Chapter 3: The Final Verdict
The silence after Tracey’s pronouncement was thick, viscous. Brad’s heart hammered a sick, frantic rhythm against his ribs. Sammy remained on her knees before him, her breath coming in ragged pulls, the evidence of his climax still smeared at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wipe it away. It was a badge, a claim.
Tracey clapped her hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet. “Okay! Official scores are in. But we’ve got a clear winner in the oral category, and a three-way tie everywhere else. That’s unsatisfying.” She looked down at Brad, her expression one of pure, wicked invention. “We need a tie-breaker. A final, comprehensive test.”
Brad’s spent cock twitched against his thigh, a traitorous pulse of interest. He was hollowed out, ashamed, electrified. “No more tests,” he managed, but the words lacked all conviction.
“Oh, this is the last one,” Jess said, folding her arms beneath her small breasts. “A practical exam. You judge while participating. Real-time feedback.”
Chloe bounced on the balls of her feet, her full breasts jiggling. “We fuck you. You rank us. In every position. We take turns. You call it as you feel it.”
The bluntness of it, stated so casually in the dusty, craft-strewn garage, sent a fresh shock through Brad’s system. This wasn’t a blurry line anymore; it was a chasm, and he was already falling. He looked at Sammy. Her eyes were wide, but the fear was gone, burned away by a fierce, hungry pride. She had won the first round. She wanted to win the war.
Tracey reached down, her hand rough and strong, and hauled him to his feet. His legs were weak. “Up. We’re not done.” She turned to the others. “Ground rules. Five minutes each. Basic positions. Missionary, doggy, cowgirl. He judges on tightness, rhythm, responsiveness, and… overall feel. The visceral fucking gut reaction. No bullshit poetry.”
She pointed a finger at Brad’s chest. “And you. You talk. You describe what you’re feeling. You compare. You crown a champion. Understood?”
He nodded, a numb, mechanical motion. His mind had fragmented. One part recoiled in horror. Another part, a part he had buried for years under spreadsheets and motorcycle manuals, was roaring to life, eager and crude.
“Chloe,” Tracey ordered. “You’re first. You’re fucking enthusiastic. Let’s see if it translates.”
Chloe beamed, as if handed a gift. She scampered to a clear area of the floor, grabbing a folded moving blanket from a stack and spreading it out. She lay down on her back, her soft body yielding against the thick fabric, and opened her legs. Her pussy was a neat, bare mound, lips plump and glistening already. “Ready for inspection,” she giggled.
Brad was pushed forward. He stood over her, his semi-hard cock beginning to stir again under the intense, collective gaze. He felt like a specimen, a tool. He knelt between her spread thighs. The scent of her, musky and sweet, mixed with the smell of his own come and Sammy’s saliva on his skin. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He looked back at the watching women. Sammy’s face was a tight mask. Tracey gave him an impatient ‘go on’ wave.
He pushed into Chloe.
She was wet, wonderfully wet, and tighter than he expected. She gasped, a high, theatrical sound, and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Oh fuck, yes, fill me up,” she moaned, loud for the audience.
“Missionary. Go,” Tracey commanded, a timer in her hand.
Brad began to move. It was awkward at first, his hips jerky, his mind screaming. But the physical truth was undeniable: the hot, slick clutch of her felt incredible. He found a rhythm, driving into her, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the concrete walls.
“Talk,” Jess reminded him, her voice cool.
“She’s… really wet,” Brad grunted, the words torn from him. “Warm. She’s… clenching. A lot. It’s almost too much, like she’s squeezing on purpose.”
“Good girl,” Tracey noted.
Chloe increased her theatrics, bucking beneath him, crying out with each thrust. Her nails scraped down his back. It was a performance, but an effective one. The overwhelming, messy enthusiasm of her blowjob translated perfectly. It was like being consumed by a hungry, adorable wave.
After a brutal, sweating minute, Tracey called, “Doggy.”
They switched. Chloe got on her hands and knees, presenting her lush, peachy ass. Brad knelt behind her, guided himself back in. This angle was deeper. He could see everything—the stretch of her opening around him, the jiggle of her flesh. He gripped her hips, pounding harder, losing himself for a moment in the purely animal act.
“Tighter like this,” he gasped. “Deeper. She’s… she’s making these little whimpering sounds. It’s… fucking hot.” He was describing his own degradation, and each vulgar word freed something else inside him.
“Cowgirl.”
