The last few days at Betty’s were stuffed with mixed emotions. The moment we’d been waiting for—Yokohama Pride—had finally arrived. Betty’s new tricks were devastating. I doubt any Asian tough guy could take it longer than one minute or two. But I felt lost, unmotivated, and unenthusiastic. Betty and I had longed for this so intensely that now that it was here, I was frustrated that I couldn’t enjoy it. And what’s worse, I couldn’t share my discouragement with her; I couldn’t ruin the adventure of her life, her purpose. I had chosen to be here with her, and not with Shae, that mythical creature capable of knocking the wind out of your chest when she tossed her black mane with an elegant flick of her head. I had demanded that HRP let Betty come with me and be my partner in the championship, turning down the company’s owner herself. We were so good that we’d outplayed them, and now I wondered what I was doing in all of this.
Luna never returned my calls. She had stayed behind to live in Chile. Betty, who was still in touch with her, told me this between puffs on the cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth as she mashed fermented chickpeas to make me some invigorating hummus. I also learned from Betty that she had gotten engaged to the father of a classmate and that they had moved to Patagonia to raise horses.
Later, I found out that the story had been somewhat more complicated: she had started dating her riding partner, then begun seeing his father, and finally opted directly for the landowner, bypassing the wealthy heir. Patience had never been one of the virtues of Martha Saunders-Witt, the most ambitious talent of her age. Although it might be hard to believe, the whole situation had really gotten to me. I felt like a creation of my ex; my champion had been carved out, blow by blow, by her strong, bare hands, and even though she herself had entrusted me to Betty’s care, my behavior while she was away hadn’t exactly been that of a model boyfriend.
Regarding Irina, she disappeared from the Earth’s surface. When I got sandwiched between the heavenly buxom blonde and the lasciviously buxom brunette, I hadn’t really enjoyed it. It was like a daydream, not reality- I was witnessing it all from outside myself, and I missed the pause button to grow aware the girls were actually struggling to squeeze ME in their pale and tanned arms.
To be honest, I doubt it could be technically designed as a threesome, since I simply used Betty’s skills to build stamina into my killer to give the Polish virgin the fuck of her lifetime. Most likely, she would be arrested along with her father at the gate of a catholic church and deported to Krakow, so I reckon her sex life didn’t ever match our standards, never again, but that is just a supposition, a prejudice-stuffed supposition. Perhaps she had married a sex starved 300 lbs. forest timber collector, and her current life consisted of non-stop banging feasts dusk to dawn.
My strange connection with Betty—whose role was limited to stoking me and juicing me behind my family’s back—wasn’t going well either. The rematch against marvelous Mandy and her impassive Jap had been very strange indeed. They kicked our ass in the first round and were about to do the same in the second when all of a sudden, Betty started sobbing. She had realized I was fighting for her. I wanted HER to come with me to Yokohama. So she recovered and destroyed the Jap’s pale bone.
With her natural-borne intuition, she realized her fists couldn’t do any harm to him and switched to nail tactics. She withdrew the sensitive part, and her long, hard nails finished the job. When her malicious skill found the right place, she screamed like mad: ‘right here’, and the predator didn’t release till she made sure her prey would be fully unable to get a new hard-on in months. They want it rough? We, Jimi and Betty, knew how to play dirty as well. Definitely, we were the Kings of Manna.
Yet I had Irina’s milky bosom indelibly stamped in my mind. Old Betty was so generous she didn’t refuse to pump me up time after time when the image was unbearable to me, and never requested a payback, succeeding at breaking my mythical hold-up was all her reward, although now with perspective, I reckon she actually expected to receive some more personal attention for her from my manna maker. At the end of the day, it was also in part a creation of hers.
——————-
We had planned to arrive in Yokohama just two days before the competition began. By then, I had lost a lot of weight. It was a combination of many factors. Once my excuse of taking the Portuguese course was over, I had to return to my normal life at my parents’ house and attend classes, so training was limited to the nighttime hours. Betty would pick me up around one o’clock, when my mother was already asleep—whether in her room or watching the credits of the soap opera—and bring me back around four, after a session of nonstop pumping that the sex-shop owner’s wife had recently started joining in on; she definitely had a sordid past. The relays that her sturdy fingers, adorned with bulky rings, gave to my skilled gym instructor were in no way inferior to hers in energy or precision. Since my alarm went off at 8, I was sleeping barely three and a half hours a day—roughly the same amount of time as my nightly four-handed pumping session.
