Back at Betty’s apartment I clutched her bosom and confessed straight away.
Instead of getting furious, the fake gym instructor lit a cigarette, gave me a sweet, understanding stare, and combed my bangs with her long fingernails, thinking of some cunning way out of the mess.
Since we were the reigning champions of the Santa Monica club, now re-baptized Manna, we had the right to defend the title, so we could offer Marvelous Mandy an official rematch.
“She’s hot, but you can take her tricks. We are the champs. She dismissed her cowboy and won’t find any better. I’ll juice whoever she picks before you get hard.”
Still shaking, I kissed the thin skin of her wrist. The smoke of cheap tobacco stung my eyes. Now I had yet another reason to beat MM: to defend my loyal partner, the woman I could count on even after jumping into someone else’s bed and put our triumphs at stake.
—–
Bruno loved our proposal. Mandy thought more about it, but would accept on one condition: she wanted to bring from Tokyo a Japanese pro from the Tekoki circuit as partner. The first-class plane ticket and the three-night suite at one of the best hotels in the city took most of the cash we had earned with our success in the tournament. Bruno reserved the first available Manna soirée for what he trumpeted as young King Jimi’s defense of his title as Pan European Tekoki Champion. Trouble was, my Portuguese course should be over by then, and I back at Mom’s.
We knew from the Manna crew that the format of the rematch would be similar to that of the final, with slight improvements aimed at ensuring a great show and establishing permanent rules for future events.
A match would be decided when a couple won two rounds, and each round was won only if the milkmaid succeeded in fully draining the rival stallion before her partner started to cum; otherwise, the result was a draw. On top of that, the winner was not allowed to relieve himself during the break between rounds. Since this gave an advantage to the loser in the next round, the Manna people expected the matches to last at least three rounds, and probably longer in the event of draws.
Anticipating that physical conditioning would become an important factor under the new competition rules, my fake gym teacher pushed me harder than ever with running sessions in the park. Back home, when I collapsed onto our messy bed, she would pull me up by my arm to get me into the shower, where she would rub my sore muscles and use the soap suds to practice new and more devastating holds.
At Sunday’s street market, I got hold of some nice stamps from Portugal, forged a postmark, wrote a letter to my mother saying that the end of the course was delayed by a few days, crumpled the envelope, and put it in the mailbox at my house during a break in our night session. Ready for our first title defense.
—–
When our friend from the sex shop took us to the club, the room was already packed, and the air was thick with the smell of hairspray and cigar smoke. The event had been heavily advertised among the local elite, and people of dubious reputation who had trouble spending the vast amounts of money they obtained dishonestly or outright illegally suddenly found a new, expensive, and exciting form of adult entertainment. The club received substantial extra income from side bets, of which the owner of the sex shop had negotiated a modest five percent for us.
We entered through the back door, and the club staff led us into the dressing rooms. I stripped down to my tight black boxers while Betty put the finishing touches on a sleeveless black number she had found at the back of a closet she hadn’t revisited since her divorce.
When we emerged backstage, Marvelous Mandy and her chink were already waiting for us. Her superb figure put the resistance of a golden Brazilian trikini to the test. While most girls would look like a cheap whore in such a revealing string, the blonde wonder radiated elegance as if she were dressed in an evening gown. I hate to admit it, but Betty, despite the black number that made the most of her assets, was no match for her. Betty’s clothing enhanced her body, while Mandy’s body enhanced the clothing.
The rice eater that Mandy had picked as her partner was surprisingly calm, almost bored, and his outfit, once he ditched his T-shirt and jeans, consisted only of a pair of plain white underpants. I don’t know what the famous superstar of the Tekoki circuit spent his cash on, but it certainly wasn’t on clothes.
One of the big-boobed Manna escorts with slightly crossed eyes trapped his shy sex and began to pump it so furiously that she immediately broke out in a sweat, but when she realized it wasn’t growing any more, she wrinkled her nose in disgust and let it slip through her fingers.