Chloe rolled him onto his back and straddled him, sinking down with a cry. She rode him with bouncing, energetic abandon, her breasts swaying wildly. She leaned forward, smothering his face in her cleavage, her hips grinding in frantic circles. “Do you like my pussy, Brad? Is it a good pussy?” she chanted.
“Yes,” he groaned, his hands grabbing handfuls of her ass. “It’s… enthusiastic. It’s greedy.”
Tracey called time. Chloe collapsed off him with a dramatic sigh, her body sheened with sweat. “That was amazing,” she panted, grinning.
Brad lay on the blanket, his cock slick and gleaming, his chest heaving. He was a used object. He felt glorious and damned.
“Jess. You’re up. Show us precision,” Tracey said.
Jess moved with economical grace. She didn’t lie down. She turned her back to Brad, still on the floor, and lowered herself onto his cock in a slow, controlled reverse cowgirl. She took every inch, a perfect, smooth slide, until she was seated fully, her compact dancer’s ass pressed against his pelvis. She began to move, not bouncing, but rotating and undulating her hips in slow, exacting circles. The internal sensations were maddeningly different—targeted, subtle pressures massaging him from within.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Describe,” Tracey snapped.
“It’s… precise. She’s milking me. It’s not tight like Chloe, it’s… intelligent. She’s finding angles.” He was babbling. Jess smiled a small, satisfied smile, increasing the tempo of her rotations. She reached behind to cup his balls, rolling them with clinical expertise. The dual sensation pushed him to the edge too quickly.
They moved through the positions. Missionary with Jess was a lesson in focused tension; she crossed her ankles behind his back, locking him in, her pelvic lifts meeting his thrusts with calculated precision. Doggy was a display of athleticism; she arched her back deeply, offering herself, and he drove into her with a smooth, piston-like rhythm that felt like a perfectly engineered machine.
“Efficient,” he groaned during doggy. “No wasted motion. It’s… fucking flawless.”
When her time ended, Jess dismounted with the same cool control, leaving him trembling and over-stimulated.
“Tracey. Let’s see what endurance feels like,” Jess said, wiping her brow.
Tracey didn’t bother with the blanket. She pointed to the sturdy, padded pole chair. “Over there. Bend me over it.”
Brad, moved by some deeper compliance, staggered to his feet. Tracey bent at the waist, gripping the seat of the chair, her broad, motherly ass presented—a landscape of soft, powerful flesh. He stepped behind her. He was so hard it hurt, a persistent, aching throb.
He entered her in one long, steady push. She was different. A wider, more encompassing heat. A profound, yielding fullness. She let out a gusty sigh. “Okay, logistics man. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He fucked her. It was less a performance and more a contest. Her endurance was no joke. She pushed back against him, matching his thrusts with solid, powerful rolls of her hips. The sound was wet, meaty, profound. She didn’t make pretty sounds; she grunted, she cursed. “That’s it, fucking use it,” she growled. “You judge this. Judge this sturdy, married cunt.”
Her vulgarity unleashed something in him. He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh, and pounded into her with a reckless, slapping force. The chair scraped against the floor with each drive.
“It’s deep!” he shouted, the words ripped out. “It’s like… fucking a goddamn furnace. It takes everything. You can’t wear it out.” He was giving her exactly what she wanted: a raw, physical critique. It was the hottest thing he’d ever said.
They went through the positions. Missionary with Tracey was a battle for dominance, her strong legs around him, holding him in a viselike grip. Cowgirl was an avalanche; she rode him with a relentless, grinding determination, her heavy breasts hanging in his face, and he suckled on them, biting her nipples, and she cursed him and rode harder.
When her time was up, he was drenched in sweat, shaking, his cock throbbing and oversensitive. He was a wrung-out rag. But the test wasn’t over.
All eyes turned to Sammy. She had been silent throughout, watching with an intensity that burned. Her victory in the first round was a distant memory. This was the main event.
“Your turn, champ,” Tracey said, breathing heavily. “Show him what ‘commanding’ really means.”
Sammy didn’t move immediately. She walked to the stereo and put on music. Not the sultry jazz, but something with a deep, primal beat—a throbbing, electronic pulse. She turned back to face him. The vulnerability was gone, burned away in the forge of the others’ performances. What was left was pure, defiant need.
“Not on the floor,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “On the pole.”
