The night before the qualifying tournament, I was woken up by a phone call at Betty’s place, where I had moved under the unbelievable excuse of a three-week Portuguese course in Algarve. Reality is indeed stranger than fiction, as my eccentric family found it plainly convincing that I was interested in the Portuguese language, and I hadn’t let them know about my application in advance. Betty tossed and turned, burying her head under the pillow, as Luna's contact flashed on the display.
"Hi there, cutie, ready for action? How I wish I could be around by your side…"
"For God's sake, Luna, dear… do you know what time it is?"
“I do… thing is… mmm… I’m a tiny bit nervous, I must admit."
I moved as far away from the bed as Betty’s tiny apartment allowed, leaving a slender foot poking out from the duvet a few yards behind, and switched to 'smooth voice' mode. It suited my hangover nicely.
"Sweetheart, won’t you be jealous about Bets?" I declaimed, pointing at the owner of the bony foot with untrimmed nails.
"Isn't she the one who’s gonna milk you in the contest?"
"Negative. She’s the one who milks the male of the rival team."
"C’mon Ji, what else have you two been up to all these days?"
She scored there. Betty was a natural at hand banging, her only talent. She was mortally absent-minded, dull as a deep-sea documentary, and as thick as a brick. She was hopeless in the kitchen and clumsy in bed. However, her long-fingered hands moved beautifully, with fabulous precision that was purely intuitive. Her manual skills didn’t suit the rest of her, or perhaps it was just long years of practice with her former husband, who apparently didn’t value anything else.
"Okay, you introduced her to me, remember? Specifically for THIS. Look, why don’t you move up your return? I can handle tomorrow’s events, but listen, Lu, I need you back to carry on. All of this is meaningless without you…"
Through the telephone’s tiny speaker, I listened to a purr that sent shivers down my spine, activating my peripheral blood. It was the distinct purr Luna made when she really wanted to curl around my thigh.
"Promise me you'll tell me everything."
Betty's cold hands covering my eyes startled me. She squeezed me from behind, and I felt her chest pressing against my shoulder blades.
"Bom dia, my little pony stud. Some warm cereal to recharge your plutonium batteries?"
I picked up the phone from the floor but the call had ended. I texted a message and pressed 'send' too quickly; so much mistyping made the text hardly understandable.
Betty spent 40 minutes in the bathroom, trying on every piece of clothing from her wardrobe, but it was worth the wait. She emerged wearing a splendid, low-cut black minidress that highlighted the best part of her anatomy, her delicious XL tits. An enormous brooch that had belonged to her father's grandma hung from a thick silver chain, adding a touch of supposed style. Those mafia guys should know she wasn't just some wannabe stray cat.
The sex-shop owner and his Brazilian wife had offered us a lift since I didn't drive and Betty's ex had kept the car.
On the road, the woman lectured us about the Carioca sex-fighting circuit and her acquaintance with one of its greatest fallen stars, Dana dos Santos. She was eager to share more details, but her husband’s hand clamped down on her thigh and stopped her. The topic intrigued me, but Betty insisted on changing the subject to talk about herself and her mundane homemaker feats while cracking her knuckles or picking at her nails. So I got bored, put on my earphones, leaned back in my seat, and cranked up one of Luna's playlists.
The club was called 'Santa Monica's' but was apparently better known as 'The Manna.' It was hidden in the docklands area among semi-deserted industrial developments and abandoned mansions falling apart, only transited that early in the day by lost tourists and former longshoremen.
According to the sex-shop owner, there would be a private morning session with locked doors for the qualifying rounds and a public event in the soirée for the local finals. Betty and I were scheduled for the first time slot in the morning, along with three other couples, but only one couple would make it to the finals.
The car stopped in front of the club, and Betty and I jumped out to pick our stuff from the boot and wave goodbye. Once the car disappeared around the corner, we turned to the gate and found it locked. Betty knocked and pounded with no reply.
The noise attracted the attention of a couple that wandered down the street hand in hand. They carried hefty backpacks taller than themselves with all kinds of accessories hanging and poking out of the many compartments. Both were about the same size, wide-eyed, vigorous, and healthy-looking, wearing summer clothes despite the icy breeze. She held a cigarette that they both inhaled in turns.
"You come to the contest? We’ve been here a long while and nobody answers. Started to feel like it was a bad joke."
They had reached here by walking from 150 miles north, so in fact, if it was a joke, it was not funny. When they approached carrying their enormous loads we realized that they had a head on Betty and one and a half on me.
