A Great Moment in Sex Sport

A young, healthy-looking man, standing to my left at the bar, said, "Is that all the lesbian we will see?" He raised his hands theatrically, and showed reasonable sobriety by not spilling his drink. "And the pussy-eater wasn't even nude!"

"There are lesbian events, and gay male also," I said, hoping to be seen as an avid fan, rather than a pro. "It is true, the Tour has only a few, and schedules them at off hours. But with a full subscription, you could watch them any time."

He stepped back, showing his work-stressed clothes. "Do I look like someone who can do that? I'm watching for free in a bar!"

I smiled with humility, and bought his next drink.

Two of the screens showed live feed from humanity's outposts beyond our home planet. In a free-fall orbital habitat, and on the moon, attractive young people engaged in the sex that is only possible in zero gravity and one-sixth gravity, respectively. Space exploration became a paying proposition only when reality-show entrepreneurs in Europe and East Asia amassed subscription money from voyeurs, porn addicts, and sex sport fans.

What was shown were mostly male-female couplings. There remains considerable novelty for acts that are common on Earth, made extremely uncommon (and arousing to viewers) by the reduction in gravity. So far, attempts to try more extreme kinks (bondage, S&M, fetishes) in low gravity have neither drawn large audiences nor been safe enough for the performers. The same has been true for competitions in so-called 'water sports.'

I think it's a pity that one set of space travel's first pioneers have been left behind. America's evangelicals have been as adamantly against Space Sex as the world's many doctrinaire Muslims are. (And so both groups watch, in secret, rather than participate.) The other set of pioneers, from my homeland, are perfectly content to fuck anywhere, with everyone watching.

While in the bar I was approached by three sex workers, one of them male. I have learned over the years how to decline their offers pleasantly and quickly, to spare them the time they need to move on to better prospects. I am never eager to reveal to strangers my pathetic genitalia, but at that time I was also still relishing the night I had spent with Ludie. I was able, that blessed night, to experience (but not say) how I truly felt about her, and to take her smiles and whispers to mean that she might feel the same.

I was not delusional. I was certain that she could never feel about me as I felt about her.

But now, days later, has delusion overtaken me?

***

During the Tour, our downtime essentially runs from Sunday night until Tuesday morning, which also includes travel time, and hectoring by Ryazan. On Tuesday we hold meetings more relevant to our sports, and do workouts, some of our own choosing. I do various kinds of yoga and tai chi, and other practices that uphold my sex stamina. I also do traditionally masculine workouts.

On Tuesday afternoon, I and some of Ludie's other Pricks were in the vast lounge in the sport stadium, shared by all World Optimum competitors. Our group did not include Bogdan. Therefore, we talked about him. But quietly, since there were other teams enjoying the lavish space. Few others understood Russian, but security staffers, who monitored cams and mics, might take an interest.

"Doctor Andreyev thinks he has vertigo," said Maxim. Andreyev is often careless about patient confidentiality. "Hanging in mid-air might be getting to him."

Karl snorted. "Why now? He's been hanging that way for five years."

"We should see if he's into asphyxiation," said Fyodor, with a chuckle. "That could make hanging into a turn-on."

Karl, at 38 the oldest of us, gestured with his bulb of protein gel. "Mark my word, that's what Dmitri will look for next year. A dangler."

I usually stayed out of these bull sessions, but I said, "You are so quick to break us up!" Perhaps too loudly. We huddled closer, although it did not seem that anyone had overheard.

Karl trained a scowl at me. "Anyone still living in 2036 may be unfit for 2039. Or 2040." So often he played his Veteran Experience card. He had been on Yulia Dombrowska's Poland-based team, and her 2034 world championship got Karl hired by Ryazan, with a contract rumored to run for ten years. The rest of us had been Ludie's Pricks for our whole, relatively short, careers.

I was not so much angry or insulted as I was impatient with Karl being Karl. Without another word, I stood and went to the bar.

Too late I saw that this was a mistake, because I was noticed by Magda Szabo.

Magda does a Seven-Prick exhibition at most events, in exchange for appearance fees, and sometimes she doesn't even compete in Six. We all know that the pressure is mounting, so to speak, for World Optimum to make Seven a competition. Independent promoters hold 'Beyond Six' competitions during World Optimum's offseason, and the money has risen every year (for Seven, and even Eight). If this continued, Six-Prick would be relegated to lower priority, and perhaps dropped from World Optimum. If Ludie were to go to Seven, she would take two dicks in her pussy at once.