She walked to the central pole, its chrome gleaming in the low light. She didn’t look at him. She began to move, a slow, sinuous dance. She used the pole not for acrobatics, but as a prop, sliding against it, circling it, her hands caressing the metal. She was putting on a show, but this one was for him alone, a reclaiming of her territory, her skill, her desirability.
With her eyes locked on his, she turned, bent forward, and grasped the pole at ankle height, presenting herself to him. It was an invitation more potent than any spoken word.
Brad walked to her. His legs were weak. The entire garage, the watching women, the glittering debris of a normal life, all receded into a haze. There was only the beat, the pole, and the flawless, defiant arch of Sammy’s back, the deep cleft of her ass, the wet, glistening proof of her readiness.
He didn’t enter her gently. He aligned his throbbing cock and shoved into her with a single, brutal thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, genuine sound that echoed off the mirrors. Her internal grip was astonishing. A tight, muscular sheath that clamped down on him with velvet pressure, then relaxed, then clenched again in a rhythm that mirrored her pole dancing conditioning. It was command. It was control. It was absolute.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he groaned, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades.
“Talk!” Tracey yelled, but her voice sounded far away.
“It’s… it’s perfect,” he choked out, already moving. “It’s tight and deep and it’s… fucking hers. It’s demanding. It’s not letting me forget who this is.” Each word was a confession, a hammer blow to his old life.
He fucked her over the pole. His hands groped for purchase on her sleek hips, then slid up to her enhanced breasts, squeezing the firm, heavy flesh, pinching her nipples hard. She gasped, pushing back against him, meeting each drive with a forceful rock of her own. The metal pole vibrated with their impact. The sounds were obscene, wet, and desperate.
“Doggy!” Tracey called, but they were already there.
He pulled out. Sammy, understanding, lowered herself to her hands and knees on the floor before the pole, grasping its base. He knelt behind her and re-entered, the angle even more devastating. He could see everything—the beautiful, sculpted globe of her ass, the stretch of her opened lips around his shaft, the slick mess they were making. He pounded into her, a man possessed. His balls slapped against her clit with each drive.
“This is… this is the one,” he babbled, losing all coherence. “This is the winning pussy. It’s fucking me back. It’s telling me a story. It’s… god, Sammy, it’s you.” He was gone. The judge was fully participant, lost in the verdict.
He felt her orgasm before he heard it. Her inner muscles convulsed in a rapid, fluttering series of clenches, a milking, insistent pull. She screamed, a raw, torn sound that was nothing like Chloe’s performances, and collapsed forward, her cheek against the cold floor, her body shuddering.
It triggered his own. He couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. With a final, bone-deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came. It was a draining, total release that felt like more than semen—it felt like the expulsion of his former self. He pulsed into her, groan after groan torn from his throat, his vision spotting.
He collapsed atop her, spent, their sweat-slicked bodies sticking together. The electronic beat thumped on, meaningless now.
For a long moment, there was no sound but their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, a slow clap.
Tracey. “Well,” she said, her voice holding a note of genuine, impressed finality. “Judging is complete. The winner, by unanimous and visceral decision, is Sammy.”
There were no cheers. Just a heavy, settled silence. Jess and Chloe gathered their clothes, beginning to dress with quiet, purposeful movements. The orgy was over. The experiment was concluded. The data was recorded.
Brad rolled off Sammy, onto his back on the cold floor. He stared up at the ceiling, at the exposed rafters and a single, dangling disco ball that reflected a distorted, fractured image of the room—a naked man, a curled woman, others moving like ghosts in the periphery.
Sammy eventually pushed herself up. She didn’t look at him. She walked, naked and streaked with sweat and sex, to a shelf and pulled down a towel. She wiped herself between the legs with a rough, practical motion, then tossed the towel onto the pile of crafts. She picked up her halter top but didn’t put it on. She just held it.
.
Sammy finally pulled on her halter top, the crimson fabric clinging to her damp skin. The other women were almost dressed, the rustle of clothing and soft zips replacing the heavy breathing and slapping flesh of moments before. Brad still lay on the floor, one arm thrown over his eyes, trying to reassemble the pieces of himself.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was the charged, brittle quiet after a detonation.
Tracey broke it, her voice cutting through the hum of the cheap stereo she’d just turned off. “So that’s that.” She sounded almost businesslike, tying her sneakers. “Sammy takes the gold. Congrats.” There was no malice in it, just a flat statement of fact, as if they’d finished judging pies at a county fair.
Jess slipped her feet into her sandals. “The implants were a compelling advantage. The muscular control is undeniable.” She gave Sammy a small, professional nod. “Well done.”
