Protein Shake

by Alexis Angel

  There’s no fucking way I’m going to be able to walk the entire length of the catwalk poised and with elegance and confidence.

  I mean, like, how many face plants have I had already? I don’t need another addition to the Kara Gilmore Blooper Reel.

  I need to stop thinking about falling.

  I take a step out onto the stage.

  Any second, I’m sure I’m going to face plant into it. It’s going to fucking hurt, too. Chase and Eric aren’t going to be able to catch me this time, and my lack of grace under pressure isn’t going to charm the crowd if I keep fucking beefing it every time I walk on stage.

  We’ll always catch you, they told me once. That’s what they fucking said—and they’ve been doing it good every time so far.

  To my own surprise, I’m still on my feet. It takes great fucking effort to push those negative images out of my head. They’re persistent and try to worm their way back in.

  I need a lifeline. I need something to fill my head with so I can keep every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself out.

  Something…or someone.

  Maybe a couple someones for that matter.

  I search among the hundreds of onlookers, but the spotlights make it hard to see.

  I’ll just have to hold them in my mind, then. That’s what love is, right? Whether they’re right beside me, a thousand miles away, or somewhere in a faceless crowd watching me have a mental breakdown on live television wearing nothing but stiletto heels—they’re still in my heart.

  And in my pussy, too, apparently—because just as the spotlight raises, I spot them in the crowd like tropical islands in a big, scary ocean. They’re both smiling and they both only have eyes for me.

  Eric even gives me a dignified thumbs up.

  I feel my lips slowly curl into something near a smile.

  Keeping my eyes firmly on them, I shove the negativity out of my head. As I focus on Eric, I imagine I’m walking toward him.

  As I do so, he’s pulling his fucking massive cock out of his pants and wrapping his fingers around it. His eyes are begging me to come closer, to get a fucking good look and make sure I don’t miss a fucking thing.

  With each step, my poise and confidence grows. Gone is the feeling of fucking jelly in my knees, gone is the fear of falling, and gone is the image of a flabby walrus with my face rolling down the catwalk and squashing the entire front row.

  Instead, I grow taller, my shoulders held back and my step more nimble. I don’t take my fucking eyes off Eric or his cock I’m imagining right now.

  We practiced this walk over and over again. I can do this. I can do this.

  I repeat this mantra like over and over until I’ve completed the first part of the fucking pageant.

  There’s no time to have a breather or take a break, though. The contest goes straight into the weightlifting section.

  I watch the other perfect, oiled, glistening bodies and bite my bottom lip. I know I can do this. I’ve done this a thousand times before—naked, clothed, on a dick, whatever.

  But all that shit with Evian and my photos made me feel so fucking weak. I’m having a hard enough time lifting my fucking spirits right now, let alone weights.

  I mean, just look at the other competitors, right? They don’t have tiger-striped stretch marks slashed across their ass and thighs. They’ve probably never been more than five pounds over their ideal weight in all their perfect fucking lives.

  You’ll never be anything but fat, Kara. I’m pissed that I can still hear Evian’s voice in my ear. Like, who the fuck does that cunt think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? Lucy has coughed up hairballs with better personalities than Evian Sprague.

  But rationalizing it is one thing. Going through with the next portion of the pageant is another.

  Tiny sweat droplets run down my spine and the gap between my tits. I’m nervous and angry—and honestly, kind of hungry. I either want to eat something, punch something, or curl up into a ball and not exist for a while.

  Instead, I fucking stand there with my tits out and wait for my turn to hopefully not fuck up.

  When my name is called, I stumble out onto the stage. Instead of the beautiful squat the girl before did, my knees knock together as I go to bend down.

  Shit.

  My heels have come off the ground, and if I shift my weight a smidge to the left I think I’m going to fucking fall. It was cute the first time. Fall over again, and I’ll be pushing my luck.

  Before I even lift the bar, I can see myself getting crushed by it, like I almost did the night I met Chase and Eric.

  They were there to catch you then, I remind myself. They’ll be here to catch you again.

  Valuable seconds tick by. There’s no fucking way I can do this.

  I’m not a weight lifter. I’m not gorgeous. I’m not any of the things the other competitors are.

  But just as I’m ready to give up, deep within me, something stirs.

  An image. It’s faint at first, but when I focus, I can imagine it clearly.

  It’s Chase, helping me through my squats—just like the old times.

  He’s standing behind me, hands on my hips, guiding me through the movement.

  I force myself to relive the many times I’ve done this move with Chase.

  I can do this. I can actually fucking do this!

  The fantasy shifts. Instead of Chase positioning my hips, his massive fucking cock is under me. I picture myself squatting onto his fucking dick.

  I concentrate on the way my muscles contract as I slowly go down. Only to ninety degrees, which is just enough to have him push all the way into my fucking tight pussy.

  Gently, using all of my muscles in my quads, I push upward. I ignore Fantasy Chase’s protests—because like, obviously he would be left begging for more—and keep going until I’m upright again.

  When I hear applause, I snap out of my imagination and am transported back to the contest.

  I’ve done it. I’ve really fucking done it.