For my part, I felt anxious and restless. Wonder Girl seemed more attractive than ever in her gold thong, but what shocked me was seeing her spread a kind of white chalk between her fingers, similar, I thought, to what weightlifters use.
My dancer was particularly skilled and made me so hard that Mandy, with her air of confidence, teased,
“Stop it, kiddo, leave something for me.”
But she immediately wiped the smile off her beautiful, malicious face and narrowed her fierce eyes.
“You’re doomed, dude,” she snapped, slapping his palms together violently to get rid of the excess chalk. “I’m gonna beat you to a pulp. You’re gonna cry like the little boy you are.”
We jumped onto the stage, and the audience stood up to acclaim us. Mandy cracked her knuckles, and as soon as she grabbed me as far from the root as possible, placing her fingers one by one for a better grip, I knew this was going to be very different—the beast was unleashed.
Right from the jump, I realized that the chalky substance had fused Mandy’s fist to my skin, turning her fingers into part of my cock’s outer layer. By adjusting the pressure at each stage of the stroke, she utterly dominated my pleasure spots at will, gaining full control over my sensations. Like a skilled pianist who knew the piece by heart, she managed to increase the pace all the way to molto vivace while maintaining all the precision in every detail of her masterpiece.
“Ouch, man, see how I got you now? You could lift a bus with this hard-on, huh?”
Biting the tip of her tongue, Mandy paused to rest her swollen right hand and used her left to pin my cock against my stomach. I could feel the steaming colossus, grown to unprecedented size, burning my belly. She rolled her blue eyes.
“See, man, no one has ever made you this big, huh? Can someone measure this?” she squealed. “I think it’s a junior world record for males under 70 kilos.”
Despite her bragging, her eyes were wet, and her jaw shook a bit. The golden string had disappeared, chewed by her eager nether lips. Shouldn’t it have cost her instant disqualification? She had impaled herself right away, but she was fighting for the title, so she held out and resumed her devastating strokes.
When she decided to pick up the pace, her majestic breasts, the ones that had defeated my champion in the cheap motel, jostled against each other. Perhaps they were warming up in case they had to jump in at some point in the fight.
On the opposite saddle, Betty didn’t make any progress with the inhumanly cold yellow guy. The Jap’s XS jumped in and out of her fist undaunted, hard and insensitive as a bone.
Mandy pierced me with the eyes of the tigress.
“Tell me, sugar, who does it better? Me or that forty-something loser? What do you say? Who squeezes harder?”
I wanted to answer and shut her up, but I didn’t dare move a muscle. My eyes were dripping with pure desire to explode. I dropped my head, unable to hold the gaze of the imposing blonde. I was the king of Manna; she couldn’t beat me up like that. Biting my upper lip, I managed to suppress the explosion, but it was like trying to build a dam with chopsticks to hold back a flood.
“You’re liking it, huh? You’re hanging on like a boss. How do you want me to wrap this up for you? Or are you freaking out and want it to go a bit longer? You don’t get to taste something like this every day, do ya?”
Smoke and testosterone clouded my vision. Mandy’s firm grip moved in slow motion. I looked up at her stern, immaculate face, ready for sacrifice, and she finished me off with a simple touch of her middle finger sliding gently down my perineal nerve. I spat so hard that my cum reached the ceiling lights and rained down on her blonde mane, cascading onto her rounded shoulders, bulging from the effort of our brawl.
Desperate, Betty let go of the yellow one and burst into tears. I struggled to get up from my saddle to hug her, while Mandy strutted around the edge of the stage, completely soaked by my rain. The referee grabbed her wrist and lifted her arm. With her other hand, she blew a kiss to the frantic audience.
I saw Betty collapse, her eyes red. As her buttocks hit the floorboards, her tight dress ripped open on one side. She covered her face with her large, bony hands, now unrecognizably red. A wave of rage ran up my spine. I had gotten her into this; I had to get her out. I crawled close to her and clutched her shoulders.
