says Rhett, raising his hands for quiet. He gets it, sort of. "But difficult though it might have been our boy managed to complete the SECOND successful **** contract challenge of the week."

The noise stops dead, dropping into a stunned silence.

"And let's see how that contract signing went shall we?"

The screen switches to a picture of Milo signing a piece of paper, on top of which very clearly written are the words "I bind my soul to..."

Selene, standing nearby looks straight into the camera with a smile that has little to do with appreciation and everything to do with ****. "Never fuck with a witch, children," she chuckles. "You might not like the spell she casts on you! Rhett, I think that's your name isn't it, Mr. Game Host, I'm sending you a copy of this contract which your little boy signed of his own free will. The last time he'll be exercising free will until the end of the academic year!"

The laughter starts low as they realize Milo flipped the script and only won by surrendering himself to her.

"Let's look at a few of the clauses shall we?" A line of writing in gothic font appears on the screen. "Oh it doesn't start too bad. Looking at this, you're just signing up to be her gopher. Any time, day or night, seven days a week, even during holidays."

The laughter builds. Another line appears.

"Oh wait, you're forbidden from having an orgasm without her permission? That's rough, man."

Heads are shaking. Graham seems the most animated he's ever been as he suggests Milo contact him to learn how to recognize contracts you should avoid signing.

"And what's this... oh when you told her about the game she put a clause in there that says SHE gets to choose every part of your challenge. Does that mean she's watching right now? Usually only College Spread players, past and present, get to watch, but we can make an exception. I expect you've given her access to your account?"

Milo nods. His phone buzzes. He checks it and says, "She sent a text saying she's here and she's going to make me pay."

The room is bursting with laughter and shouts of ridicule. Milo's cool status is gone. Now he's become a bigger joke than Tank.

"Ok, Professor," says Rhett. "Since you're now in control of his choices Milo will ONLY score if he chooses the Ladies of the College Spread deck that you specify and completes the challenge cards you specify. You also get to say what and when he should hold or lock in. You are in complete control, Dr. Ravensmoor. Welcome to the game!"

His phone buzzes again. "She says she's looking forward to it," says Milo as he reads the text. "Please help me..."

"Oh I think you're beyond help at this point," says Rhett, "But at least it won't last all that long. Look at clause 13."

Another line of gothic text springs onto the screen.

"You agree to be the human sacrifice at her coven's Samhain celebration. That's this coming week. At least it should be over quickly for you."

"She can't do that!" screams Milo.

"Not legally," says Rhett. "But who knows. You might even enjoy it. Seriously though, I don't think she means to truly sacrifice you. It's probably symbolic... probably!"

It takes several minutes for any form of order to be restored to the room. And Rhett, and the rest of you, revel in it. Finally people quiet enough for him to carry on.

"Well, at least that completes your spade flush; worth a MASSIVE score of 5580 points!"

The score flashes onto the board, rolls into his current -80 to give him 5500. His name and score rocket to the top of the board, knocking Graham back to second place. The businessman chuckles and says it was worth getting dethroned just to see Milo do the stupidest thing he'd seen in his life.

Finally, all eyes turn on you. The lights pulse again as Rhett turns your way—the final contestant standing. The screen behind him flickers, then settles on a new card:

Colleen Turner – 2♦
Computer Science, 20
“I prefer java - to frat parties.”

The footage rolls.

It’s different from the others—more personal, less stylized. There’s no candlelight, no scandalous poses. Just you and Colleen, side by side on a bed, nervous laughter fading into slow, tentative kisses. Her towel slips. Her breath catches. When she gasps, it’s not in fear—it’s surprise, curiosity, release. You go slow. Careful. Hands meet in uncertain places, then settle with confidence. It’s... honest. Raw, but in a way that somehow disarms more than it shocks.

The room is quiet. Less catcalls. More curious silence.

Rhett breaks it with a half-smirk. “Well damn. That wasn’t just sex. That was... considerate.”

A few laughs ripple through the crowd.

He glances over his shoulder at the last frame—Colleen’s flushed face mouths something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Alright, Fresher,” he says. “Talk to us. That looked almost romantic. Were you trying to win... or woo?”

You rub the back of your neck. “She deserved a good first time. She's smart, she’s thoughtful... she's not a two. She just doesn’t signal like most people. Once you stop expecting the same playbook, she shines. Anyone would be lucky to have her. She just needs a little practice at flirting, that’s all.”

The crowd reacts to that—some ‘aww’s, a couple nods.

The scoreboard flashes:

You – 10 → 20

Still in last place.

Rhett whistles. “Solid twenty. But…”

He sweeps one arm toward the board.

Tank Marshall – 35
Fresher – 20

“Looks like you’re still fifteen behind the quarterback. And this week’s elimination is no joke.”

You glance up again. Your name sits at the bottom. Tank has the slot above you.

“And yet,” Rhett adds, raising a finger, “someone made a very bold move last week.”

He taps his tablet.

“Tank played the Kiss Me Power Play to make sure he scored points with a kiss challenge if he failed an actual challenge. He turned a 0 into a 4... for 20 points!”

The screen adjusts:

Tank – 35 → 19

The crowd murmurs, slowly catching on.

Rhett grins. “Which means, Tank…”

A cartoon quarterback hurls a football at the scoreboard. It smashes straight through—digital glass shattering outward in a burst of sparks.

“YOU’RE OUTTA HERE!”

Laughter erupts.

Tank rises, hands in the air. “Screw it, I do my scoring on the football field!”

He heads toward the exit as chants ripple behind him—"Tanked it! Tanked it!"—and a few mock-throws of invisible footballs bounce off imaginary goalposts.

Rhett watches him go, then turns to the camera. “And then there were four.”

The scoreboard tightens. One by one, the names light up:

Milo – 5340
Graham – 3010
Cassie – 165
Simon - 79
You – 20

Rhett smiles. “Looks like the fresher stays on the board.”

The lights dim, the screen shifts again, and Rhett claps his hands once. "With week 4 concluded, it's time to move on to the second of our 4-week cycles and start week 5!"