by Adrian Amos
“Five minutes these girls will be fucked, resisting the need to orgasm, holding out for the next bell, where the cattle ranchers will milk them until both bottles are filled. Once the individual referees signal completion, the girls are free to give in, and the first to do so will be declared the winner!” She chuckles heartily, telling the crowd, “Prepare for some disqualifications.”
Five minutes is a long—
The bell chimes and the men are off. Daddy pulls back and spears me, his powerful piece of meat ripping into me. It fires a pulse of heat into my core, ricocheting through me and bouncing my body forward into the stockade, which is solid enough to keep me bound.
The force of his cock is already enough to cause me to moan in pleasure and cry in pain. His hands dig into my small hips, giving him propulsion to fuck me with his entire rod.
I'd tell daddy to take it slow, to take it easy on my body, but I can see the flashboard in front of us, and every time the board flashes white, daddy must thrust his entire cock into me. And it's flashing fast, forcing daddy to spear me at a thrust every half a second!
His dick slams into me, rattling the door and straining my body. The pleasure is immediate and vigorous, coursing through me with manic fire.
I need to distract myself, or I'm not going to last!
As daddy fucks me mercilessly, the crowd cheering the severity of my bent over body and my utter humiliation, I focus on my lungs, taking long, slow breaths, trying my hardest to overcome the welling pressure in my gut.
Already, I can hear the other girls' moans take over the sound of the arena, as loud as the crowd's glee. I look over at the two smaller girls stuck in their respective corrals, their fathers fucking them with brutal strokes.
My breathing wants to go shallow, wants to unleash into a wave of euphoria, letting my orgasm tear through me. But I settle my breath, taking my time to gather my oxygen. This the hardest thing I've ever done, not to mention the hardest thing to ever go in my cunt!
If I lose focus, I'm going to lose the game!
The heat of my cunt throbs as my walls swell with blood. They close in on daddy, squeezing him and making the pleasure even more bitter.
The distractions keep coming, though. The fourth girl, the one whose name I never learned, unleashes a body racking scream. I look over at her, and she's shaking uncontrollably, her tits bouncing as her arms fight their restraints. Her body so badly wants to express itself, it seems like she's nearly strong enough to rip the door from the hinges.
But she's unable to as her orgasm shreds her energy in a matter of seconds. She convulses, rapid pulses quaking every muscle with cruel efficiency, and goes limp, her body spent completely in a matter of agonizing seconds.
“Charlie has orgasmed,” the announcer states, “giving into lust before caring for her child! She has been disqualified!”
I close my eyes, daddy's pounding mind melting. I have to keep my wits. God, if only Darcy would give in, I'd be the winner. I wouldn't have to put up with these Games anymore. I'd be able to go home, let daddy put his seed in me, and relax as I slowly grow to the shape of a melon. A baby. The thought of our own little child running amok—
“Milkers, take your places!”
Men in overalls and gloves run past the stalls, setting up a small stool in front of each of the girls. My own approaches, positioning himself in a low position in front of me. He lifts his hands, shakes them out, and hovers them just below my nipples.
Waiting for the bell to sound.
As my tits jiggle from daddy's constant thrusting, I feel a burn in my chest from anticipation as much as the build-up of milk. A strange man is going to have his hands on my nipples in a matter of seconds, pulling on my nipples to extract my milk.
Nothing has felt as personally violating as this is going to!
When the next bell sounds, the man grabs both of my nipples between his fingers and begins alternating strokes, pulling on one before releasing and pulling on the other.
The feeling is sharp and painful, my breasts entirely too tender for touching!
But each pull of my nipple releases a long, solid stream of milk from the tip. Not just solid, but overly powerful, spraying out aggressively in multiple directions as my breasts are full to bursting.
I can tell by the shock in the milker's eyes that my nipples are performing beyond expectations, and after only a few squirts the bottles below me are nearly a quarter full.