On top of that, Betty had replaced my normal diet with some absurd macrobiotic regimen, and she was stuffing me with potions and ointments that were supposed to give me extraordinary sexual vigor—including such appetizing substances as sperm whale oil, or freeze-dried bull shark fin broth, which was dissolved in hot jelly and, to take the edge off its ferocity, sprinkled with Asian rhinoceros horn burned with sandalwood. My new dinner, which, curiously, my mother loved—thrilled that I was finally taking care of my health—made me so hungry that by mid-morning I would storm the school cafeteria as if I were participating in an eating contest.
The Sunday before the trip, we met up with our sponsors from Maná to go over the organizational details. For our meeting with Shae and Bruno, Betty slipped into her low-cut black dress—a questionable pairing with purple sneakers—while I settled for a T-shirt and jeans, as usual. I was going to see Shae; I needed to look natural and, at the very least, be comfortable in what I was wearing. In keeping with our new status as champions, we took a taxi. I told Betty to give the driver some money to hold onto until our return that night, but she gave him so much we could have bought the taxi outright. Bruno wanted us to watch some videos of this year’s favorites, so I wouldn’t be caught off guard. Shae wouldn’t let go of the hand of her new companion, a burly young man with golden curls whom she’d just filmed with in Crete. The film was called Atalanta and Meleager, and it kicked off the HRP series of mythologically inspired productions shot in a single take.
While her partner fingered her neck, Shae nodded from behind the smoke of her cigarette at every one of Bruno’s assertions. The fact was, they both took it for granted that we were going to sweep the competition in Yokohama. But nothing was going to go the way I had imagined. According to Bruno’s videos, the championship would take place in a single, uninterrupted session, on a dingy, poorly lit, ramshackle stage, with 32 small, uncomfortable wooden stools arranged in pairs to form a circle, each accompanied by a worn hand towel and a plastic water bottle.
The Maná looked like La Scala in Milan by comparison. Nothing suggested that this stage would bring together the 16 best tekoki pairs from the five continents, or even that one of them would be crowned world champion that very night. The Asians organizing Yokohama Pride liked to stay true to the simple, age-old tradition of endurance competitions, rooted in the bizarre customs of that strange country and held in modest, working-class venues.
Bruno ordered drinks from the escorts while he played his video on the giant screen behind the stage. The perky tekoki champions got me all worked up. Although they trained their diabolical maneuvers six hours a day, they seemed naively surprised when their victims’ semen dripped down their rosy cheeks, and of course they enjoyed it like little girls, milking them until they howled in pain. But suddenly, the shaky footage from dimly lit bars gave way to a gigantic face in high definition. The girl with partially Western features and jet-black hair pulled back into two tight buns stole the show. A whole team of assistants fluttered around her, touching up her flawless makeup, shielding her torso with a paper parasol, or simply praising her spectacular hairstyle. As the shot widened, a terrace overlooking the sea came into view, with palm trees swaying in the breeze in the background. I could have sworn the interviewer’s voice-over trembled as he asked questions that only her assistants answered.
“It’s a promotional video,” Bruno said. “It’s about Rosemary Yu, this year’s favorite. She’s a high-class Burmese escort famous for her Zen techniques. She shot to fame after taking down a well-known, violent porn actor who was 80 kilos heavier than her. You’ll see some footage of it later.”
I took three long sips of my drink—a modest amount, considering that Betty had downed hers in one gulp and was already looking for the waitress to order another round. Bruno rolled up the sleeves of his tuxedo, eager to shower us with his wisdom. Shae watched us between puffs on her long cigar while her expressionless new partner stroked the nape of her neck. Although the porn world isn’t populated by delicate damsels prone to fainting, few actresses wanted to film with Chuck “Butcher” Magnusson. His sudden outbursts of brutality on camera delighted the most deranged producers, but they had caused many shoots to end in violent brawls with the divas’ entourages. Sensing a profitable spectacle, the shrewd executives at Bizarre TV proposed an extreme matchup: the Butcher versus the Rose, Rosemary Yu’s stage name. Yu’s terms were as follows. ‘If this brute can last 100 seconds without coming, he wins, and he can do whatever he wants to me in front of your cameras for 100 minutes. If he comes, I win, I’ll terminate your contract, and I’ll take him as a bouncer for my brothel.’
When Magnusson heard the terms of the challenge, he cracked a rib from a fit of laughter. When he also learned that the Rose’s 100 seconds didn’t include pumping, his injury worsened, and his sponsor banned him from watching comedy movies. But when he stood face to face with Yu, separated by just one foot, the Butcher—rough but not stupid—began to worry about his million-dollar contract. Yu had the most magnetic gaze he had ever seen. Her hypnotic panther pupils kept him from blinking and made his eyes water. Her shoulders were so perfect they seemed boneless, and her breasts, just the right size to fill his enormous hands, distorted her bra as if it were sculpted marble.