"Hello, Pavel," said Magda in the language many of us had picked up in childhood, Internet AmerEnglish. She sidled up to me in dark red workout wear that clung to her compelling contours. "When was the last time a woman treated you right?"

I tried to look stone-faced at Magda, but she's too attractive. If I looked at her for too long, I might turn into a blithering idiot. "I'm treated very well," I said, looking away.

She leaned up against me. "Your boss makes you lie on the floor and cum between her cheeks. You could do better."

I said most of "You trying to get me in trouble?" Part of it was a squeaky whine.

"Six is for skanks," she said, putting her arms around me. "Nobody else tries to do Seven while I'm around. Soon the real money will be in Eight." She got a hand to the back of my neck and turned my face to her. "I think you'd be great as the second in my mouth. You don't want me to dislocate my jaw, do you?" Bright white teeth flashed against her olive skin. Large black eyes threatened to swallow my soul. Pheromone-hyped perfume bored into my nose. "And on my team, in downtime you'll fuck my pussy."

I swallowed. I erected fully. Fortunately, that isn't obvious when I'm wearing pants.

There were tens of people watching her come on to me. Security footage would not be necessary to fuel the gossip.

"You can nail my bitches, too," Magda continued. "Just enjoy yourself, no pressure, no ridicule. If they want orgasms, they'll get 'em some other way." Two of Magda's 'attendants,' exotic brunettes like she was, were just behind her, giving me smoldering looks.

I tried to show how hip I am to our sport. "Six is what everyone wants to watch. Put more pricks in there and you can't see the woman."

"Leon and Denis are contortionists," she said, referring to her pussyfuck duo, "so they can fuck together and not get in the way of my Assfucker. But there's another way to clear the sight lines."

I jolted back from her. "So...you'd really use men like that?"

She frowned. "Are you prejudiced against amputees? Think of these fine European men, defending us against hordes of Muslims. If their legs are destroyed in combat missions, the men face lives with few prospects. Why shouldn't women such as I..." Now she smiled, dropping the pretense of high-mindedness, "...thank them for their service?"

"That's very noble of you," I said, bristling. "Do you thank the ones who also lost their genitals?"

She sighed. "I can only save so many." Then, stroking my knee, she said, "You can keep your legs. There's room enough for you and my other Mouthfucker to hang in the straps."

Her touch made me too interested, and I gave up on rational argument. I leaned away and said, "Seven is a freak show, it's going nowhere."

"Oh?" said Magda. "Then why has your slut been practicing with Gregor and numb-nuts Bogdan both fucking her pussy?"

I scowled, which was probably better than gasping in surprise. I realized only then that Bogdan wasn't the only one of Ludie's Pricks missing from our bull session. I hadn't seen Gregor since early morning.

I rallied, and said, "Pricks talk. You believe everything they say?"

"There's security footage from the dispensary. Gregor and Bogdan requested quick-healing salve. They had to show the friction marks on their junk, for the Tour to approve it." Magda declined to say how she gained this information. Shaking her head, she added, "Newbies. They don't know the right way to lube."

She and her attendants smiled exactly the same way. They also affected the same style for their long, thickly-waved hair, and wore the same workout wear. I couldn't help but think of getting in a four-way with them.

"Ludmilla could do as many as anybody," I asserted. "She knows Six is what the people want."

"But what do you want, Pav?" She slid her torso along mine. "Popping a shithole, and maybe getting a blowjob? Or starting with a blowjob and finishing with my pussy?"

"I'm not leaving Ludmilla," I said with what I hoped was firmness. Like what Magda had put between my legs.

"Do you have any idea how valuable you are? You cum fast, you cum often, and you don't hurt. Every woman in the business wants that somewhere in her."

"That's just one of many skill sets," I said, rolling into talking points I've used for years. "Maxim has thick, opaque semen that stays visible after it dries. Fyodor spews for as much as fifteen seconds, nonstop. Style points aren't a big factor in the scoring, but they drive a lot of our popularity."

Magda's look softened. She stroked my cheek gently. "What a handsome man you are. You were blessed with your face, and your body. I could enjoy them very much while pleasing the part of you that wasn't blessed."

