The Competition

Message-ID: 042308Z27061995@anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.sex.masturbation X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.masturbation Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an272878@anon.penet.fi Lines: 544

In response to those who have recently speculated about what a masturbation sporting competition might be like, I wrote the following story as a fanciful exploration of that theme. - Aristos

The Competition

Duncan led me into the Club Rub without having shared any of the evening's planned program with me in advance. It had been three days ago that he asked me to accompany him to "an event" at Club Rub, but mentioned nothing about what the event was. He did, however, make three very curious requests: (1) that I not jack off for the next three days; (2) that I eat mainly salads and green veggies for the next three days; and (3) that I meet him in front of Club Rub at ten o-clock.

In the face of these bizarre, and seemingly unrelated, requests, I rather assumed that before we left the Club Rub that night I was scheduled to have some kind of sexual experience, most likely with Duncan. Any kind of sexual experience with Duncan was for me sufficient motivation to go long with him on this.

Club Rub was a private club that occupied the entire basement level of an older downtown commercial building. As its name was intended to suggest, it was known for its "hospitality" to those of us who, from time to time, enjoy contact (understood in its literal meaning) with members of our same sex. I had no reason to think tonight Club Rub would be offering anything else. I was right, but in ways I could not then have imagined.

We emerged into the dimmed interior of the Club which, I must also point out, was known for it gourmet cuisine and excellent wine cellar. We found Club Rub set up for a dinner party of sorts, with tables and chairs arranged in orbit around four elevated daises, no doubt in preparation for whatever was to be the evening's entertainment. Events were to prove that I and others would pull that duty.

On entering the Club, Duncan was handed two cards, one red and one blue, on which he was asked to write in the names of the "Competitor" on the red card, and the "Manager" on the blue. I looked at Duncan for some indication of meaning, and got none. Instead he proceeded to write his own name as "Manager" on the blue card, and mine as "Competitor" on the red one.

Who, I wondered, was I to compete against? And for what?

We were escorted past the tables which were filling up into mixed pairs in all four permutations of "m" and "f." We were shown to a lounge area off to the side where a dozen or so other incredibly hot-looking guys were mingling about, all dressed down to their briefs. Further direction being superfluous, we followed - pardoning the pun - suit.

This group turned out to be the other "Managers" and "Competitors," all whispering to each other in an intriguing variety of intimate postures. It was easy to tell which were the Competitors: they were all ball-tingling gorgeous, and each had someone else's hand down the front of his briefs in other places of genital interest.

I whispered to Duncan: "OK, "Manager," what exactly is up in addition to these guys' cocks?"

"OK, here's the deal, Peter. I've entered us in a competition, called "Fantasie Ejaculat." I'll be assisting you in competition with half of these other guys, the other half being Managers like me. Let me show you the list of events," he said, "and you'll begin to get the idea." He pulled out a sheet on which the following appeared:

Event #1:

• SIZE

• APPEARANCE

• RESPONSIVENESS

Event #2:

• STYLE

• CONTROL

Event #3:

• DURATION OF ORGASM

• DISTANCE OF EJACULATION

Event #4:

• VOLUME

• TASTE

Event #5:

• APPRECIATION

"You entered me in an ejaculation contacts?," I marvelled?

"I can't believe this," I went on. "Like it was some kind of Olympic game or something! Hey, you know I like - make that 'love' - doing it, don't get me wrong. And I know we're both very, very good at it. But gee, without advance notice? How am I gonna pull this off. I'm not prepared, Dunc."

"Look, Peter. That diet I gave you? If my theory holds, over the past three days you have already been in training. You have not only increased the level of your prostate secretions, but will have caused your semen to have a very pleasant, sweet taste. And that's one of the prerequisites for victory here tonight. The rest (thanks to our years together) should come naturally to us; and if you follow my cues all through the competition, we'll walk away winners."

I hesitated. The swelling of my groin did not.

He continued. "We start of with twelve Competitors, all of whom compete in Event #1 in the three elements of Size, Appearance, and Responsiveness. Eight are selected to move on to Event #2."

"Event #2," he went on, "is intended to demonstrate Style and Control during sexual arousal. It runs a little longer than Event #1, and is designed to determine those four Competitors who demonstrate Olympic virtuosity in masturbating, or being masturbated by his Manager. It is also calculated to test how close to the edge a guy can be brought at his own, or another's, hand without shooting his wad, which would obviously be disqualifying. I figure, from our years training together, we should have no trouble showing them how I can bring your cock to the point where bookies would lay 10 to 1 odds against your being able to hold back climax."