Chloe, pulling a sundress over her head, pouted. “I still think enthusiasm should count for more.” She flashed a grin at Brad’s prone form. “No offense, Brad. You were a great sport.”
A great sport. The phrase echoed in the hollow of his skull. He felt like a piece of equipment that had been tested to its limit and left idling. Sweat was cooling on his body, raising goosebumps. The smell in the garage was a potent mix of perfume, female arousal, his own sweat, and the coppery scent of sex. It was the smell of his transgression, and it clung to the inside of his nose.
He heard Sammy’s footsteps approach. He didn’t move his arm. He couldn’t look at her. The weight of what they’d done—what he’d done, what he’d said—crashed down on him. He’d described her mother-in-law’s vagina as a ‘winning pussy.’ He’d screamed her name into the glittering void of her garage studio. The memory was a physical nausea.
“Brad.” Her voice was quiet, closer.
He flinched.
A beat of silence passed. He heard her kneel on the concrete beside him. Her scent, now layered with his own, enveloped him. “Look at me.”
He didn’t want to. He wanted to teleport into his bland, beige living room, onto his couch with his remote control, into a life where the most complicated thing was a carburetor jet. Slowly, he lowered his arm. The neon lights from the disco balls streaked across his vision. He turned his head.
Sammy’s face was inches from his. Her makeup was smudged, her auburn hair fraying from its bun. The mischievous glint was gone, replaced by something stark, vulnerable, and fiercely alive. She searched his eyes, looking for something—disgust, regret, triumph. He didn’t know what he was broadcasting. He felt empty.
“You okay?” she asked. It was such a mundane question, so absurdly inadequate, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in his chest and died.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just nodded, a tiny, brittle motion.
From near the door, Tracey chuckled. It was a low, knowing sound. “Okay? He just had the single greatest male fantasy experience of his pathetic life. Four women, a scorecard, a championship fuck. He’s not okay. He’s ascended.”
Brad finally sat up, the world tilting. He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with fumbling, uncoordinated hands. The denim felt foreign and rough against his oversensitive skin. He kept his eyes on the floor, on a stray sequin that glittered beside a dropped wing nut from one of his motorcycle projects. Two worlds, collided and ruined.
“We should go,” Jess said, shouldering her bag. “My sitter charges extra after ten.”
There was a murmur of agreement. The energy was dissipating, the collective madness receding like a tide, leaving behind the flotsam of their individual realities. Brad focused on the mechanical task of dressing. Socks. Boots. T-shirt, inside out. He corrected it.
Sammy stood up, wrapping her arms around herself. She looked suddenly smaller, older. The defiant pole dancer was gone, and in her place was a fifty-four-year-old woman in a messy garage, the neon lights catching the fine lines around her eyes. “Thanks for coming, guys,” she said, her voice oddly formal. “It was… a night.”
Chloe bounced over and gave her a hug. “So much fun! We have to do a girls’ brunch. Without the judge.” She giggled and headed out the side door into the night. Jess followed with a quiet wave.
Tracey lingered. She looked from Sammy to Brad, who was now standing, awkward as a teenager after a failed date, not knowing where to put his hands. He shoved them in his pockets.
“A clean sweep, huh Sammy?” Tracey said, not unkindly. She lit a cigarette, the flare of the match stark in the dimness. “First in boobs, legs, blowjobs, and the grand prize fuck. Pretty conclusive.”
Sammy shrugged, but a flicker of that pride returned, warming her eyes. “He called it like he felt it.”
“He did.” Tracey took a long drag, blowing smoke toward the cracked garage door. She eyed Brad. “But you know… we only got a first place.” She let the words hang.
Brad’s stomach tightened. He knew that tone. It was the same tone she’d used to announce the tie-breaker. It was the sound of a game not being over.
Sammy frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Tracey gestured with her cigarette. “The judging. We have a definitive winner. We don’t have a definitive runner-up.” Her gaze was analytical, dissecting. “Jess was precision. Chloe was enthusiasm. I was endurance. The scores were a three-way tie before the final event. But the final event was just for first. We never settled second.”
A cold dread traced Brad’s spine. “No,” he said, the word a croak. “It’s done. It’s over.”
“Is it?” Tracey’s smile was all teeth. “Feels unfinished to me. Incomplete data. We have a champion, but the silver medal is still up for grabs. That’s poor tournament structure.”