  When I find Eric and Chase in the crowd, I catch their eye. They both give me the thumbs up sign, and I feel like running over and throwing myself at them.

  I don’t, of course, because that would be like, super unprofessional of me and stuff.

  But I think about it.

  Oh, I think about it hard.

  Fuck Evian. Fuck all the people who thought I couldn’t do this.

  Getting fat might have been a curve ball for my career…but it also got me here, didn’t it?

  Without those years of dieting and starving, Atkins, keto, fasting and worse, I wouldn’t have met Chase and Eric. I wouldn’t be competing in an international nude beauty pageant. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be the woman that I am today.

  Whatever this pageant throws at me next, I’m fucking ready.

  Bring it.

  Chapter 38

  Kara

  Two sheets of long white silk hang from the ceiling. Nothing else. No harness, no other safety precaution—only fabric.

  I must be fucking insane.

  The fabric looks so flimsy with the stage lights shining through it, and the photos from Evian are still fresh in my mind.

  Will these sheets even hold me? They have before…but will they now?

  The ugly image of my body sprawled on the polished floor takes hold of my mind and refuses to let go.

  How much fucking soap will it take to clean up the blood? Will they ever be able to get it all out, or would the floor be stained forever?

  Loser. Fucking loser. That’s all you are—a loser. Kara the Loser.

  The words repeat over and over in my head until I think I might explode.

  Shit.

  Self-doubt creeps into the crevices of my mind and spreads throughout my entire body. It oozes through and out of me. There is no fucking way I can do this.

  The music starts playing. It’s my cue.

  My heart beats wildly in my throat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to breathe, let
alone perform. My mouth is dry, and it’s difficult to swallow.

  But then I think of my men. I think of Chase and Eric.

  Briefly I see their eyes, their smiles, their cocks.

  I reach for the silk sheet hanging in front of me. Instead of wrapping it skillfully around my ankle, I end up with my leg badly tangled in it.

  Not a good fucking start.

  I disentangle myself from the silk and try again. This time, I wrap my ankle up in the silk properly and begin to climb—but then my secondary fear sets in.

  I’m scared that the silk wraps aren’t going to hold my weight. As soon as I’m wrapped in them, they’re going to rip and tear, and I’m going to fall onto the ground.

  Splat.

  I reach up with sweaty palms, trying to focus on the music, the silk, and the climb.

  They’re not so different from silk bed sheets, really, when I think about it. I imagine being in Chase and Eric’s bed, with the sheets tangled artfully around me.

  It provides a little comfort.

  Up and up, I need to move. Turn, rotate, split the leg, and stretch. There’s applause. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

  But the higher I climb, the harder I will fall.

  Fuck.

  I need to fucking concentrate.

  Left hand around the silk, pulling upward. Up and up, I go.

  Weightless in the air, light as a feather. The only thing that matters is the way the silk caresses my body and—here’s the real kicker—making sure that I don’t let go.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing this, but I guess that’s not the most important thing anymore.

  Chase and Eric believe I can do this. They love me, they care about me, and they’ve been the driving force that’s propelled me this far.

  I can’t let them down.

  But if I don’t stop fucking worrying, I’ll ruin the routine and all of our chances at the crown with it.

  I push all other thoughts out of my mind. I glance below, trying to pick Chase and Eric out from the crowd. I’m too far up to actually make out individual faces, but there are two forms in the seats below that look bigger, burlier, and sexier than the others.

  Somehow, in my heart, I know it must be them.

  Chase and Eric are watching me. I’m dancing only for them.

  God, they’re so fucking hot.

  A tingling sensation spreads through me. The silk is cold against my hot skin, and, if I imagine hard enough, I can feel Chase and Eric’s hands on my body as I spin high above the ground. Below me, a sea of faces goes in and out of focus, but I only have eyes for two of them anyway.

  I spin faster and faster until I come to an abrupt stop.

  The material rubs against my skin, and tiny electric shock waves pulse through me. I rock forward, then back, swinging above the crowd.

  Then, I rock forward again and allow the silk sheets to unfurl around my thighs, calves, and ankles, sending me plummeting towards the ground.

  The crowd gasps—I hear their concern and feel the tension in the air, especially when I keep falling, faster, and faster towards the stage until it looks like I really am going to go splat against the floor.

  And if that happens, I’ll be a Kara pancake.

  I imagine Chase and Eric’s bodies against mine, kissing and touching me as I fall. They caress my body, and they tease and stroke me in places only my men are allowed to stroke.

  About ten feet off the ground, I stop, and the crowd applauds with relief and awe.

  My legs come out in a perfect split. I throw my head back and revel in the feel of cool air against my hot pussy, bare and on display, dripping wet and begging to be taken by my men.

  I’m not worried about falling anymore. I know the sheets are going to hold my weight.

  If I do fuck this up, I know Eric and Chase will be there to catch me—and even if they won’t, for once, I finally feel like it’s okay.

  I don’t need them to catch me.

  I can catch myself.

  I start another climb, up and up until I’m no more than a sexy focal point on the ceiling for the crowd.

  The music is coming to its end.

  Let’s wrap this thing up.