He was right. I knew it. I clearly had an talent for going right up to the orgasmic edge without falling off, which is what the judges apparently wanted to see. No points for holding back, but no ball game for cumming. Had to be in the middle, and right to the crest of shooting.

I was rock hard thinking about this now, and my mind was dishing me up an avalanche of images, all arousing as hell.

Dunc went on. " Four finalists now selected to move on to the main event, Event #3, where they compete to see which demonstrates best control during arousal and the most impressive results in climax and ejaculation. While the Competitors are recovering from Event #3, the judges will move on to what is billed as Event #4, which is for obvious reasons accomplished by the judges without any further help from you. You performed your part in Event #4 in Event #3, by producing and ejaculating a healthy supply of the right stuff for them to judge. You'll be scored on the volume and the taste of your semen."

My mental avalanche continued as he wrapped up. "The scoring is done much the same way you've seen done in the Olympics, with the judges awarding scores of between 1 and 10. High score wins."

I had no trouble understanding the math. I still wondered about what the rules of competition were going to be.

"I follow you so far," I said, "but what exactly is Event #5, 'Appreciation?' I have to tell you, Dunc, if I were to go out there first, right now, I'd wash out of the competition for Size."

By now we were standing there in our briefs, out stiff dicks forming conspicuous bulges in the pouch. "That's where I come in," he replied with a sheepish grim, slipping his hand under the waist band of my briefs and wrapping his moist palm around my swollen member.

"I'm there to make sure you're not only ready for Event #1," he said as I could feel his horny fingers cup my tingling scrotal sac, "but also to make sure you survive it and are ready for the events that follow. If you've done as I asked in what you ate for the last three days, not ejaculating either, my theories should prove out that your semen supply and taste should be maxed out. That, together with my techniques" (his hand now riding softly up the sensitive underside of my penis) "in keeping you up and running throughout the competition, should make you the winner."

My eyes began to close as I yielded to the pleasuring I was now receiving by "my Manager," to the vicarious delight that pleasuring brought to some of the guests who stood by to watch us warm up for the competition.

While my key competitive muscles were being massaged, I asked: "Explain Event #5 for me." "Oh that," he replied. "The judges are allowed under the rules of competition to award extra points for the manner in which you demonstrate your appreciation to our audience for permitting you to compete in the finals. Anything goes." He paused, and added: "Trust me that if we get that far in the competition, I have a few ideas you will like."

I have to confess that while reasonably well-endowed by nature, my genitals were not world-class in size. I was relieved therefore to learn that the judges took other things in consideration in judging Event #1, and a fair amount of subjectivity would dic(k)tate which eight of us were to go on the more serious competition in Event #2.

The judges were two really hot young guys in "show-me" swim suits, and two startlingly attractive young women wearing little more. The organization which was sponsoring "Fantasie Ejaculat", discovered, was the Toronto chapter of "GLaB," whose members were gay, lesbian, and bi, and all in town from Canada for a convention. This explained the diversity in pairing that I'd noticed earlier. I also learned that the trophy to be given to the winning Competitor/Manager team included an all-expense-paid weekend at the swank gay ranch north of the city that Duncan and I had often talked about visiting. So my motivation was running high in anticipation a weekend with him at the ranch.

I decided not to analyze my situation further. I was in the competition, and was going to enjoy it. And with Duncan's hand massaging my balls, I was more than just beginning to enter into the spirit of the games. I could see that the other Managers were also warming up their champions in their own separate runs for the gold, displaying an assortment of genital encouragements which the milling guests did not fail to notice appreciatively.

For these and other reasons, having Duncan as my Manager/Handler had already triggered a serious tumescence that would likely produce a world-class case of "blue balls" by the time we reached Event #3.

But by now the tables were occupied, and waiters sporting string bikinis circulated among our guests with trays of drinks and appetizers - as if the Competitors and their Managers doing warm-exercises weren't intoxicating or appetizing enough!

The judges were seated in chairs more or less in front of the daises, clip boards at the ready. A signal was given, and the Master of Ceremonies rose to address his guests.

"Welcome to 'Fantasie Ejaculat.' I would like to remind our Competitors, and our guests, that the rules of competition permit the Manager to assist his Competitor in virtually any way he and the Competitor deem effective and appropriate. Managers have all been informed of the time limits applicable for each event, breach of which will be disqualifying. Events have been timed so that Event #5 will commence with the serving of dessert - as a post-prandial, so to speak. The awarding of the winning trophy will follow. Let the competition begin."

