Jimi, Chapter 2. The tekoki championships, 01
By the end of the summer term, Luna had left Britton High for a two-month Spanish course in Chile. She was excited to finally meet in person her longtime pen-pal Gabriel. In contrast, I was depressed with the prospect of losing our hand-play sessions, and depression gave me enough bravery to visit the new mega-sex shop recently opened in the Docklands area.
Might there be a female-sumo section down there? The bouncer at the entrance gave me a contemptuous look behind the screens. I rushed in pretending I knew what I looked for and landed straight on the hard-gay section. Fortunately, the bouncer was focused on the stride of a lady passing by in her high heels. As I wandered around the shelf displays, I suddenly spotted a photocopied announcement taped on a column.
‘First European amateur tekoki championship. Register for the final casting. Sponsored by HRP Horny Ram Productions.’
Underneath there was a list of places and dates. Next Sunday would be in a club at Santa Monica harbor, reasonably close by. I grabbed my phone and pushed Luna’s contact. Fortunately, she had it off, because it was about 6 am in South America and Luna, who wasn’t exactly an early riser, would have got mad at me.
I walked home, locked into my room, and played female sumo on the old VHS. This was better for slow-motion replays but nasty, shaky rubbish for stills.
Three soaked hankies later, I looked at the alarm clock, dressed up, and had a fifty-minute long-distance call from mum’s phone with Luna. Gabriel’s family was taking her out hiking in the Pampa, ending up with a local dinner and some barn dances.
I tried to delete from my mind the image of Gabriel leading my curvaceous girlfriend in one of those Latin shuffles and told her about the contest. She had never heard of it but did know the mega-sex shop owner from her dedicated research on hand-job habits worldwide. The guy, she told me, had a distinctive sports car and lived at Gardenia Villages. It wouldn’t be hard to spot him around. ‘Tell him you’re a friend of the girl who subscribed to ‘Handy Asians’. I don’t think he’s forgotten that.’
The sports car was parked in front of number 169, one of the newest and most tasteless buildings at Gardenia Villages. The guy thought was unexpectedly welcoming despite my unannounced visit and seemed sincerely delighted about my initiative.
He fixed me hot coffee and his partner, a drop-dead cutey in her late forties but definitely not the sharpest knife in the kitchen, pulled out some Brazilian delicacies. She wolfed down as much as I did.
She gave me all sorts of details about the contest, she knew so well since her ‘husband’ was one of the sponsors, but she didn’t regard me as the kind of tough guy who could make it through those squashing machines. Then the guy cleared his throat and staring at the tablecloth muttered.
“Hmmm, perhaps our young friend wouldn’t mind a quick test.”
The gorgeous lady puffed out her incredible chest and crossed her legs. Her mighty thighs stretched the miniskirt like plastic film. Her part-native eyes were challenging.
“Uhhh. Of course not.” And her many metal bracelets clanged in celebration.
The guy rattled the tea table whilst his formidable lady got rid of all the bulky rings from her tanned fingers, got up, gloriously immense on top of her marble legs, and pointed a glistering nail to the room next door.
******
A long while later, her hair-do spoiled and perspiration on her upper lip, we were back in the lounge. I took a seat. She went straight to the lavatory.
“Seems I passed the test,” I grinned.
“With good marks,” he admitted, pouring an icy beer into two glasses and pushing one to me. “I hadn’t seen her pulling that face since Brazil was defeated at the world cup. Welcome aboard.”
We toasted.
However, the contest was for couples, and although the sex-shop owner had been really friendly my fresh bravery didn’t go far enough to request her wife as my contest partner. I needed a woman. With Luna on a trip, I focused my lower belly needs on Betty, a gloomy just-divorced thirty-something that Luna herself had introduced to me on one of our rare nights out of our den.
She had been working for a while as a gym teacher at Luna’s brother’s school, but eventually was expelled because of her lack of any formal degree.
Luna wanted my training not to be interrupted, and Betty was the more reliable option she could think of, provided she got her booze ration under control. Her tits had been mighty in a not-so-remote past, and she knew how to lend a hand, a dab hand indeed, and didn’t get emotionally involved, as long as I could stand the tales of misery she vividly related at the same time.
I walked swiftly the three miles distance to Betty’s and told her about my successful adventure at Gardenia Villages. Her face lightened, she hugged me like a pro wrestler, picked up the phone, and ordered vegetarian pizzas. Then she changed into a skimpier outfit and invited me to a one-night stand practice beginning now.
