When slim brunette Betty and buxom blonde Irina crushed me between their equally endowed chests, I felt extremely miserable. Carried by sheer enthusiasm after our unexpected victory in the Grand Finale, they pressed their two pairs of tits against my rib cage so hard my feet lifted off the ground. Betty’s were still plastered in Armando’s manhood, and Irina’s were so drenched in sweat that her light silk top turned see-through. So I got squeezed in the double embrace I had dreamed of my entire sexually functional life. Yet I felt miserable indeed. Luna, my motivator and inspiration, was not there. She was over the ocean, missing the success of the creation her strong hands had shaped blow by blow. That was unfair.

When my hot rod burned Irina’s delicate skin, she released me. My cock sprang free, spitting some more long-range shots. Betty held me in her arms a bit longer –she had grown bloody fit lately– kissing my neck and ears. Some quick hands, I couldn’t tell whose, volunteered additional relief, but my stiffness seemed incurable. Shae stood up majestically and left. The turmoil upstage pushed me into the restrooms, along with Betty, two bouncers, a couple of anonymous front-row spectators and three resident strippers. Irina, the last to slip inside, banged the door and locked it behind her. Betty grabbed my wrist and Irina’s, and we had a cold shower that failed to cool us down.

Later, I woke up sneezing. Irina’s fine mane had tickled my nostrils. The midday sun shed stripes of light through the Venetian blinds at Betty’s. A towel rolled on top of her head and with an XXL shirt abandoned in the run by her ex as the only attire, she was busy fixing two huge bowls of All-Bran cereal and fresh pomelo juice. She was barefoot and walked awkwardly, like a wading bird. I slipped out of bed, scratching my sore temples, slipped on a pair of her trainers –Betty and I wore the same shoe size– and joined her at the kitchen bar. She had freshly varnished toenails and cotton balls between her long, bony toes. I pecked her good morning.

"So, we did it!"

Betty raised her pint of juice, I grabbed mine, and we cheered up. She began singing.

"We are the champions…"

"Shhhh," I whispered, pointing at the dozing beauty who lay face down, her hips resting on the pillow, showing off among the stirred bedding her perfect buttocks, smooth and hard as snow.

"Don’t worry. An army squadron of drummers parading inside the flat wouldn’t wake her up after all this. She’s a big girl now," mocked Betty, gulping down half of her pamplemousse juice but staring intently at my half-resting dangling bulk.

What Betty couldn’t imagine was that it had been the first time for ME also. Luna had had other partners, but with me, our manual games gave plenty of satisfaction for both of us, or so she said.

"There’s nothing that tireless toy of yours did NOT do to her."

"Did it? Won’t you be jealous?" I argued in a tone as cold as I could manage, leaving the juice that tasted like sulfuric acid, and slipping one hand underneath the skirts of her shirt, aiming for her incredible boobs.

Betty shrugged her nose and looked at me with her wet, warm-hearted cow eyes. She was so visibly proud of me, I nearly burst into tears. We separated and had a seat in front of each All-Bran bowl.

"Your mum rang. She wanted to know about your progress with Portuguese."

My cereal tasted like sun-weathered straw, so I got up and searched the cupboards for some real food in the middle of the organic, All-Bran, and diet products.

"Did you manage to fake a Portuguese accent?" I asked, skeptical about the alibi we had worked out to cover my stay at Betty’s, supposedly a language academy giving an intensive language course in Southern Portugal. I was indeed under intensive training, but of a slightly different nature, and just a few blocks apart from home.

"I’m the chair of the academy, don’t teach myself. The real problem will be to tan that pale face of yours a bit before you get back to mum. Otherwise, nobody will believe you spent three weeks on the Portuguese coast. Take some sportswear from my wardrobe. We’ll go out for a run in the park today.

"Now the empire of the rising sun ahead!" she finished, gulping the remainder of the beverage.

I dropped the spoon and ran to check my stuff that was folded on a chair.

"Look for your phone? I had to switch it off. You got 35 missed calls from her." 

Betty gave me one of her allegedly serious stares, for which she pursed her lips and squinted for a second.

"I better call back." 

I ran to the bathroom with my cellular. Typed 'We won' and a row of celebrating emoticons. Two seconds later, the phone vibrated and 'Luna' flashed on the display. I gasped and pushed the green button. She was breathing but did not talk.

"Hi, how's it going, sweet."

 No answer, just her distant breath. I insisted.

 "We did it, we won the contest."

 Still no answer. I tried to prompt complicity.

"Mission is completed. You proud, sir?"