It was apparent to me that the Managers (and probably all of my competitors!) had be well informed of the rules and time limits, putting me at what I felt was a disadvantage. Whispering this to Duncan, he said: "Hey, guy, no way. The others, not you, are really the ones with the disadvantage. You alone will be in suspense about what we're doing. Suspense, as we both know well, has always enhanced your sexual performance, right?"

I pondered, but had to concur.

"Look," he continued, "if we try to follow a script, or try to perform like it was rehearsed, the more likely we are to fall flat. My theory of competition - just like abstaining from jacking off and eating greens - requires that you be kept hair-trigger sensitive to every touch and move I make, and to every clue to action I give you. Be spontaneous, like always, get it?"

I got it - or think I did. In any event, at a signal from the Master of Ceremonies, four pairs moved to the daises. With music striking up in the background, the eight bodies on the daises began to writhe and gyrate, their genitals expertly handled and prominently displayed to our guests and judges. Two were stroking themselves slowly, while their Managers gave the rest of their bodies an assortment of erotic strokes. The other two were massaging various flat surfaces of their twisting bodies while their Managers stroked their cocks, one from the front and one from behind with what appeared from a distance to be a finger up his guy's ass. In this manner the four young men promenaded their impressive penises in front of the judges, who looked on in feigned stoicism, scoring pencils at the ready.

The tinkle of fork to dish had noticeably subsided during the heavier movements on stage.

Nearing the end of this event, the four judges joined those on the daises with small cloth tape measures. With these they proceeded to measure the length and thickness of the Competitors' swollen members from the pubic bone to spermslit, and just at peak tumescence.

A small buzzer sounded someplace in the distance, and the eight abandoned the stage for the next four to advance. A momentary increase in the sounds of forks and plates subsided as the scenes of competition repeated for the next four Competitors.

This time, one of the Managers got his guy up by reaching from behind to lightly massage the inside of his guy's thighs, perineum, and anus, gradually shifting from manual to mouth massage. His guy's throbbing prominence bobbled over his Manager's head for the measurement.

Another stroked himself industriously as his Manager fucked his manhole with his own impressive member, bringing his guy to the point where he was unable to hold back his ejaculation. Projectiles of the young man's cum caught one of the judges on the clipboard. Although now disqualified from the rest of the competition, he was nevertheless roundly applauded by the warm and appreciative audience.

"Well," I whispered to Duncan, "Rule 1: 'anything goes;' Rule 2: anything cums. You better handle me right tonight; I don't want to disqualified like that till we go to the ranch for the weekend." He smiled and said: "Don't worry. I have you well in hand."

"You do indeed," I moaned as once again his expert fingers migrated like homing pigeons in their sensuous journey to roost at the swollen prostate inside my body.

We were on, and I was up for it. Duncan and I had now stopped "practicing" quietly in the wings and moved to the dais. "We alternate," he whispered. We moved to center stage.

We began with him kneeling in front me. Grabbing my tight round butt cheeks in his hands, he pulled my penis into his waiting mouth, rocking his head back and forth to bring me up. His moist, warm face provided a sensuous lubricant for further handling of my throbbing cock. Then lithely rising, he moved behind me, his hands wrapping around to my belly. His educated fingers began to massage my pubic area down to the top of my cock, while I slid my own hands to the sensitive inside of my thighs, on up to my scrotum, and from there up to bigger and better things.

I softly massaged my cock, slippery now from my friend's delicious mouthing. His fingers suddenly coupled with my own around my penis, and together we stroked with feathery light moves. Disengaging, his fingers travelled up my pulsating penis to the base of my public bone, which he pressed inward, causing my cock to jerk straight out at the judges and guests.

We alternated this way for several cycles. He rested his firm palms on my pubic mound, pressing in to add an extra half inch to the length of my cock just as the judge placed her tape from my pubic rim to my sperm slit. She then measured the circumference of my fully aroused male member at its thickest point, and with a wink smiled approvingly as the buzzer sounded for us to moved off stage.

It was a surprise to neither to Duncan nor me that I'd made it to Event #2 along with seven other of my Competitors. Duncan whispered to me that large amounts of pre-cum, well displayed, counted as circumstantial and corroborating evidence of control. Since nature had generously equipped my body to produce this wonderful substance, I was determined to let those watching know.

As we spoke four Competitors and Managers advanced to the daises to commence this phase of the competition. Responsiveness, style, and control were up for Events #2. For the three elements tested in this event, Duncan explained, we were allowed more time, since responsiveness and control clearly require more time to demonstrate adequately.

The technique which seemed to work best for two of those now in action was feathery light brushing strokes by the Managers along the underside of their guys' penises. This produced the incredible sight of my two Competitors' penises bobbing up and down in barely restrained sexual ecstacy.

