When our unfriendly flight attendant woke us up, the plane was empty. We collected our bags, and at customs Betty gestured to ask where we could buy food; she wanted to help me recover with her beloved dietary supplements. Since we’d moved our arrival up by two days, and considering those mind-boggling Japanese prices, we’d given up on luxury and booked one of those famous container apartments where Betty and I would be crammed together in three cubic meters.
After the madness of the plane ride, I needed to get back in shape—or at least take care of my health. I gave her a pair of winter mittens, and we agreed she couldn’t take them off all night. My tank was running on empty, which gave her an excuse to put me on a high-calorie diet rich in fatty fish and unsaturated vegetable oils, complemented by romantic walks along the seashore.
That night I kissed her goodnight and went to bed. She put on her mittens but first asked me to turn on the giant screen built into the ceiling of our cabin. She had put Bruno’s videos on the player, so I had those divine, petite young women with innocent smiles practicing their diabolical art so close that if I stretched out my arm, I could almost touch them. I had my back to her, but Betty wrapped herself around me like an anaconda and pressed her nipples into my shoulder blades.
“We didn’t agree on anything about my feet. You think you can handle them?”
And pinning me down like a judoka, she trapped me with her long, white feet—her toes that could play the grand piano.
When we left the container in the morning, we would have needed to pass through a car wash. Literally glued to each other, we slid into the communal showers and scrubbed ourselves with those otherwise useless mittens.
On the day of the competition, Shae and Bruno treated us to a lavish brunch. I think my gaunt appearance worried them. Betty would pat my hand every time I tried to help myself to something sugary or greasy. The woman with the rounded bare shoulders and imposing thighs peeking out with every stride kept her eyes on us. She positioned herself between us at the brunch counter and hooked her arm through Betty’s, offering to show her the courtyard where the bonsai collection was on display. As she pulled her along, she gave me a wink—the most elegant wink I’ve ever received. Free from supervision, I went wild at the pastry section.
The event was scheduled to take place in a modest wooden mansion built in the Shinto style, located on a side street in the fishermen's district. The taxi driver, who would have liked to be a tour guide, explained in English that it had once been nautical warehouse. Upon entering we found that it retained a musty atmosphere, with saltpeter stains on the floorboards and what seemed to be the smell of dried fish. A foyer housing the access control and changing rooms led through a pointed arch into the main hall. On either side, carved staircases ascended to an elevated gallery overlooking the windowless hall, in the center of which 32 stools—16 high and 16 low—had been arranged in a circle, marked with an incomprehensible symbol and spaced barely a couple of meters apart.
Waitresses in ceremonial dress were offering drinks to the new arrivals, but overall everything was dirtier, older, and darker than I had imagined, and judging by the look on Betty’s face, she was feeling much the same way. When I identified myself as a contestant, they gave me a card with a Japanese symbol printed on it.
“These are your numbers, from 1 to 16,” Shae explained. “You have number two. You’ll find the same number in the changing room with your kimonos and on your stool.” Pointing her thumb at Betty, she continued, “She will be assigned a spot by lottery. You all start at the same time, and when one of you comes, the pair is also eliminated, leaving the spot to the winning milkmaid. Like that, without breaks, until only one remains. Simple, isn’t it? Nothing beats these Orientals when it comes to competitive sex, don’t you think?”
Just as I opened my mouth to reply, a commotion interrupted our conversation. A tall, blonde woman had burst into the lobby, followed by a large swarm of sycophants who, with their shoulders hunched, made her appear even taller.
“Look, Shae, it’s ‘La Reina’ Nuria—do you remember her? She’s a retired star from the circuit,” he explained, addressing us, “and now she’s a professional wrestler for the Japanese Octagon. Shae doesn’t have the fondest memories of her.”
The imposing owner of the HRP seemed, for once, to shrink in stature. She shot a murderous glare at her partner, but, puffing out her chest, she quickly regained her composure.
“I knew she’d be coming,” she said, touching her hairline. “She’ll be with us watching the event in the VIP lounge. If you make a good impression on her, I’ll introduce you to her later.”
We were probably the last ones to enter the locker room. The competing pairs were getting ready in all sorts of ways. Some were praying with their kimonos already on, while others were stretching completely naked. Some milkmaids were cracking their knuckles, and others were warming up with large metal grippers. As I headed toward the bench marked with my number, I bumped face-first into the Burmese woman we’d seen in Bruno’s recordings. She stood motionless, staring intently at me, as if she’d been waiting for my arrival. I was about to speak to her when I realized that her sparkling black pupils weren’t focused on me. In fact, her eyelids were open, but the legendary Rosemary Yu was only looking inward.
We entered the windowless hall. Betty loosened her kimono to ensure that when she leaned over her receiver, her swaying breasts would be on full display. She said goodbye by pulling me by the wrist and planting a kiss on me. She had been paired with an athletic African man with a sizeable member, so she began her warm-up routine. As I watched her approach her rival, a deliciously short girl stepped into my path.
“Konnichiwa!”
I looked down to find a petite young lady with a radiant face who pressed her two palms together to give a small bow. Only then did I notice her enormous hands.