She wore shredded jean shorts and a battered sleeveless shirt, both pieces of clothing far too skimpy for her generous figure. The trekking boots failed to contain her muscular calves, and I could swear she wasn’t wearing brassier.
He had the same model of shirt and boots on, but his long jeans fit as tightly as a second skin. Surprisingly, they seemed in a good mood. She offered us the lit butt. I shook gently. Betty pouted at her, took an English blonde from her own packet and didn’t offer.
A third person emerged from the first corner. He was a tan-faced guy with long, thick sideburns and a leather hat. Apparently, he was waiting for his partner, who was late, so he joined the circle, rolled his own cigarette, and passed it around.
"Goot morrnin."
The voice came out of a parked van. Only then did we realize two people sat inside, silent witnesses to our reunion. They were both pale blonde and had an Eastern Europe accent, Poland maybe. A cheerful little miss whose exuberant body language didn’t match her shy, clumsy moves and a man with her looks but not her vivacity came out of the van and joined the circle. Their clothes were as horrendous as their English, but we managed to communicate the basics. Ashley, the Australian cowboy, had run out of tobacco, so the backpackers had dropped their heavy load to produce more supply. Some pot from our backpackers, whose names, believe it or not, were Iris and Icarus, helped loosen our tongues. The Polish produced a large unlabelled bottle that Betty, the first to take a shot, ranked among the three strongest spirits she had ever tasted. A significant endorsement indeed.
"So, you’re taking good care of yourself, Aussie."
Ashley touched the brim of his hat with two fingers and grunted back. The newcomer was a short blonde girl wearing expensive mauve trainers, false eyelashes, and sculpted nails. Her movements were tacky and her makeup excessive. My scan got stuck on her chest. I held my breath. Was it real? Greeting everyone except her boyfriend, she joined the circle at the furthest point from Ashley, grabbed the Polish spirit by the bottleneck and took an extra-large shot.
Several rounds later, the horn of a tinted windows limo caught our attention. The car stopped and disgorged a whole patrol of overdressed chicks and hefty bouncers who targeted the club's entrance and began unlocking the metal doors. A tanned dandy named Bruno introduced himself as the owner and rushed to open the passenger’s side door, raising his left hand to help the co-owner get out. His electric white sleeve exhibited old-fashioned bulky cufflinks.
The escort girls made two lines and there she rose, a tall grown woman with a thick mane brushing her left stocky shoulder. Her liquid emerald eyes chilled my bones to the marrow. Her sleeveless dress tight at the armpits underlined the authority of her torso, gave to her marble hips, and floated loosely concealing her endless legs. One of the young girls assisted to prevent the hem to touch the oil-stained sidewalk. The poor young girl was dressed in a D&G number and sported platinum earrings, but she moved like a cheap whore compared to the big-cat elegance of my new goddess. I wanted but was unable to take my eyes out of her. I think she realized, or perhaps she glanced at everyone, inviting to dive in and drown. Grabbing the back of Bruno’s hand, she hovered along the lines of escorts heading to the club’s gate, under the watchful eye of the bouncers.
Ashley broke my daydream with an elbow to my ribs.
"Hot, isn’t she? Her name is Shae. She was the most popular diva of HRP films. She could make the toughest guy spit in under 30 seconds, bloody real monster climaxes not that rubbish 'ahh-ahh' leaks. So she demanded partners who could finish in every single take. I was about to screw her in my first starring role, Canadian Logs, but she just retired from action and they hired Mandy instead. Shae is the smartest, so eventually she bought the firm and married that nightlife gangster. They run an empire now."
When Shae was about to disappear inside, she grabbed the door lintel and turned her pale face toward us. Her mane created a warm salty breeze.
"Don’t you invite my rivals in, dear?"
"My little devil, you’re anxious for action, huh?"
Bruno tried to reach her chin, but she flinched and slapped his hand away. He blew on his aching fingers.
"…Yet you will have to wait and see who the winner is." And with a flick of his wrist that made his golden cuffs sparkle, he pointed at all of us, sort of meaning we were all wasting our time with that round-robin tournament when she could easily beat all of us in a row.
Facing us, Bruno spread his arms, and the golden cufflinks got hidden in the sleeves of his suit.
"Gentlemen, Mademoiselles, my apologies for the delay. The traffic is getting crazy in this city. Everyone inside, please," he said ceremoniously, "and let's get to work, in just one hour four more couples will be arriving!" Events overlapped faster and faster, and although I tried, I had been unable to find a moment alone to call Luna. Bruno invited us all to make ourselves comfortable in the club's VIP area, in chairs arranged in a circle around a solitary black leather armchair. Dim lights provided a comfortable yet intimate illumination, and a large timer screen hanged from the front wall. With a snap of his fingers, he instructed the strippers in aristocratic disguise to serve drinks and one of the bouncers to start the draw. We were paired with the backpackers, who gleefully received the news, while Ashley and Mandy would take on the Poles. Iris and Icarus unlinked hands for the first time and she stood up and headed straight for me.