Sammy was watching Tracey, a curious light dawning in her eyes. The loneliness, the craving for validation, had been answered with a crown. But now a new, twisted thread was being offered: not just to win, but to watch, to have her victory validated again from a new angle. To see him, once more, used as the measuring tool for other women, even after he’d proclaimed her the best. It was a darker, more complex hunger.
“We have a winner,” Sammy said slowly, testing the idea. “But we need a second place.”
“Exactly.” Tracey crushed her cigarette under her heel. “The odds were always in your favour, Sammy. You’re his fucking mother-in-law. The taboo is a hell of an aphrodisiac. It skews the data.” She walked over to the workbench, leaning against it, a general addressing her troops. “For a fair ranking, we need to eliminate that variable. We need him to judge the rest of us again, but this time… with you out of the running. A clean slate for second, third, and fourth.”
Brad felt the floor shift. “You’re insane. I’m not doing it again. I can’t.” The protest was weak, even to his own ears. His body, traitorously, hummed with a latent, shameful energy. The memory of each distinct texture, each sound, was etched into his nerves.
“Why not?” Tracey challenged, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “The hard part’s over. The lines are already blurred into fucking oblivion. Your wife isn’t going to be more pissed if it was twice or ten times. You’re already in the deepest shit imaginable. So why not… know? Really know which one of us was actually second best?”
Jess, who had paused at the door, turned back. Her clinical curiosity was piqued. “It would be a more controlled experiment. Remove the anomalous champion, retest the field. The results could be interesting.”
Chloe popped her head back in the door, her eyes wide. “Are we going again? I can stay! My husband thinks I’m at book club!”
Brad looked at Sammy, desperate for an ally, for the voice of reason. She was staring at him, her expression unreadable. The warmth from their union was cooling, replaced by something more speculative, more possessive. She had won him. Now she could watch him be won by others, from a position of secure power. It was the ultimate exhibitionism, the final layer of her craving.
“It’s up to Brad,” Sammy said softly, but her eyes were gleaming. “It’s his body. His… judgment.”
They all looked at him. Four women, in a garage that smelled of their collective sex. His wife’s mother. Her friends. The silence was a pressure cooker. He thought of saying no. He thought of walking out, getting on his bike, and riding into the night. He thought of the crushing, mundane guilt that would wait for him at home, the silence of his marriage that would now have this screaming, neon secret behind it.
And he thought of the way Chloe’s enthusiastic cunt had gripped him. The intelligent, milking precision of Jess. The deep, furnace-like engulfment of Tracey.
His cock, limp and exhausted, gave a faint, promising throb.
“Fuck,” he whispered, not to anyone.
Tracey’s smile was victorious. “That’s the spirit.” She straightened up. “Rules for round two. Sammy observes, but does not participate. She is the benchmark, removed from the competition. Brad, you will fuck each of us again. One position only, to ensure consistency. Doggy. It’s the most revealing, the most… comparative. You will judge, again, on tightness, rhythm, and overall feel. But your feedback will be more detailed this time. We want nuances.”
Brad’s heart was pounding again, a frantic, sick drumbeat. He was consenting to his own dismantling. He gave a single, numb nod.
“Excellent,” Jess said, setting her bag back down. She began unbuttoning her blouse with methodical calm.
Chloe squealed and shimmied out of her sundress, naked again in seconds, her body vibrating with excited energy.
Tracey just kicked off her shoes and pulled her tank top over her head, her heavy breasts swinging free. She looked at Brad, a challenge in her eyes. “Since I got fourth in the oral category, I think I should go first this time. A chance to move up the standings.”
Sammy walked to the pole chair and sat down, curling one leg beneath her. She was the queen on her throne, her eyes dark and watchful. She lit a cigarette of her own, the smoke curling around her head like a crown.
Brad mechanically took his clothes back off. Each removed garment felt like a shedding of his last remaining excuses. He stood naked before them again, but the dynamic had shifted. The initial terror was gone, replaced by a hollow, reckless acceptance. He was a tool. He was a judge. He was a fuck-toy. The categories blurred into a single, degrading purpose.
Tracey walked to the center of the floor, where the blanket was still rumpled and stained. She got on her hands and knees, looking back over her shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready, judge.”
Brad walked over. His erection was returning, not with passionate urgency, but with a hard, grim inevitability. It was a biological response, divorced from his splintering mind. He looked at her broad back, the strong curve of her spine, the heavy, inviting swell of her ass. He knelt behind her. The visual was brutally intimate—the slight pout of her labia, glistening and slightly swollen from earlier. He guided himself, the head of his cock parting her flesh, and pushed in.