Her tenderness, real or not, scared me more than her seduction. "And what happens if I get, um, a Bogdan problem?"

She looked away, exasperated. "Ryazan might fire everybody but his boy-toy Karl, long before that happens. Look out for yourself, Pavel. And here's something for you to think about."

She fingered her wristband. A flatscreen high on a wall lit to show Magda, nude, in an arena. Black-masked naked men surrounded her in a circle, jerking themselves as if in a traditional bukkake.

"The Podushetchka Decathlon," she declared proudly, "Last year in Macao. The fourth most-watched sex competition of the year." In sarcastic innocence: "I don't suppose you know the outcome, since it wasn't a World Optimum event."

"You won," I said flatly. She was shown in action that made Six-Prick look prudish. She got off each man in turn, in a different way. First a footjob. Then in the crook of her elbow. Then between her thighs. Then in the crook of her knee. Then between her neck and her shoulder. Then with her hands. Then between her breasts. Then in her mouth. Then up her ass. Finally, in her pussy.

As ridiculous as it sounds, she looked steadily more desirable, the more she allowed jizz to splatter her. Any other woman might have looked degraded. Magda Szabo stood tall, confident and fully in charge. On her pendulous, wide-spaced breasts, dark nipples shed drops of semen in a mockery of lactation.

Magda produced the ten sequential orgasms, by different men in different places, in world record time of two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. No condoms were used. Her attendants, nude, celebrated with Magda by licking the spunk that covered her. I shifted on my bar stool.

Throughout the lounge, there were cheers and applause from the crowd, including my teammates.

Magda blanked the screen. "Nothing ever stands still, Pav. There's money being assembled for a Podushetchka Tridecathlon. Those ten cums, plus hair, armpit, and outer ass cheeks. I know I could trust you to give me a quick load of spunk in one of those."

I set my gel bulb on the bar too loudly and muttered, "Gotta go," convincing nobody.

"You're a smart guy," Magda called after me. "It's time to make a smart decision."

***

Doctor Michurin texted me before the evening meal, asking that I meet her in her room. My STI testing was up to date, no procedures were scheduled, and I had no complaints. So naturally I was worried when I went there.

She smiled pleasantly as she opened the door. "Hello, Pavel. How are you? And I'm not asking only as your doctor." She chuckled at her wit, but stopped when she saw that I didn't join in. Everyone on the team liked her. She never seemed intimidated by the sexual athletes, despite being short, middle-aged, and plump. She was totally professional, and neither sought nor encouraged intimacy with us. And she wasn't a loudmouth like Andreyev.

"What can I do for you, Elena?" I asked, trying not to sound put-upon.

"There's an exciting new opportunity," she said, again hoping to infect me with happiness. "Please sit."

As I did, she started a video on the data-enabled table between us.

"This is a new treatment that can provide bulk to your virility."

I looked at the ceiling in exasperation, and thus was spared the sight of the usual male enhancement animation. "Elena, why?"

"You must think of your career, of course," she said, "which is why the first of these options you would be wise to refuse. But please watch it anyway."

I did, to placate her. It was another attempt at gene splicing and testicular alteration to grow more tissues and get them involved in erection. I will not lie, I have been tempted at times, but so far all of these procedures have had horrible side effects on many men. Sterility was the least of them.

"With this erection, your skill in Podushetchka would be compromised. You would have just another average erection." She pointed at the table. "This, however, could be a life changer for you."

In this animation, the penis went from flaccid to an erection that looked exactly like mine, including the slight curve upward from horizontal. Then, with bright dots moving through blood vessels and the semen duct, the erection grew and thickened, finishing at twice its previous length.

"You could be erect at two different sizes, by your choice," said Elena. "This is an experimental procedure. Trials will begin next month, and the results could provide more assurance of safety and effectiveness. Is this something that you'd be interested in, Pavel?"

Certainly I was interested. Also, I would be interested in lifting ten tonnes, and living forever. "Doctor Michurin," I said, "why are there no credits on these videos?"

"They are proprietary. The researchers are not looking to market them at this time." She then tried to get me to the point. "Can I tell them, in strictest confidence, that you are interested? Before the start of the 2040 Tour?"