In the videos, the Rose would immobilize her victims with a couple of twists and make them squirt mercilessly through small tugs and subtle vibrations. During her matches, her die-hard fans would always chant the seconds of contact between the victim’s member and Yu’s fingers, and the count rarely went past 40. When Yu released them, the members would collapse like groggy boxers, exhausted and drained.
Standing in front of Butch, she let her silk robe—embroidered with a dragon—fall to the floor, knelt, and took hold of him with the three equally sized mighty spheres: her face and her breasts. The giant drooled like a baby, and I think she could have turned him into mush right then and there, but she smiled and squeezed his monumental bulk. Her followers chanted the count. She didn’t squeeze him hard; she just brushed against him, feeling for his most sensitive spots. When the giant exhaled, a flash of lightning flickered in her alluring pupils. She had him. She had found his weak spot. She delayed the lethal twist to let him harbor false hopes and make his defeat hurt even more. On the count of 98, she clenched her ten fingers, pressing her nails on just as many nerves, and Butch exploded so violently that it splattered the camera.
“How will she do that?” I asked Betty rhetorically.
My loyal partner still had the video images reflected in her wide pupils. The big-boobed waitress, waiting for her signal, kept pouring vodka into her glass until it spilled onto the table.
“Enough, enough, thank you,” Betty finally muttered. “They’re probably staged scenes,” she added, perhaps to keep my spirits up, since the Rose was in Yokohama partnering with the Burmese champion.
I think Shae found it amusing to see me so unsettled because she turned toward her towering young lover and let him kiss her on the forehead.
“See,” said Bruno, loosening his bow tie, “she doesn’t even pump—she just grips and squeezes. She’s unbeatable. What do you think, Shae?”
The diva let go of her companion’s hand, fixed me with a piercing gaze, and, exhaling a ring of smoke for the first time, spoke up.
“Our couple is also top-notch. I trust them completely.”
—————-
No matter how intimately we came to know our bodies, I never managed to glimpse what my busty personal milkmaid’s true feelings were. Sometimes I thought she expected me to be more emotionally involved; other times, I was convinced that her only interest was in riding on the coattails of my amazing superpower, the mastery of which provided her with her sole source of self-esteem.
The day before the trip, she told me about her scheme. The flight to Yokohama had a layover in Frankfurt, but we didn’t have to change planes. Since there was nothing to do for 12 hours, Betty had decided to test my legendary limits and proposed that I could only get up to use the restroom, while she could do whatever she wanted for the entire trip under the courtesy blanket provided by the airline. It was a crazy idea more suited to Lu than to the dull and unimaginative former gym instructor. Maybe that’s why I accepted it without a word of protest. She had bought a headband with an infrared webcam and four extra batteries to record the 12-hour massage, with the aim of officially setting a new world record for Bizarre TV—all of this, of course, behind our HRP sponsors’ backs, so she wouldn’t have to share royalties.
We took off. Absorbed in her record attempt, Betty didn’t slow down even when the flight attendant brought us drinks, which we requested frequently, given our need to rehydrate. The hostess cleared her throat, but Betty’s fist remained relentless under the blanket; she took the drinks with her free hand and brought them to my lips without even letting me grab them myself. As we flew over Siberia, after 7 uninterrupted hours, we both began to regret not having thought to go for an ejaculated volume record also. My reservoirs kept producing, and Betty harvested insatiably. It was madness that even put my health at risk, so we threw ourselves into it wholeheartedly.
It stopped seeming fun when, over Korea, my member said enough, so I grabbed Betty’s wrist, but she gently pulled away and whispered to me. Trust me, big guy. I can bring it back to life… And by changing her technique, she worked her magic. Her repertoire seemed endless: caresses, grips, chokeholds, pinches—whatever it took until she found the new trick that managed to get me upright again. She looked at the plane’s display showing the time and location, and whispered into the mic: “8 hours 53 minutes… 9 hours 36 minutes… 10 hours 00 minutes… 10 hours 33 minutes… Come on, champ… 10 hours 45 minutes…” Now and then she’d shake her hand, swollen like a baseball glove, and resume the massage.
When I tapped her thigh to finally give in, the plane was flying low over Yokohama Bay, sparkling with multicolored lights; they had dimmed the lights for landing, and the speakers were playing a catchy instrumental tune. Betty glanced at her digital watch and announced the time.
“Eleven hours, twenty-four minutes!” announced Betty, leaning forward and turning her head to shut my gaunt, flabby face with her cam. “That will do! Congrats, big man, you are the new Tekoki-enduring world record holder!”
The flight attendant approached to scold us for still having our seatbelts unfastened. Betty focused her front-facing camera on her. “And turn off all electronic devices,” she added angrily. As soon as she walked away between the seats, we both fell asleep instantly.