"Just a moment miss," Bruno intercepted her.
He then recited the rules to us, which were simple. Receivers would take turns sitting in the black armchair, with their legs curled outside the arms of the chair. We could remain dressed but with our members exposed, and ready, for which we could be helped by our partner. The milkers would work on us on their knees, using nothing but their hands. The event was timed, and the couple whose male partner cum in the shortest time was out.
I was first on the armchair, so I got naked form waist down and took my place. As Betty prepared me she glanced sideways at Icarus' crotch, from where her partner had already extracted a bronze-colored fibrous member. When we were both hard, they switched positions. Iris approached me, knelt down, rubbed her palms on her thighs, and strangled me with one of her formidable hands. Indeed, she was not wearing underwear. Bruno blew his whistle and the female backpacker simply started flaying me without the slightest inhibition. Her hands were even bigger than Betty's and even stronger than Luna's. Not only did she squeeze hard, but she also knew what she was doing, scanning my pupils for any gestures that would reveal my weak spots. Classic pumping, the kind that never goes out of style. Strong fist, tense biceps, hammering on the pubic bone and a final twist to squeeze the tip. Classic and well executed. She switched hands as soon as she started to fatigue to maintain a relentless pace, but I couldn't tell if she was left or right handed. Soon I couldn't take it anymore. In record time she had me spitting, and I thanked her for not stopping until I was completely emptied.
"You're tougher than you look," Iris confessed to me almost joyfully, as if to make me appreciate in all its value what she had just done to me.
Worried about my poor performance, everything was now in Betty's hands. As the assistants wiped everything shiny, I switched positions with Icarus. On my cellular there were four missed calls from Luna.
Bruno blew his whistle and the timer started counting, but Betty took it in stride. She seemed to admire Icarus' tanned member like a piece of pottery, bending it back and forth as if she wanted to photograph it from every perspective, but time was ticking away on the timer screen.
"What are you doing? The big-ass backpacker squeezed me out in record time and you're just contemplating?"
"Hey, take it easy little guy. Let me enjoy the moment; you don't always have a piece like this in your hands."
I angrily threw my clothing on the floor. But then Betty surprised me. Once she had studied Icarus' cock with parsimony, she gave me a gesture of complicity, squeezed our rival with astonishing confidence and her fist disappeared.
Instantly Icarus began gasping sideways, like a turbot, and a few seconds later burst like fireworks. I looked at the timer. We had won! I pounced on Betty and rode on her back as she painstakingly finished off Icarus. From the spectator circle, Shae was clinking the ice in her glass. Bruno applauded. Shaking her incredible thighs, Iris approached to congratulate us sportingly. The Poles were visibly nervous, only Mandy seemed relaxed, sipping her mixed with whimsical girlish pouts. Icarus dressed up and joined Iris, shrugging his shoulders. She greeted him with a pat on the buttock and an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
Then the Pole, a grown man with grizzled temples, requested the help from an escort to get ready, and struggled to sit with his legs wide apart on the armchair. The story we had been told over drinks was a sad one. No one in the family had papers, they couldn't pay the rent, and to top it off, the daughter had an expulsion record after a police checkpoint incident following a nightclub brawl. The prize money would cover six months' rent and a decent lawyer, but since the mother had refused due to her deep religious convictions, the father and daughter had entered the contest.
At the whistle, Mandy worked the Pole with her usual insane voracity. It was crazy the things she could do despite her long and cumbersome sculptured nails. As we watched his girl tearing the block apart, Ashley, sitting next to me naked from the waist down, made some confidences. I thought it was my chance to ask her if those dreamy breasts were real but then I thought surely she wouldn't know. Apparently he and Mandy had met while shooting a low-budget porn film and had been together for 6 weeks, which for her was a lifetime record. While stimulating himself with one hand and drinking with the other, he told me that every night they would binge-fuck each other until they fell asleep. In the morning they engage in rather violent arguments while having two bowls of cereal, then go out each on their own, only to reconcile over another night of action.
On the armchair, the Polish hunk tried to hold out, but Mandy was in a different league and had him spitting in a matter of seconds. Still, she seemed displeased with her performance, and took refuge in her double whiskey.
