In pain, Luna let go of her boyfriend’s cock. She grabbed her wrist and flexed her numb fingers with a sick grimace. How could he stand it? She felt enormous relief when the blood flowed through the veins in her hand once again.

Sitting on her heels, between his stretched out legs and bent over his pelvis she had been stroking as if her life depended on it, that gnarled prick. She had used every ounce of energy from her healthy teen body, every trick learned from her naughty-fairy book.

The old mattress, which had caressed her throughout her whole childhood and witnessed her mighty physical development throughout puberty, noisily complained as she shifted her upper body weight from one arm to the other, leaving the tracks of the heel of her hand curved on his thighs, whilst her free hand traded tougher and tighter grips on the immortal hard-on. The warmth flowing from her clenched fist could feed heat to the whole block.

With a furtive glance to the on-shelf clock with the face of Miss Piggy, her favorite starlet from the Muppet’s show, she checked out how long she had been pumping. She was aghast at the ridiculous length of time it had been, and that figure bumped inside her head. Jimi read her eyes and shrunk his shoulders, coiling himself around the messy bedding from which the purple skinned, pool-cue-hard prong jutted out and rocked heavily.

"You see...he exhaled, mind control. That’s what it’s all about. You don’t go around pissing your pants, do you? That’s ’cause your brain can voluntarily shut your sphincters. Those yogi freaks in India can put their hands at two different temperatures or change their heartbeat rate at will. I can do the same with my buddy here."

Bending over, he accurately spit on the head that stubbornly swung around like a sinewy boxer that refused to collapse after a fabulous battering. He hit the moving target with his spit. That was yet another of the unique exploits which explained why she, a brilliant, attractive and successful student, was so mad about him, such a loser. It had to be that.

"You shouldn’t make a face, you can name from memory the fifteen major rivers of Southern Africa, can’t you? Why? Because of your brains. I can use my brain as well. Just that I chose different ways."

Calmly examining her sore fingers Luna, the only non-blonde of Britton High that consistently starred in the daydreams of every male scholar mind, replied bitterly.

"Too early to claim victory, there are twenty minutes left before mum leaves for work."

Having said that she dove into the bedding mess head first, firmly pressed one of Jimi’s thighs under her armpit and gripped the purple fighter just below its head with her free hand.

How did he manage? Her former boyfriend Anthony, eight years her senior, came with much noise after a dozen of her precise, demolishing strokes. Or was she in her anger doing it wrong?

She checked with her confidants, sought out details in the ‘adults only’ section of the library, rented specialised porno at her cousin’s shop, and boy, that thing of Jimi’s was unreal.

She was not dumb about either. It was not that she had the experience of a call girl, but she was able to get him hard in a couple of vigorous maneuvers.  She made him gasp in the blink of an eye and caused him to break out in cold sweat with just some play on his tiny but sensitive nipples.

It was not that she lacked the skills to deliver enough pleasure to make a big man faint; it wouldn’t matter if she could knock down a mammoth. Simply that lovely asshole, that son of a bitch, the iron-pricked lad, somehow managed to stay on the safe side without crossing the verge for ages, no matter how many new grips, changes of rhythm or ear-muttered filthy constructions she tried. He resisted. He was so eager to prolong the pleasure that he didn’t allow himself run past the end-line. It had to be that.

It is not that he had any trouble with his cumming either. There were evenings there were when they went for numbers. Meaning number of cums. He would kneel down on the blanket undoing his fly, and she would rush to the kitchen for a bowl, and there they go to it with the mission of filling it up to-the-brim.

On those type of nights, she would motorcycle him back to his home when they were done. When they arrive, she couldn't unwrap him from her back. He’d fallen asleep.

With her proverbial determination and sexual appeal, Martha Saunders-Witt, known even by her family as Luna, turned into a senior investigator on hand jobs. She studied the thickest encyclopaedic volumes, taking notes and figures in order to challenge her private champion, her adorable machine gun cummer.

And on top of that fieldwork. She systematically built up reliable statistics based on 90% of the male members of Britton High, half the sexually active machos of her village, and a significant sample of the hunks in the whole nation. Should a sociology doctoral tribunal be aware of her enquires they would turn up with enough data to complete a full Ph.D.

Factual info: when it came to dick control her boyfriend was a statistical rarity, an unprecedented challenge to well-known physiological limits, an extremely unlikely multi-spitting event. Her boyfriend was a monster, a hyper-strange creature, galactic-far above average in every willie-involved discipline.

But Luna does not give up easily. In eighth grade, she felt her algebra mark was unfair, she brought two telephone listings over and challenged her maths teacher in front of the pupils to work out the sum of the figures of the telephone numbers. After 120 min of mental calculations the teacher’s brains baked to ashes and he gave up. Luna brought the list home, and next Monday gave it to the teacher as a gift with all 200 pages solved.

Being of such a competitive nature, a new hunger grew inside Luna next to learning the 12 main tributaries of every African river, to beat him down. One way or another she daydreamed about reducing his extraordinary pole to a doughy pulp inside her fist.

Running up the stairs, heading for each evening session in the lengthy interval between the end of classes and the end of mum’s late job, she had set new challenges. He contemptuously accepted them. As though carrying so much power in that well-endowed feature of his otherwise miserable body was a punishment, a curse he'd gotten used to living with. Were they wasting the best years of their lives with these daily sessions?

She has worked out the hours she has spent jerking off Jimi in one month, and then three, and then ten. Not counting the time for food or bathroom breaks, solely the time while her clenched fingers were in motion. She extrapolated the figures to a full year and contemplated the tasks that could be finished in half that time. She did much thinking about that.

But as he makes it once again, in that short instant after yet another feat, his fighter is still firm, and in contact in her fist, while a glistening silvery thread joining his cock tip and her forefinger twinkles, their numbed heads tilt at once for an eye-lock of mutual reverence.

Then all makes sense. The remainder of their existence is preparation for that joyful shot. And a second later she is angry with herself again, and ready for a second round where she has to, with no other option, beat him down. To make his deflate and not rise again.