A third Manager concentrated on the frenulum at the underside of his guy's glans, tickling it with the tip of his finger, while pulling down on his scrotal sac with his other hand. With these moves, his cock was projected straight out from his torso, assuming the same springboard bobbling as the other two.

The fourth Manager, in more creative form, faced the judges and sucked his guy's scrotum from below, and pulling the scrotal sack down while his guy tickled the underside of his own shaft. The glans glistened in the spotlight, and I could see him draw a long and sticky string of precum out from his spermslit and in the direction of the admiring guests. I couldn't help being turned on by this virtuoso performance.

The audience had now warmed audibly with the increased heat of the competition, and murmured their approval and hardly stopping for breath. The four Competitors now on stage having now demonstrated the three required elements, the buzzer signaled their retreat to make way for the next four, I being one.

At Duncan's direction, I took up a kneeling position, with the palms of my hands resting on the floor behind me and my legs spreadeagled toward the judges and guests. Duncan stood behind me and massaged my temples and eye sockets in the way he knows I love. My head thrown back in sexual meditation so that I was looking at the ceiling, I focused all my powers of physical self-awareness on my erect cock, and proceeded to exercise those muscles which make a really stiff dick leap to life.

Duncan knew that I'd had an instinct and talent for mental masturbation, an skill developed by eastern monks that both required and demonstrated herculean penis control. He also knew that several times I'd been able to achieve hands-free ejaculation solely by use of my powers of focus and the accompanying exercise of my sex muscles. By demonstrating my responsiveness to Duncan's massage, I also demonstrated the control in my delicate balance of mind and penis.

In this position, and with both Duncan and I virtually motionless, my now massively aroused cum-tower became like a thing having a life of its own. My cock jerked to attention, and held there vibrating straight up in the air. Then I by relaxing my muscles I permitting my penis drop slightly forward into neutral, only by further muscle work to bounce it quickly into its next convulsive reach for the sky.

Repeating in this manner, I drew what I knew to be well deserved hoots from our appreciative dinner guests, and what I hoped would be high points on the judges score pads. At the buzzer, I moved off like a conquering hero. I could tell from the sensuous pats Duncan placed on my butt as we moved off that I'd done him proud just then.

The two remaining Competitors for Event #2 moved on and off, but I did not watch. Instead Duncan and I conspired over our own moves for the main event, Event #3. There I would have to demonstrate a world-class orgasm and Olympic javelin distances for my cum shots.

For Event #3, Duncan told me, the judges would be called upon to exercise a trained eye to determine the volume of my ejaculate. He said that they would count the number of separate globs and strings of my ejaculated semen as one indicator of the volume. Measuring the distance of my farthest cum shot would be technically less problematic and distinctly less subjective.

"Your diet," Duncan explained, "should have caused your body to produce seminal fluid of just the right viscosity. You know how sometimes our spunk is thick, white, and creamy, and at other times it is thinner and clearer? Well, while thick, white, and creamy is great to suck, it's not the best kind for an Olympic cum shot; for that it should be somewhere in the middle. The diet - your body, I should say - should produce just the right stuff for our purposes."

I was amazed at the degree to which my friend had become so erudite in the performance parameters of the human male.

We four surviving finalists were lined up at the front edge of the daises, and our handlers behind. Tables stretching out about eight feet in the direction of the guests were now placed in front of each Competitor. The table top was roughly at the level of the Competitors' knees, and the four judges took up positions adjacent to the tables, but within a few feet of those whose ejaculatory performance they were called upon to score. The "tablecloths," as you might have guessed, had graduated arcs out the full eight feet, in much the same manner as for the Olympic shotput.

I took up my position, and as I did I looked down two feet or so into the gorgeous eyes of a young judge whose brown hair and boyish profile had earlier in the evening helped me sustain my erection. My image of the ill-concealed hardness in his briefs, and my visualization of him soon hungrily supping on my semen (Refer to Event #4), served as the opening plunge into my main performance.

Behind me, Duncan slowly inserted his luscious and well lubricated penis into my rectal canal, its tip firmly massaging my prostate and urging every last fluid ounce of boyjuice in my internal sexual organs to be ready for a ride to freedom. For my part I softly and sensuously massaged the areas surrounding my genitals, brushing often along the sensitive surfaces of my working parts. I moved my fingers up slowing, forming in couplet with Dunc's, a twenty-finger sheath into which I repeated thrusted my distended malestick. At each thrust, my ruby-red glans, glistening with precum, emerged from the tip our finger-sheath like a snake up for air.