Ashley mounted the armchair, and the Polish girl shyly approached his imposing cock. The flash of the camera with which one of the bouncers was recording the competition dazzled her, and she made a visor with her long, white fingers. Ashley's size seemed to intimidate her, and she didn't quite know how to get her hands down to business. Bruno had to remind her of the starting position, knelt down and single-hand grip. After much hesitation she opted to grab her magnificent rival halfway between the sturdy insertion and the throbbing head. At a whistle she engaged in a committed job that would surely have satisfied her classmates, but seemed ineffective on the expert rider. She quickly broke into a sweat, while Ashley looked fresh as a daisy.
Betty took the seat Ashley had vacated beside me and we toasted our first victory. She wiped my lips with hers and stuck in her tongue, which I don't think she had ever done before. She was elated. She knew how to finish off the Aussie cowboy, and she was convinced Mandy's tits were plastic, which made me feel down. "Here's to our sure success."
But when our mouths parted it was the Poles, hugging, who were celebrating, and Mandy was calling her partner a disgusting pig, accusing him of cumming on purpose. So my ration of wonder-girl would have to wait. I'd have to put up with the tender, milky fingers of daddy’s pride and joy.
The Pole crouched behind me and whispered in my ear. If I let them win, I could have his daughter for whatever I wished, for as long as I wanted. I thought that Betty would accept the threesome willingly and that I could tell Luna that we were up against formidable rivals, and her cunny friend Betty, who should be involved in the plot, would for sure know how to keep the secret. For years I had juiced myself with that fantasy about a sandwich between a tender blonde and a toughie brunette, both equally endowed. All of a sudden, the day had come. The prospect of watching them compete, using me to decide who the best milker was, made me hard. Further, the thought of competing against the two of them teaming up together—virginal blonde and experienced brunette—almost made me cum on the spot. I left the circle and slipped into the men's room.
Mandy came in behind me and closed the door.
"That Australian pig played me, but together we can win the contest. I'm ten times better than that old woman you bring as a partner."
For the first time since I've known Betty, I felt affection for her.
"Age gives experience, and experience is a degree," I told her, drawing my hard-on ready to relieve myself.
"And by the way, her tits are real."
She came up and looked at me confidently, unlashing the third button of her blouse.
"You can't believe real tits are so perfect, huh," she said, puffing out her chest. "Okay, take a look."
She wriggled to reach for the bra clasp which popped with a clack that must have been heard outside the restroom. The intimate garment came off and before me unfurled a pair of proportionate, plump, and silky breasts. She stood on her tiptoes in her lilac sneakers to bring them within my reach.
"Look for a flaw. You won't find one. The Lord was too generous."
I could have sworn that those nipples could be used for towing a truck. I sprayed her with a thick, warm stream. I apologized, but for once she seemed amused. She spread my cum like it was one of her expensive creams and pulled paper from the wall machine for me. I wrote my number on the mirror mist, pulled myself together, and went back to my seat.
Before riding the black armchair, I looked at my cell phone. There were 12 missed calls from Luna and several text messages that I didn't have the nerve to open. I focussed on a one-night stand with the Polish girl, Betty, and Mandy. When I'd finally broken the blonde-brunette combo, Mandy took the baton, drag their bodies off the bed by the ankle, and jump into the ring. I tried to erase the image from my mind, for the Polish girl was already poised, spreading an oil of essences over her milky palms, and I was to resist her. Uneasy about how long it had taken me to get out of the bathroom, Betty brushed a lock of my hair out of sight and pulled down my waistband. I wanted to kiss her forehead, but as I couldn't reach it, I kissed her mouth.
"Everything okay?" she asked as she bent over, amazed by my expansion.
"Aha," I nodded.
I was so horny, the young Polish girl looked like a master geisha. My cock acquired that extra arch of special occasions and began to gasp. The effort made her to curl her upper lip and crowned her creamy cheeks with two strawberry spots. Her dad smiled confidently; his little girl was squeezing the marrow out of me. Among the circle of dimly lit onlookers, a flurry illuminated Shae's towering torso, her sleeveless dress cinched at the neck by a large gold brooch and at the waist with a wide leather sash straining to contain her bust. Only one thing was clear to me: I wanted to face her. And defeat her.
Almost 20 minutes later, the Pole jumped on stage to rescue his daughter, who burst into tears in his arms. The bouncers didn't stop him; they had their little hearts too. Betty hugged me around the waist and lifted me into the air, jubilant, guiding me towards the video camera.
"Wolchampion!" she shouted. The audience gave me a round of applause. I climbed onto Betty's shoulders and raised my arms. Even from there, I could hear the cell phone vibrating and see the insistent flashing of the call light.