“Come on, girls,” the Matron shouts, “the longer you take to feed your child, the longer you make your man wait for you, and the more likely you make him tired of playing second fiddle. A tired man is an unhappy man.”
I can feel the shaking in daddy's thighs behind me, the constant propulsion of his hips weakening him. If he slips to a pace too slow, I could be instantly disqualified. For once, the Matron's claims actually match up to reality.
But there's not much else I can do, my nipples literally in the hands of someone else.
As he milks my tits, daddy's cock continues to pound into me, but the sensitivity of my breasts is too powerful to be aroused in any way. It basically hurts too much to be in any real danger of coming. Not yet, at least.
But Ellen is not so lucky.
Her breasts produce nothing—no hormones in her body—and as her daddy lays his thick pipe into her, sensitivity is not there to dull her pleasure. While one man pounds her, another man pulls on her nipples, stimulating her to the point of no return.
The small redhead explodes in a flurry of moans and screams. Whereas Charlie was defeated by her release, disqualified through inappropriate pleasure, Ellen shouts, “Yes, daddy, yes! Oh, god, fuck me hard!”
If she's going to go out, she's going to give the crowd a sight they'll never forget. The small girl unleashes the most powerful orgasm I've ever seen, leaving me a bit jealous. Her tiny body undulates, shaking with violent jerks.
But that's lost when I look over at Darcy, who's tits are being milked effortlessly, nearly halfway filling her bottles.
She looks so far ahead until my milker shouts, “Done,” the referee agreeing with him as he brings more bottles over to catch my milk.
The hormones have put me ridiculously far ahead! Maybe far enough to win and disqualify Darcy.
“You may fuck your daughter to orgasm now!” the ref says to daddy, setting the milker up with new jugs.
I don't know why they need to keep milking, but as he continues to massage my udders, pumping the excess breast milk from me, daddy lays into me, using whatever energy reserves he has left to stuff his cock into my cunt.
“Yes, daddy, fuck!” I groan.
The rush of pleasure, the final willingness to let go, makes the milker's hands a lot more forgivable. In fact, it makes them downright erotic, as he squeezes my nipples and extracts my nutritious feed. The tenderness is gone, and all that's left is the tingling electricity of the stranger pulling my swollen pink nubs to full length.
The sudden relaxation of not having to contain my desire washes over me like a tsunami, my breath picking up as pleasure rides high through me. Warmth rides that wave as well, setting every nerve on fire in a conflagration leading to the ultimate kindling point. When the spread of heat reaches my chest, my nipples squirting warm milk only accelerate the wildfire.
“Oh god, oh god,” I sputter, my words concussive as I reach for the finish line. “I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm—fuck!”
But just before my orgasm hits me, Darcy's milker calls out “Done,” having successfully milked her to completion, filling her bottles to the qualifying point,
Damn it!
But I lose my train of thought as the pulses of pleasure shoot into me from daddy's cock, compelling my body to spasm with violent lurches. My arms seize up, and I try to pull them forward, but the stockade keeps them locked up behind me. I fight my captivity with fierce, unconscious determination, my frame shaking from head to toe as vibrations of bliss rip me apart, only to leave me destroyed in a few torturous seconds
.
I die out, and the ref grabs my hair—my hands already raised—picks my sweat-soaked head up, and calls out, “Megan has successfully orgasmed! We have a winner!”
He drops my head, which plops down in exhaustion. Opening my eyes, I realize I'd filled up a second set of bottles completely with milk before I finally came.
The ref and daddy hold my arms up as they pull me out of the stockade, preventing me from crumpling into a ball of expended flesh.
All I was doing was standing there as daddy railed into me, but my body is ravaged, everything weak from being stimulated so heavily.
As daddy carries me to the exultation of the crowd, all I can think about in my daze is how close I was to disqualifying Darcy completely. I was a hair's breadth away from winning outright, but my body wouldn't break fast enough.