 She exhaled through her nose. I had broken her defenses.

"I am," she said at last, "I am, soldier, damn proud."

 I squeezed my eyelids.

"Oh, deary, I wish so much you were…"

 "Who’s Mandy?"

 "… she WAS a rival. We defeated them, and she tried to persuade me to leave Betty and go on with her."

 "Dirty chick. Are you at home?"

 "No, at Betty’s. The Portuguese course is still supposed to last one more week, remember?"

 Somebody knocked on the bathroom door.

 "Open, please, quick."

 It was Irina who seemed in a rush and shouted louder.

"What’s that?"

"It’s some friends of Betty’s who came to see the contest. I must leave now. I’ll call from a quieter place, sweet."

"Let me in, Jimi, I piss myself!" shouted Irina loud enough to be heard through the leaded door of a panic room. I hung over.

Now it was Betty banging on the door.

"Get out and get sport dressed. The sky is clear; we're going out for some running."

I unlocked and got out. Betty had an unzipped UCLA sweater on and an electric yellow reinforced sports bra underneath, with matching trainers and a headband. The pants were so tight you could tell the difference between minor and major lips.

"Twenty laps to the park, a cold shower, and back to serious issues," she commanded, turning her chin to the bedroom.

…..

"Gosh, Bets, where did you pick that up?" I protested, blinded by the smoke of her cigarette as she delivered a devastating whirl move at light speed.

"Your mum called ME again," she replied, ignoring my protest and gulping some Scotch while redoubling the pace.

"I think she’s suspicious. Maybe my Portuguese accent is unconvincing."

I tapped her thigh, our sign for a break. Her new whirling technique was too good. She stared me down. After so long involved in miserable relationships, at last she had found an activity where she was top-notch, world-class, global elite…

"But the big call was just a minute ago. Bruno. They thought about it twice and are ready to sponsor US, the TWO of us, for the Yokohama Pride. The lady boss yields; she accepts I’ll be your milkmaid rather than herself. We won again, Jimi, we made the grade!"

"That’s why your pumping is so devastating now?"

"I’m gonna crush those rice eaters like mosquitoes; I can drain the whole stud battalion with my bare hands," she declaimed, dropping the butt and the whiskey and showing off her ten bony fingers like an enormous predator butterfly. Then she squeezed the cups of her bra till the fingers disappeared under the fabric. Her eyes went deliciously squinty when she said such things. Biting her lower lip, she boasted.

"No one can take Betty’s fingers, the future Tekoki world champion…"

"Err… what about Mrs. Castillo? You think Mom will buy that I want to learn Japanese now?"

She picked the cigarette from the ashtray with two fingers and used the other three to grab the Scotch. She inhaled with narrowed eyes and took a long drink.

"Hadn’t thought of that…"

Suddenly in my cellular display flashed ‘Mandy’. Then I made a serious mistake, I took the call.

Mandy was still determined to take Betty’s place as my milkmaid for the upcoming Yokohama Pride. The tiny, large-breasted blonde dated me at a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city. The bet was I had to resist 60 minutes of her tit job. If she managed to make me cum in less than 60 minutes by touching me just with her tits, she would be allowed a second chance. Since it was hard enough to make me cum in a no-holds-barred exchange, I thought it should be impossible for any girl to do it like that, even for the gorgeous-breasted, evil-minded skinny slut. So I made a second mistake. A serious one that could ruin all my recent achievements. I took the challenge.

Speaking about pure physical, Amanda Volpe was the creature I would create if I were God and sought a partner. The size of her breasts could not be 20 grams more nor 20 grams less. The angle formed by her nipples could not be 1 degree more inward nor 1 degree more divergent. Mandy’s breasts felt smoother than Italian velvet, tasted sweeter than orchid honey, but squeezed harder than army sandbags. She used her own juices as a natural ointment, mixing saliva and honeypot cum in the right proportions to create a fluid but sticky lubrication scented with her female musk. Her breasts were so firm she could even pump me without using her hands.

Her top-notch move was the bull saddle. A no-hands position where she bent over, inserted my cock into her cleavage from above, and used her body weight to pull my cock down her breastbone, sliding back and forth, in and out, while her pneumatic jugs pressed from both sides.

It was that position which, at minute 52, broke me down and made me burst like Hiroshima’s bomb. Hands on her hips, she finished me off with her mink’s grin, the one from a naughty girl who knows how good she is on bed and loves to prove it, a naughty girl who can't tell the difference between delivering pain or pleasure, the two faces of the same coin.