“Me Michiko-san. I’m gonna ‘wressle’ you.”
She seemed genuinely delighted to be up against me, so I assumed she must have done some research about the European championship. When she pointed to herself, her hand spanned almost the entire width of her chest from pinky to thumb, and as she extended her index finger toward me, I could see a delicately trimmed and carefully polished nail.
“I’m Jimi,” I said, offering a hand that remained suspended in the air, trembling. The rules prohibited any preliminary contact between the fighters. She noticed my mistake and, biting her lip, arched her delicate eyebrows and tilted her head, offering me a friendly gesture of complicity.
For what felt like an eternity, the master of ceremonies delivered an impassioned speech in Japanese to the attendees—both the crowd packed into the gallery lining the hall and those who, like Shae, Bruno, and that stunning blonde woman, were watching us on the closed-circuit television. Michiko took short sips from her water bottle, maintaining eye contact with her partner, who was a male version otherwise identical to her. Betty had knelt before her Black receiver, ignoring the small, uncomfortable stool. There was only one other Black man, what looked like an Indian, and two other white colleagues. The rest were Asian, though of course I couldn’t distinguish the features of the different countries.
When the MC finally finished his fiery speech, a countdown in English boomed over the PA system. Michiko let her flowing kimono fall, and it settled like a giant butterfly on the dirty floorboards. Without even looking down, she slid her left hand between the folds of my kimono and grasped me firmly by the root. As the countdown ended, she began to perform a technique called “the swing,” which involves gripping it at the base, pressing the back of her hand against my pubic bone, letting the rest of the shaft hang loose, and gently rocking it to occasionally slap against the inside of my thighs. It is its own weight, the jolts, and the bounces that create all the stimulation. Michiko masterfully applied “the swing” to me until I became so stiff that it barely moved. Then she slid her grip to the swollen middle section, squeezing it with her surprisingly powerful fingers, and her right hand sprang into action, forming a hood over the bulging head. She wasn’t in a hurry, but she didn’t spare a single masterstroke.
“Good, uh?” She inquired, delighted with my expansion.
I gazed at the dark faces of the watchers in the gallery. The sharp young lady knew all she had to do was find those sensitive spots and activate them one by one, like someone flipping switches on the control panel of a huge arena until the lighting became blinding. The famous European champion was a formidable opponent for her, and she threw herself into the battle with her chest bare, without tactics, without fear, and without conceiving of defeat. Concentrating all her age-old artistry on the purest and most crystalline manual techniques, fearless and proud as a peacock. She would feast on him. She would give that skinny boy so much pleasure that he would swell up and burst like a balloon. She didn’t even have to think about it. Her trained fingers worked by instinct. Her face remained relaxed, seductive, almost bored, but the tendons in her forearms were as hard as crane cables, and her fists were clenched so tightly she could snap a bamboo cane.
Some of the contestants who’d been unlucky in the draw were beginning to succumb to the top milkmaids. The Rose quickly eliminated a burly Buddha who was dripping with sweat. I recognized Betty’s stifled scream when her opponent went down, dripping onto her bouncing tits. A beautiful Indian woman with a scarlet circle painted on her forehead and a lady with a flat face smeared with rice powder made their victims spit at exactly the same time, and it was the judges who had to assign them their next opponents. They patted the shoulders of the defeated receivers’ partners to indicate they were disqualified and must make way for the triumphant milkmaids. The cameras blinked and their servos hummed as they focused on the first eliminated contestants to send their close-ups to the VIP guests’ monitor room.
Betty’s new 'client' was the Indian with his scarlet circle. He was sitting on his heels yoga style, and his previous milkmaid had barely managed to get him warmed up. Betty smeared her palms with the semen of his previous victim and gripped his member between her open hands. It was the setup for a particularly devastating technique she had dubbed “the karateka.”
“Do you like to pray? Well, pray whatever you know 'cause you’re gonna love this.”
Squeezing from the sides, she moved each palm back and forth in opposite directions at breakneck speed, forcing the head of his member to vibrate left and right. She had barely reached a fraction of her cruising speed, and the yogi was already gasping for air.
Meanwhile, Michiko had begun to apply a series of circular techniques, studying my pupils to try to figure out which one gave me the most pleasure. Her smile was growing wider as my breathing became heavy, and beads of sweat stung my upper lip. Michiko’s mind was even faster than her fist. Through trial and error, she tested, compared, and discarded options, so that every few seconds her movements were more devastating than the last. Since the angle and trajectory of her blows were completely unpredictable, I couldn’t adapt or fight the waves of pleasure that were cracking the dam of my resistance.
Luckily, my rivals kept falling. Half the benches were already empty. Yu and the geisha had disposed of their opponents. Betty had also burst out the Indian.
“Tell your girlfriend I can teach her this trick,” she said to him as she moved on to her next victim.
Next to me, a Black girl with thick lips and curly hair whom I hadn’t noticed before growled when her opponent’s blow splattered her face.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of Betty, but the vision that came to mind was Luna stroking the thick neck of her thoroughbred, riding him across the Austral moor, her full breasts bobbing one after the other with each stride of the beast.
“You no look? Don’t you like Michiko?”
