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this.
    â€˜Get up – now,’ I order him in a voice rich with sudden authority, smacking the end of the chain on the ground to emphasise the urgency of the action. He looks around him, as if expecting someone to emerge from the neighbouring bushes and come to his assistance, and for a moment I actually wonder if he does have unseen help to call on. Nothing would surprise me any longer, in the light of Fox’s claims about these games. But, at last, he gets to his knees, mud smeared on his craggily handsome face and bits of twig caught in his thick, golden-red hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man look more vulnerable – or more attractive. My cock pushes at the crotch of my combat pants as a strong thrill of power and arousal runs through me.
    â€˜OK, over to that tree.’ I gesture to a sturdy-trunked oak. When he doesn’t immediately move to obey, I kick at the back of his leg to encourage him. It’s a petty little action, sure, but I’m not just doing this for me any more; this is for Wade, and all the rest of the fallen, this year and every year that Darien has dominated the game.
    He takes the hint, shuffling over with his arms roped securely behind his back. A long, thick branch extends out, a little more than head height from the ground. I loop the chain over it once, twice. If Darien wondered why I’d left plenty of rope free when tying his wrists together, he wonders no more. Those lengths are quickly secured to the dangling ends of the chain. It’s an unorthodox way of holding him steady, and hardly the most secure, but it doesn’t need to be. The relative lack of fight from the big man, and the look in his eyes as I stare at him, tells me he’s accepted his fate.
    Even though I can’t see them, the cameras will be trained us on now. I can’t imagine what people are saying in the studio, or in their homes. Everyone’s been waiting for the moment Darien finishes this, and claims his rightful place as winner of the game; now here we are, with the roles reversed. This is my moment, and I’m determined to enjoy it to the full.
    Grasping the neck of Darien’s shirt in both hands, I start to pull. The material’s more flimsy than is really practical in the circumstances, designed to tear. It takes almost no effort on my part to rip the garment in two, exposing the tanned, hairless expanse of his chest. His pecs and abdominal muscles have been sculpted through endless hours of working out – as champion, with the financial backing of the channel’s sponsors behind him, his full-time job consists of bulking up his body and practising his combat techniques – and the ridges are so deliciously defined, I ache to run my tongue along them. But not just yet.
    Darien issues a little moan as I reach for his pants. They present more of a challenge than the shirt, but with a yank that sends his fly button pinging into the undergrowth, I tear those to shreds too. He wears nothing beneath them – none of us does, it’s one of the rules of the game – and his cock is immediately exposed to me, and the eyes of the watching millions. We’ve all seen it before, as it breaches the arse of some vanquished contestant or other, and we’ve acquainted ourselves with its impressive dimensions, but in the flesh it’s even more magnificent – long and thick despite only being half-hard, its juicy, purple head peeping out from the covering sleeve of flesh.
    This is the true point of the games, the reason viewers tune in year after year. Not so much for the thrill of the chase, the relentless pursuit of weaker prey by a truly dominant male, but to see one big-cocked stud after another brought low and stripped bare. That the man who now hangs obediently in his bonds, displayed for all to see, is Darien, the seemingly invincible, must only add to the thrill.
    Aware of their need for flesh, I peel out of my