“This is just the first round, Bets. I’m not going to let that super-horny bitch steal the title from us. We’re gonna wreck that cunt, and then you and I will be flying together to Yokohama.”
On my way to the saddle, I looked up, and there she was, at the first table in the front row, the imposing figure of Shae, completely motionless except for the slight swaying of her wrist that caused the ice cubes in her whiskey glass to clink together. The light slowed and hesitated as it approached her torso, forming a mist of microscopic sparks around her.
I climbed back onto my saddle and jerked off until I reached record size again. I turned to Mandy and showed her my formidable warrior, ready to fight.
“Come back here, blondie, this is just getting started.”
Mandy squared up in front of me, flashing her large, shiny teeth.
“Awesome. Let’s see if I still left anything inside you.”
Betty pulled herself together; approaching her corner, she downed a double Irish without ice in one gulp, placed the empty glass on her stool, and, arms akimbo, took a deep breath like a weightlifter before her third attempt. Then she wrapped the Japanese bone in her fist and secured her grip with the fingers of her other hand to make it stronger.
“Ready!” she shouted, challenging the referee.
—–
The Second Round remains a classic that breaks download records on paid streaming sites. Inspired by her desire to topple the King, Mandy delivers what may be the best performance of her competitive career as a professional milker. In fact, some of her maneuvers are now specifically banned from Tekoki pro-league bouts, either because they are too violent, stimulate prohibited areas of the body, or both.
But in Betty’s name, to honor her generous dedication, I resolved to resist Wonder Girl. It was up to my endurance to ensure that, for once, the bubble of her illusions would not burst in her face. I was committed to resisting, even if the super vixen chained me to a medieval torture machine. For a change, my loyal partner truly deserved to see her illusions come true, to overcome a lifetime of bitter failures and unfulfilled dreams.
Betty, for her part, had also understood that the occasion was exceptional and she couldn’t let it pass, as it might never come again. She was a born fighter, accustomed to earning things through hard work, and she knew that even the driest bone has marrow inside.
The fierce contest rages on. Cigars turn to ashes, and throats grow sore, while escorts rush through the crowd with refills and punters clean up. On stage, club girls wipe sweat from the milkmaids’ glistening skin. The HRP crew requests chargers for their drained camera batteries.
“Brave kiddo,” Mandy spits, glancing at the timer on the screen, “you’ve broken my all-time record.”
Luckily, she doesn’t realize how close I am to exploding.
“The whirl-thing!” I shout desperately at Betty. She hears me and tries, but the pale bone is too short to achieve the necessary leverage for her lethal move, and it slips out of her fist, undaunted.
Betty gives up, violently hitting the invincible Japanese man’s saddle, and vents her frustration by screaming. The impassive yellow man seems slightly annoyed, perhaps expecting something more. He spits precisely on the tip of his bone and spreads the saliva along the pale shaft.
“Ya quit?” asks Mandy, simulating disgust.
“No way, bitch,” I reply, struggling to endure the pendulum technique she’s using on me, grabbing me at the base and wiggling my cock so that its suffocated head slaps against the palm of her hand, which, at any moment, will close around it.
“Nice job, kiddo, you’re hangin’ in there like a champ, but I’m the one who’s calling the shots here.”
She switched to a reverse grip, twisted me around, and extended his lethal middle finger. I’m done for.
“Bessie, sweetheart, please keep going… please… we can still put up a fight, don’t give up, please! I want YOU to fly with me to Yokohama.”
The skinny woman, with nice breasts but not particularly attractive features, and big, sweet, sad eyes, let out a deep sigh. She had realized that I was fighting for her. I would go to Japan anyway. It was for her that I was fighting.
She got rid of her ripped dress, puffed out her chest, and faced the Japanese dude, whose eyes narrowed.
“Sayonara, baby,” she mumbled.