The sensation was immediately, familiarly consuming. That deep, wet heat. He began to move, establishing a steady, measured pace. This wasn’t about his pleasure; it was about assessment. He closed his eyes, focusing on the tactile feedback.
“Talk,” Sammy’s voice came from the chair, smoky and calm.
“It’s a deep, full sensation,” he said, his voice detached, almost clinical. “There’s a lot of… surface area. Consistent, strong pressure. It’s not tight in a constricting way. It’s tight in a… encompassing way. Like it’s using the whole length.” He fucked her with slow, deep strokes, his hands on her hips. “The rhythm is easy to match. She’s pushing back with a lot of force. It’s… efficient. Grounded.”
He opened his eyes and saw Sammy watching, her cigarette frozen halfway to her lips. He was describing another woman’s body to her, in detail, while buried inside it. The obscenity of the moment was transcendent.
After a dozen more strokes, Tracey grunted. “Enough for a score. Next.”
Brad pulled out. Tracey moved aside, sitting back on her heels, watching with keen interest as Jess took her place.
Jess assumed the position with athletic grace, her back perfectly flat, her compact ass high. Brad entered her. The difference was instant and shocking.
“Christ,” he grunted, the clinical tone breaking for a second.
“Describe,” Tracey commanded.
“It’s completely different.” He was already moving, his hips picking up a faster pace instinctively. “It’s… pinpoint tight. Concentrated. Around the head and along the upper shaft. It’s like a… a perfect, slick fist. The rhythm is internal, she’s doing these subtle clenches in sequence, it’s… fucking systematic. It doesn’t just feel good, it feels… designed.” He was losing his detachment. The technical brilliance of her body was overwhelming. He grabbed her slender hips, driving into her with more force, and felt her internal muscles flutter in response, a rapid, milking pulse that made his knees weak. “It’s intelligent. It’s like it’s learning what works and doing more of it.”
He came perilously close to the edge and forced himself to stop, pulling out with a wet sound. He was breathing hard. Jess rose smoothly and moved away without a word, a slight, satisfied smile on her face.
Chloe was already scrambling into position, practically vibrating. “My turn! Me me me!”
Brad, now fully, painfully hard, approached her. The sight of her, eagerly presented, her peachy ass cheeks quivering with anticipation, was pure, uncomplicated eroticism. He entered her in one smooth motion, and she cried out, a loud, “Yes! Fuck me!”
Her interior was a chaos of warm, silken friction. “It’s… a mess,” he gasped, starting to pound into her, his detachment incinerated by her raw energy. “A beautiful, wet, sloppy mess. It’s not tight like Jess, it’s… aggressive. It pulls you in. The rhythm is all over the place, she’s bucking, she’s clenching at random, it’s unpredictable. It’s greedy. It feels like it’s trying to suck the come right out of you.” Chloe was wailing beneath him, encouraging him, her words a filthy, enthusiastic mantra. He fucked her harder, the slapping sounds faster and louder than with the others. It was pure, animal gusto. He had to wrench himself away to stop from erupting inside her.
He stumbled back, his cock gleaming and throbbing, precum beading at the tip. He was panting, sweat stinging his eyes. The three women looked at him, waiting.
Sammy stood up from her chair. She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. Her eyes traveled down his heaving chest to his aching, oversensitive erection. “So,” she said. “For second place. Your verdict.”
Brad looked at the three naked women. Tracey, solid and expectant. Jess, cool and analytical. Chloe, flushed and beaming.
The words came, raw and honest. “Jess,” he said, the name leaving him in a rush. “Second place. The control… the precision. It’s undeniable. It’s… engineering.”
Jess’s smile widened a fraction. A nod.
“Chloe, third. The enthusiasm is… monumental. But it’s chaotic. Less refined.”
Chloe’s pout was immediate but she shrugged, accepting.
“Tracey, fourth.” He met her gaze. “It’s profound. It’s powerful. But it’s… broad. Less specific. For this, for what was being judged… fourth.”
Tracey absorbed this, then nodded slowly. “Fair. The data is solid.” She actually looked pleased. The experiment was complete.
The finality of it landed on Brad like a physical weight. It was over. Truly over. He had ranked his mother-in-law’s friends by the feel of their vaginas. He had a first, second, third, and fourth place.