  My body feels as if it’s going to burst into fucking flames. My insides are alight, and all of my nerve endings are standing at attention.

  I’ve climbed so fucking high I can’t make out anyone or anything below.

  But I know what’s down there in the crowd, all buff and handsome and muscular and waiting for me.

  And I know I have to come down sometime. Might as well make it on cue.

  I let myself fall.

  At first, my fall is slow and controlled. My body tumbles downward, but I’m taking it one spin at a time.

  Then, I start picking up speed.

  Faster and faster I spin towards the ground.

  The silk glides against my body with total ease.

  My pussy is throbbing. It’s so fucking hot it’s burning me up.

  The harder it throbs, the better it feels. The sensation sends explosions coursing through me.

  Holy fuck, I’m going to come.

  The crowd is terrified. I can feel that nervous energy pulsating through the crowd watching me—just like I can feel my own fucking pleasure pulsating through my cunt.

  “Someone catch her!” a man yells as I threaten to crash right through the stage.

  Tough luck, buddy.

  I don’t need anyone to catch me.

  Not this time.

  The crowd gasps again, bracing for impact as—finally—my head comes down towards the stage.

  I stop at the last possible second, only fractions of an inch from the ground.

  My naked body is totally fucking exposed.

  I’m upside down, panting, breasts heaving, as wave after wave of pleasure slam through my body.

  Raucous applause fills the room and assaults my senses.

  My eyes are wide open—so is my mouth.

  I spread my lips into a smile as the orgasm subsides and gives way to something almost just as good.

  The sweet elation of success.

  Kara Gilmore, the girl who fell.

  And this time, it was actually on purpose.

  Chapter 39

  Kara

  I muddled my way through the parade portion of the pageant.

  I lifted the weights I needed to lift.

  I fucking nailed my talent act, and I’m pretty fucking sure the crowd has fallen in love with me all over again.

  I honestly fucking think that, if I can manage to avoid making an ass of myself during this speech, I could really fucking win.

  The topic I’ve got to speak on is close to my heart.

  What does being naked mean to you?

  I mean, how much more fucking personal can you get, right?

  Chase, Eric, and I worked hard on the speech I’m supposed to give. We’ve crafted it to be perfectly Miss Sexy Universe-worthy.

  It’s salacious, funny, and yeah—even a little dirty, because that’s what people seem to love about me. Who would’ve thought, right?

  But the longer I stand naked before the microphone, the more I dread letting those prepared, polished words come out of my mouth.

  The answer we’ve prepared…it just doesn’t feel like me.

  I clear my throat, realizing that I’ve been standing up here way too fucking long without saying anything. If I don’t get a fucking move on, the judges might think I’m suffering from stage fright and disqualify me.

  I take a deep breath and stare out into the audience. I know they’re all waiting for me to give them what they came for—blowjob jokes, sassy quips, and intimate details about my kinky sex life.

  I hope they’re not too disappointed with what they’re going to get instead.

  “What does being naked mean to me?” I start, repeating the question for the crowd’s sake—and my own. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, right? Being naked means showing off my hot little body, fl
aunting how slim and slender and sexy I am for the whole world to see.”

  The crowd hoots and hollers at that. I guess seeing me naked again is exactly what they showed up for.

  “It wasn’t always like this, though. I didn’t always have a body that could be described as slim or slender,” I say. “I used to be fat. And when you’re fat, the world treats you differently. If you’ve never been fat, you probably won’t know what the I’m talking about—but anyone who’s ever been overweight can tell you that it’s true.

  “Our society frowns upon fat people. We judge them, we criticize them, and we put them in a box. If you’re fat, then society says you’re all kinds of other things. You’re lazy. Hopeless. Unattractive.

  “When you’re fat, no one is supposed to want to see you in swimsuits or skimpy clothing—and they certainly don’t want to see you naked.

  “In fact, when you’re fat, sometimes it feels like you’re not allowed to exist at all.”

  I set my jaw, letting that idea sink in. Nobody in the crowd is hooting or hollering for me now.

  But that doesn’t matter. I’ve been given a platform, and I’ve got something I want to tell the world.

  So I’m going to fucking use it.

  “I wanted permission to exist,” I say into the mic. “So, I starved myself. I calorie-counted, crash-dieted, and deprived myself as much as I could for two whole years of my life—two years that I’ll never get back.

  “It was a tough, terrible, and lonely time. And then I lost a lot of weight. Once I was thin, doors started opening for me—like the door that brought me here to this pageant where I’m standing naked before you tonight.”

  I gave the crowd a small smile.

  “I’m allowed to exist now that I’m thin—but at a cost, right? Because now, I’m photographed by a rabid paparazzi. My tits and ass and thighs are discussed on morning talk shows. And every time I log onto my social media accounts, I get to see exactly how much people love me, hate me, want to fuck me, or want me to go die in a fire—thanks, internet.”

  I wink at one of the cameras hovering over the crowd. That’s a clip that will be on YouTube in the morning. I have no doubt about it.

  I took a deep breath before continuing. “I didn’t lose weight for me. I didn’t lose it because I wanted to feel better or live a healthier life. I lost it because I wanted to look good naked—and look where that’s got me.”