"Is this from Korolov Bio?" One of our sponsors. Our official health/medical supplier. Linked to us by a contract drawn up by Ryazan.

She now looked as dour as I probably did. "Yes."

"Elena, this is gene splicing, which I already have no faith in, and also brain chemistry alteration." I truly like Elena, so I tried to spare her having to massage any more facts. "Please tell Dmirti that I am not interested, now or next year, and he'll have to find some other endorser for Korolov's magic potions." And perhaps another Assfucker, if I was already on the brink of getting sacked.

She tried to get me to listen to reason. I left the room as politely as I could, which probably wasn't very.

I was in no mood to go bar hopping that night. The team's situation seemed to be darkening, and I could think of nothing I could do to change that. Under Tour rules, it was too late in the season for Ludie to try the most obvious fix, of moving Bodgan to Pussyfucker and Gregor to Mouthfucker. Also, incapability doesn't count as an injury warranting a complete replacement.

From my hotel suite, I texted Bogdan, asking if he wanted to talk.

He soon texted back. I'm not using Cyrillic here, so I'll present his message thus: Thanks, Tovarisch, but no need. Girlfriend just got here from Smolensk. Training tough, but must be done. Hahaha!

***

This is a sex sport story. The sport, and its key events, would normally be the focus. Suspense should build steadily over whether Team Ludmilla even reaches the Championship Tourney, and then continue to build at this ultimate event. The (ahem) climax should happen when everything is at stake for the competitors. Perhaps with a thrilling moment of redemption for Bogdan.

That's not in this story. So perhaps this is more sex than sport.

This isn't about Bogdan. It's about me, and Ludmilla.

The climax (indeed) is what happened before the Hamburg tournament even began. It's what happened last night, and what I still can't really believe.

Ludie texted on Wednesday that she wanted to meet with me at the end of the day's scheduled tasks. When I was done I went to the hotel ballroom where she was still working. The last item on her docket was a halfway-promotional event. At every Tour stop, men are allowed to 'audition' for her, in theory to become an extra Prick on the team. Ludie's legs are long enough that she could wrap them around Gregor, or any fit man, and put her feet on the penis of yet another man. Adding a footjob has been proposed as an alternative Seven for competition, and Tour officials might consider this during the offseason.

Ludie was fully dressed, and lay on a massage table on her back. She extended her legs around a mannequin, so that her bare feet converged beyond it. The naked man, who paid 500 EuCryptos for this opportunity, is usually so excited that he cums even from contact that Ludie herself admits is clumsy. If he didn't cum within two minutes, the footjob ended and the next applicant was summoned.

Nineteen men were auditioned that day. All of them were told afterward by Ryazan, "Thank you, but you do not meet our standards." Thus, 9500 EuCryptos were added to Team Ludmilla's income.

As Ludie and I walked towards the private elevator, she flexed her legs and feet to get past the accumulated stiffness. "It's ridiculous," she said. "Foot fetish has such a small following. Some of those guys like sucking feet more than being jerked by them. The Tour shouldn't put it in competition."

"Birgitta has fans," I said, referring to a pretty, long-legged Swedish woman who gets exhibition opportunities at some tour stops. She recruits local men and uses two at a time, one standing close to fuck her pussy, the other behind him to get a footjob. Five pairs of men perform with her, and not all of them cum. She gets no appearance fees, and must seek funds from crowdsourcing, porn videos, and the men she uses.

Ludie stood at the elevator and held still for the face recognizer. When the doors parted, she said, "That's no way to live. Begging for access, no money upfront, fucking her fans. She can get guys off with her feet, big deal."

Unlike when we met at the end of the Helsinki stop, Ludie was serious, and seemed tense and worried. I didn't think that was from giving footjobs.

Once in her suite she went straight to the bar. "Are you drinking?" she asked.

"No," I said. Then, hoping to lighten her mood, I added, "I'm trying to be less Russian."

No response. She stood at the bar, with her back to me, and filled a glass with ice, vodka, and tonic.

There was a table with two chairs. I sat in one of the chairs, knowing that this would be a work-related discussion. Or worse.

She sipped her drink as she moved to the other chair, and sat.

"Pavel," said Ludie, looking me in the eyes, "Am I going to lose you to that Hungarian whore?"

"No," I said firmly. But then I had to add, "Am I going to be fired?"