I wasn’t sure if it was naivety or malice. With each stroke of her thunderous fist, she stimulated the ridge on my glans four times forward and four times backward.
“You’re very pretty, but I want to win this contest… and I’m going to endure whatever you choose to do to me.”
My words didn’t impress her. Lifting her delicate porcelain chin toward me, she replied with her cheerful spontaneity.
“Michiko-san can spend all day with you and satisfy Jimi-san ‘evely’ minute always ‘diffelent’, never ‘lepeating’.”
The event had hit its final stretch, and only five couples remained. Rosemary had pinned the Chinese champion, who was gasping for air like a fish out of water. Fed up with his whimpering, she finally forced him to spit it out with one hand while adjusting her buns with the other.
Suddenly, I noticed that Michiko’s hands were losing their precision. At the opposite end of the circle, her male counterpart, Michiko-kun, had fallen face-first off his stool and was screaming on all fours while his milkmaid—the athletic black girl with full lips—kept pumping without letting him escape. Michiko-kun fought bravely, but the muscular African continued to drain him until she was sure that one of the judges was patting the heartbroken Michiko on the shoulder.
Rosemary Yu stood up majestically, wiping her fingers on her thighs, and looked around. She pressed her lips together, congratulating the young Black woman with a subtle nod, then fixed her metallic gaze on me. A chill ran down my spine. A judge stepped between us. His partner had ejaculated first, so it was his turn to replace the Chinese champion—now disqualified—against the African champion. These are the strokes of luck that fate has bestowed upon me ever since Luna’s hands shaped me with their stubborn persistence.
There were only three of us left. But as soon as the Black girl took hold of my suffocating member, I realized that this wasn’t going to be easy either. Those chocolate-colored hands could squeeze even harder than Michiko’s bamboo-cracking grip. On top of that, Betty had gotten stuck with the Burmese champion, and the enormous member of my Black girl’s partner seemed too big even for Yu’s devastating tricks.
In my mind, cowgirl Luna was riding her landowner. The icy southern sun had tanned her sturdy hands, except beneath her well-manicured, symmetrical nails. When I was especially hard, she accepted the challenge, sweat running down her neck and along her upper lip. But nothing compared to the pleasure she felt at finally breaking my legendary resistance. Keep going… Luna… keep going, keep going, don’t let go now… harder… only you can squeeze that tight… tighter... tighter! Faster!
When Betty saw me cum all over the Black girl, she started cursing at me like a hysteric. Luna would never have done that. The judge patted her on the shoulder, and the swift African ran to take her turn on the Burmese guy without stopping to wipe off my cum.
Out of the contest, I sat with my back against the wall and watched the last 25 minutes of the event. It was as if I wanted to burn it into my retinas so I could report every detail to Luna.
The battle between the African’s size and Rosemary Yu’s skill was epic, but while the Burmese man seemed unmoved by the negrita’s grips, we all knew it was only a matter of time before La Rosa found the giant’s weak spot. It came with a twist of the penis' head against the palm of her left hand. Yu sensed an opening at the top of the colossus’s rosy neck and dug her left thumbnail in while continuing to twist his head downward. The African howled and still resisted for a few seconds, making the blow even more painful.
I sat against the wall, letting my mind wander until the room was empty and too cold for my light kimono. In the locker room, too, there was no one left but a couple of cleaning ladies who gave me a quick bow and continued chatting in Japanese. Betty’s things were gone, but mine were still in place. I turned on my phone. No word from Luna. Dozens of worried text messages from Mum and one from Bruno with directions for dinner.
I got changed, and when I pushed the door, it wouldn't open. I thought that was strange because it was a hinged door with no lock, so I pushed harder, but it still wouldn’t budge. I took a running start and rammed it with my shoulder, but nothing happened. Then I heard a laugh, and the door swung open. It was the tall, blonde woman with striking but severe features.
“You’ve got to get in shape, kid.”
“And just who are you?”
“Someone impressed by the show in general and your performance in particular.”
“We didn’t win.”
“In some of my best fights, I ended up losing. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t,” she recited as she slipped into the locker room, leaning her broad shoulders against the tiled wall and searching for me with her dark eyes. “You certainly impressed me. And trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“I know. You’re Nuria La Reina, and you were a sex-fighter before jumping into pro-wrestling in the Octagon.”
She sighed as if she were longing for something, or perhaps flattered by being recognized.
“You think you can just show up here and ask me to sleep with you because you always get what you want.”
A series of conflicting emotions—anger, admiration, desire, anxiety—flashed across her face, that of a grown woman who hadn’t always been treated well by life. Finally, she wrapped her arms around her torso and managed to pull herself together, rubbing her broad back against the tiles like a bear against a tree. She was wearing a backless dress, so I figured she had to be cold. I was frozen stiff.
“I really don't feel like the dinner plan they got lined up for me. My partner in the contest lost it, and I’ve let down our sponsors. You know any chill spots that serve food that ain't raw?”
“You're full of surprises, little dude. Ever thought about playing poker? You could rake in some cash. I can teach you if you’re interested.”
"Let's grab some food first, okay? I’m starving.”