The others are gone, but she remains.
And now we're tied—three to three—and it all depends on one final game to determine who comes out as champion.
GAME 8
It's only thirty minutes they give us to rest, letting us recuperate in the prep tent. Neither Darcy nor I look at the other, but it's clear we're both nervous, the antsy energy in the air unmistakable.
“You okay, babygirl?” daddy asks, running his hands over my arms, massaging the goosebumps right out of me.
I can't stop jumping my leg up and down. “Yeah, just nervous. One more game. It's winner take all.” I breathe deep. “Very nervous.”
He chuckles. “You sound manic.” He rubs my scalp, kissing me as he pulls me into his chest. “It's okay, whatever happens, it's okay.”
“Daddy, you're kind, but I need some serious motivation right now.”
The Matron walks into the tent, and I leap to my feet, impatient to hear her speak for the first time.
“Sudden death, girls,” she says. “Right now. In the next hour, we'll all know who the champion of the Games will be.”
Looking over at Darcy, she glances my way, neither of us offering any sense of anger. I think we're both too tired to put up a front, merely anxious to get this over with.
“I know you're both sore from the last game, so this game will be the simplest yet. No sex, no nudity, no submission. This will simply be a test of your maternal instinct.”
“The most important thing is not how long you can run, how hard you can fight, how much you can cook—”
Really? I know she's trying to be clever, but then what the hell was the point of everything up to now? Just get to the point, you old bag.
“—but how well you can handle being a mother. You must know your baby like you know yourself. The maternal instinct is the only way to know which of you two is truly capable of being a caring mother. You either have it, or you don't.”
I don't know if I have it, but I think I do. I know for a fact that Darcy doesn't, though, because I can't imagine her loving another human being in any real way.
Feeling a spring of hope, I get the sense I might just have the advantage in this final game.
“Since this game allows audience participation, I will explain the rules out in the arena. So, please, the Games await, and good luck to the both of you.”
As they head out, daddy spins me around. “Here's some real good luck for you, babygirl.” He kisses me, holding me tight. “Go out there and win.”
“Now that's what I needed to hear. Thank you, daddy.”
Out in the arena pit is the final game, composed of a simple set up. A large monitor—probably two hundred feet high for the entire audience to be able to watch—sits a ways away from two consoles. Just above the monitor is a scoreboard.
Sitting us down on stools in front of a console for each of us, the array of buttons looks daunting, nearly thirty different options to choose from.
“When the game starts,” the Matron says through the speakers, “there will be a video of a baby in a crib up on the screen. Examine the surroundings, listen to the baby's voice, watch its movements, and use your maternal instincts to intuit what the child needs.
“On your console is a number of buttons corresponding to each choice. Each plastic button is covered in a small picture, signifying whatever it is you would do to soothe your baby. Take a minute to look over the options to ensure you have quick reflexes because you'll be angling to answer before your opponent.”
Looking at the buttons, I quickly take in as many images as I can: there's a baby bottle, pacifier, musical notes, dirty diaper, blanket, a belching child, a green child, and so many I can't keep track of. Choosing randomly from them is pretty much impossible, so I had best have an idea of what I want before I start looking for a button.
“The first to choose the right answer will be rewarded a point, but if you guess wrong, you will lose half a point, and your opponent will be given an opportunity to answer and score.
“There are a total of nine babies, and the person with the highest number of points at the end will be declared the victor.”
“Audience, feel free to shout whatever you want to help or hinder the girls. I want full participation, even in the nosebleed section, you hear that?
“So without further ado, let's get sudden death charged up!”
The crowd goes wild, and the consoles light up in a menagerie of colors, each button glowing with vibrancy.
The huge television turns on, a baby in a crib rolling around. The video encompasses a lot, from the baby's room to a zoom-in on its crib with items inside and out. The baby is wailing, crying in a whiny voice, high-pitched and desperate.