I called home with a miserable excuse and rushed to her spring mattress, leaving my jeans behind. Rules were simple. I couldn’t touch her, and she could only touch me from the waist down. She was allowed to use any part of her body, though. This was against tekoki standards, and Luna would disapprove, but I couldn’t help it. I liked her fine chest into play. Still, the Grand Finale must be just using her hands.
******
Many things about Betty were a mystery to me. What was her real name? How did such a slim woman bear those fantastic boobs? All the juice lacking in her sinewy body seemed to be concentrated in those amazing knockers that could have easily made the cover of one of those specialized magazines. Not to mention all the stories about her past as an athlete. Could she run with those breasts swinging around? What sort of exercises were compatible with that chest?
She wasn’t particularly fit either but, I must admit, sported impressive hand strength. I saw her beating Luna at arm-wrestling, and I knew firsthand how tough Luna could be. How had she become so good at it? She never talked openly about it. Apparently, her former husband didn’t want anything else. Was it my imagination or was there a secret life of Betty? I never knew.
But all that fake former gym instructor line was none of my business. She was really good at it, that’s all that mattered. I had to keep my eyes wide open to make sure it was vulgar Betty and not a Thai pro who was handling my cock, considering the variety of moves and grips she could deliver. I needed my full self-containment power to put up with her skills.
Sometimes she seemed to climax while pumping me but didn’t stop. Her eyelids fluttered, she swallowed a few times and went on. I believe that when I fell asleep, she was still jerking me off. But other times she eventually got me, gritted her teeth, held my stare wiggled at my pace, and we climaxed together.
******
We began winning contests. Bouts were agreed on three or five cums, and with Betty inspired we could score three times in a row. I wrote Luna, scared about what her reaction would be, but she was understanding and replied she was proud of me and requested tapes of the contests. That’s my Luna!
But as we grew more and more popular in the circuit of masturbators, we started facing really competitive couples. Vicious pumping machines expert in unimaginable techniques of stimulation. In a few weeks, my prick experienced inverted grips, doubles, tube-like, hoods, and racks, in combo with twisting, spinning, tilting, and vibrating techniques.
By the hand of Betty–literally–and the videos we downloaded from Thai, Malaysian and Cambodian sites, I got initiated into the far Eastern techniques of male stimulation. The Hindu school, for instance, was just based on nail work, nibbling and picking in search of the ultimate pinch, whereas Mongolian milkmaids were physical prodigies capable of restlessly sustaining light-speed banging at full hand strength.
Face a fierce Asian milkmaid wanking you, stand without blinking her whole bag of tricks, put on with her collection of finishing techniques till you stare her down, till she breaks like the little girl she actually is. The minute she peels her teeth and breaks into a sweat and her refined techniques seem tame. That is the most fabulous pleasure a man may ever experience. No matter how fabulous, how dreadful she thought she was before; your unflinching will has reduced this wild sex-fighter to a sheepish worshiper of your male-hood.
As reigning champions, we faced the Chinese teens with innocent looks and iron hands and still hold onto our title. But Milamar, a tender Philippine that tags up with her little brother whose ivory penis comes in and out Betty’s fist undaunted, topples us. Her pointed fingers grip my dick’s head, and she’s got me, and she knows it. It’s just a matter of time. She reads it from my pulsing nostrils, my labored breathing, and the sheen of sweat coating me. She’s trapped me against the ropes.
She doesn’t take herself seriously. She just plays with those huge cocks. That’s why no man can take her. That’s her key to success. I hold my breath to no avail and burst with a roar. She releases a throaty giggle, showing her two rows of little teeth, but doesn’t stop. Then she hides her little mouth behind her incredibly large hand and shrugs her shoulders as if apologizing for creaming me so hard.
Little Milamar defends the title against a plastic-boobed western blonde with purple painted long nails tagging up with an exceptionally gifted bodybuilder. But sex fighting is an endurance challenge and top fighters resemble sinewy marathon runners rather than hefty sprinters. Bulky cocks show plenty of target spots for a skillful milkmaid. Milamar and her brother lose the title in an endless match to the best of five against a pair of Japanese hermaphrodites that masturbate before the bout to prove their funny penises sprouting out of their vulvae are fully functional and both can abundantly cum.
I wake up wounded in a soaked duvet. Long minutes later I realize I’m at Betty’s. Daylight filters through the Venetian screens she sweetly kept down to protect my rest. She’s fixed two steaming cups of aromatic, and nauseating, Ceylon tea she brought on her last trip five years ago. With a grin that reveals the uneven teeth of a smoker, she cocks her head and invites me to get up and join her for breakfast. “Morning my young ace; tea is ready.”
I wish Luna were back as soon as possible, but her two-month stay in Chile has just begun.
© valisdick