The other Competitors continued with their Managers working their guys' dicks from behind, in what must have been their own time-tested techniques for ejaculatory success. The buzzer, for this event, was to be the signal that ejaculation must commence within one minute.

The audience enjoyed this part enormously, with the four of us being whacked and jacked in a final display of control and response to our Managers.

In my near-trance state of sustained sexual arousal, I heard the buzzer which signaled my transition to the end game. Less than thirty second after that, and more or less in sync with each other, we began the final, pulsating quivers of our orgasms. Our engorged cocks gyrating in harmony with our own or another's fingers, and I in harmony with Duncan's throbbing cock inside my now convulsing body, we let loose upon the tables stretching before us cascades of our cum.

Almost as if on cue, our chorus line of erupting penises spurted huge globs from our swollen reservoirs of seminal fluids, amassed by our bodies in training. From my vantage point it was a mind-blowing white waterfall of hot, sticky, milky-white ropes of malecream from our conga line of cocks out onto the fields of competition.

As in accounts given of auto crashes, time dilation made those moments in which I ejaculated my sperm seem like slow motion. I felt in that magic male core lying somewhere between my anus and cock that I'd done very well indeed on all counts. Even as my competition were having their dicks shaken for that last drop of cum, a final extra wave of my sticky white fluid pulsated out of the glistening slit at my cockhead, and onto the clean mat placed their to collect our harvest of maleseed. A final shake by Duncan, and I was spent.

Once the flow from our loins of our creamy malemilk ended, the judges got quickly into gear to record the results of these events and to prepare for the final phase of the competition. Each judge was to time our orgasmic spasms, count spurts, and measure the distance of our cum shots. Orgasms were timed from first show of cum to last emergence of semen from the slit.

The tasting of our cum (Event #4) was next. The judges circulated among the tasting tables, bending over occasionally with their educated tongues to touch our ejaculate, for all the world looking like connoisseurs of great wines.

I began to wonder now if all those salads and green veggies Duncan had me consume had actually made my semen sweet. I'd tasted my own cum often enough to know that it offers different tastes at different times. Duncan had made it his (and now my) concern to know why

I was not entirely surprised when the judges, after they had tasted enough, invited any sufficiently motivated guest from the audience to join them at the tables for a taste. The remaining supply of our boycream, while impressive, was not unlimited, yet sufficient to satisfy a dozen or so of our guests who had a craving for such delicacies.

Competitors and Managers now went into fast recovery mode for the final Event #5 - Appreciation. While the judges huddled over their sheets, the four finalists and their Managers circulated throughout the room, visiting each table in the hall so that the honored guests meet the competing teams, and to see and get the feel of our equipment which made their night so stimulating. All four of us had again achieved enough tumescence to do credit to our credentials as winners of the Size event, and our guests made it obvious that they found shaking our cocks to be significantly better than shaking our hands. We thoroughly agreed.

For our finale in Event #5, Duncan had planned it right. Just about the time the other three teams were heading off in the direction of the showers, I positioned Duncan's rock hard dick over the dessert dish placed in front of our Master of Ceremonies which contained a large scoop of indian pudding. With dexterity and speed that amazed even me, I jacked him off with my right hand, his throbbing cock delivering its own huge reservoir of hot white sauce as a surprise topping for our host's pudding.

With Duncan's hard dick still dripping its last discharge of boycream, I quickly moved into position and masturbated myself with equal speed and accuracy, adding my own new supply of cum to sweeten his dessert.

Grasping my still hard cock like a mixing spoon, I stirred the pudding with its creaming white topping into a marbleized creme de la creme - a dessert that our host would now die to have pass over his lips.

Taking a handful of spoons, I gave each of those at the head table a mouthful of the dessert of their lives. The audience applauded. There could be no doubt who won the Event #5. All twelve Competitors and their Managers, picking up now on the direction the Appreciation event had taken, themselves circulated among our guests, with their own personal delivery of cream sauce for the indian pudding of our guests.

Our guests went wild with the excitement of the moment, ending only when the judges announced that Duncan and I had won the gold. We and two other pairs were called to the dais where the Master of Ceremonies gleefully slipped gold cock rings on Duncan and me, while silver and bronze rings were slipped on the second and third place winners.

We were then formally presented with the envelope containing our reservations to the ranch. As the audience stood and applauded all of us whose efforts had made the night a success, four large screen TV monitors were turned on and were somehow able to display much magnified slides of our winning sperms, wiggling across the screens. As I watched, I couldn't help wonder whether Dunc's diet gave them more get up and go.

As the curtain rang down on a memorable night, Dunc whispered in my earn, "Ready for a little Peter-duncan at the ranch, champ?"

• 1995, Aristos

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