As soon as enough has been seen, the crowd gets in on it, screaming at the top of their lungs all varieties of answers: “It's sick. It's sad. It's dirty. It's hungry.”
I try to figure out what's going on, but I'm surprised when a loud buzzer rings and my console's lights all fade out. An automated voice calls out, “Baby bottle.”
No way, Darcy's already picked something?
There's a pause, and the announcer finally shouts, “That is correct! Darcy takes the first lead of sudden death.”
The video changes to a mother holding the child, feeding it a bottle of milk.
The crowd cheers and the scoreboard lights up 0 - 1.
Okay, I did not expect that. She must have guessed because I don't know how she could have figured that out.
Another video starts rolling, a similar situation: a baby boy crying in its crib, its arms flailing about. Again, a number of objects strewn about, toys and diapers on the floor. There's nothing I see that could suggest anything's wrong with him.
Oh, maybe he's sick?
Looking through the buttons, I find the green child. I press it, the buzzer rings, and the automated voice calls out: “Illness.”
A pause, “Incorrect!” the announcer shouts, “Like so many mothers, Megan thinks her child's always sick!”
The audience laughs, and I wince. The scoreboard changes, -0.5 – 1.
“Darcy, your chance to steal the point!”
I lost half a point, but it only becomes worse. The audience continues to call out answers, and I realize Darcy is listening intently to what they're saying. She buzzes in with: “Change diaper.”
“Correct!” The video morphs to a mother changing the diaper.
“This game is already getting out of control! How does someone sink into the hole that fast?”
The scoreboard changes, -0.5 – 2.
The uproar continues. I need to settle down because Darcy knows she doesn't have the instincts, which means she listening to whatever the audience is telling her.
If I'm not careful, if I don't start paying attention, I could actually lose this thing!
Another video: a joyous baby, distraught but not crying. It seems somewhat whiny.
The audience immediately starts calling out answers, but it's hard to make out what anyone is saying. Darcy's listening intently, trying to pinpoint an answer.
I should be paying attention, but I'm not interested in what they're saying. It must be a pride
thing, but it seems like the easy way out, and it might end up screwing me.
Focus, focus.
The baby bottles are empty nearby, suggesting it ate; its diaper looks fresh and...
The buzzer sounds, the console goes black, and the automated voice says: “Human connection.” Darcy's choice directly reflects a woman shouting in the lower levels of the stands, who cheers when her answer is selected.
Oh shit, if she gets this, I'm basically done.
I hold my breath, frozen in fear as I wait for the announcer's voice. He calls out, “Incorrect!” and I let out a sigh of relief. “Darcy must have a problem with touching people inappropriately. I'd keep her away from your babies if you got them!”
The score changes, -0.5 – 1.5.
“Megan, you have a chance to answer.”
You can't trust the audience—you just can't—but maybe they were on the right track. The baby's arms are reaching out, clutching for something in front of it...
I close my eyes and listen to its voice, realizing I need to rely on clues outside the realm of sight. These are instincts, right? What do my instincts tell me?
It's cooing, soft blabbering, and every time it throws its hands, it lets out an excited gurgle.
It wants a toy, something to distract it. Perusing the board, I find the perfect picture: “Binky.”
“Correct!”
The score shifts, 0.5 – 1.5.
“It looks like someone's decided to join the game and actually try to be a mother!”
Even when I win, I can't escape the gibes. But he's right, at least I have positive something, not negative something.
The next video is a baby moving slowly, its motions lazy and apathetic, only for it to start bawling out of nowhere.
Darcy, though, sits with her arms crossed. The girl is ignoring the crowd, clearly angry they led her astray on the last question. And without actual instincts, I don't think she knows at all what to do.
Her stubbornness gives my instincts an advantage. I find the obvious button: the musical notes: “Lullaby.”
“Correct! We have a game, folks! All tied up at one point five a piece!” The video shows a mother singing to the infant, who's calm and sleeping within seconds.