Message-ID: <042308Z27061995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.masturbation
From: an272878@anon.penet.fi
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Organization: Anonymous forwarding service
Reply-To: an272878@anon.penet.fi
Date: Tue, 27 Jun 1995 04:19:40 UTC
Subject: "The Competition"
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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