Aunt Phoebe's Masturbatorium Ch. 07

She asked this question in such a disparaging way that I almost didn't bother to answer her.

"I haven't made any plans as of yet," I said curtly. "And there's no guarantee that you're going to win."

I thought she was going to say something nasty to me at first, but she looked away to take a few moments to gather her thoughts.

"There's no way you're going to win," she said coldly. "So I'm giving you a chance to get out now while you still can."

"You're giving me a chance?" I said, put off by her audacity. "Why the hell should I do anything you want?"

"Not that you would understand," she replied bitterly, "but I'm trying to save you from the same humiliation you caused me."

I almost laughed in her face. "Since when do you care about how I feel? You failed the test. Get over it and move on. But don't you dare accuse of me of humiliating you. You did that to yourself."

I started to walk away from her toward the tunnel exit but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

"I'm only going to tell you one last time, Holly. Withdraw from the contest or I'll make you look like the biggest fool there ever was."

With one angry motion I pulled myself free of her grasp.

"Do your best!" I said, moving away from her.

"I mean it! Your little boy toy Craig is no match for my champion!"

I turned around sharply at the mention of my friend's name.

"That's it, isn't it? You're afraid that Craig might possibly beat Jacques. That's why you want me out of the contest, and that's why you put on the friendly act during breakfast. Well, forget it. Your little trick is not going to work!"

I walked briskly toward the exit, pointing my remote control at the door, which opened before me.

"I'm going to beat the shit out of you!" she shrieked. "You stupid little twit!"

"Psycho!" I screamed back at her.

It was no surprise to me that Angelique's failed attempt to intimidate me was actually prompted by a growing fear on her part that Craig might pose a possible threat in outperforming Jacques in the competition. She had witnessed my champion's astounding climax weeks earlier and she knew what he was capable of. But, although I did not know it at the time, she had enlisted the services of another man: a man who could shoot his cum much further than Jacques: a man who posed a serious threat to Craig himself, but who could also be beaten by Craig. It was this man upon whom she was pinning all her hopes—her so-called "secret weapon."

Had I misjudged her? Maybe her sense of superiority was threatened after all. Maybe her feeble ploy was simply a manifestation of a larger fear: that a second failure might actually ruin her career in the Sisterhood once and for all—a sublime humiliation from which she would never recover.

As I jumped into one of the golf carts my aunt and her associates used to travel up and down the half-mile distance to the tunnel entrance, I realized that I was not alone. Coming up fast behind me was my cousin, her car swerving wildly from side to side as she fought to catch up with me. I kept to the right, allowing her to pass me if she wished. This she did, but not before ramming her vehicle's front end into the back of my own, causing me to hit the retaining wall and momentarily lose control. I swore at her as she flew past, but she just laughed at me and continued to speed toward the entrance with a crazed look on her face.

By the time I arrived at the entrance about a minute later, Angelique was nowhere to be found. A bevy of Sisters were already at the gate checking credentials, personnel, and equipment. Among them I found my aunt and Lenore. I said nothing to them about my encounter with Angelique. I was now firmly convinced that I was not dealing with a rational person, and I didn't want to say anything to my aunt about it since it would only cause her to worry—and she had enough to deal with as it was.

"Oh, there you are," she said to me as she affixed a nametag to one of the attendee's lapels. "Do you think you can help us out for a little while until your friend gets here?"

"Sure, aunt Phoebe," I replied.

"Then take these," she said, handing me a stack of tags and a roster. "Just check off the names on this sheet and hand them a nametag. We're going to start letting them in shortly."

I did as she requested and was surprised to see Lenore happily at work with the same task not more than ten feet away. As supreme leader of the Sisterhood, she was under no obligation to stoop to such a lowly activity. But the fact that she did not balk at such a job made me regard her in much greater esteem than I had previously. She was charming toward everyone, often cracking jokes with people and enjoying the simple act of hugging old acquaintances or shaking hands with new ones. My aunt, too, found it expedient to be with her friend. As hostess of the games, she could have simply done nothing but relax and let her servants and acolytes handle the more mundane matters pertaining to the contest. But, seeing that Lenore was not one to stand on ceremony, she obviously felt it only proper that she should accompany her superior at the gate.

Within minutes the tunnel became a teeming thoroughfare of people, vehicles, and equipment. My aunt had informed me that thirty-seven countries were being represented—more than even Zula had anticipated. As the different delegations filed past I was reminded of the processions that take place during the Olympic games, replete with flag bearers, team members and their champions, and all manner of hangers-on. Nearly every race and color of people passed by me during the short time I was occupied at my task—a veritable array of the Sisterhood's finest all assembled under one roof.

Lenore had informed me earlier that, as this contest was not regarded as a traditional affair in which Sisterhood members would normally wear the requisite black robe, but more of a fun event, team members and their champions were allowed to wear whatever was thought suitable by the Sisterhood delegate from that particular country. As such, many different styles of dress were represented—even the champions were allowed to wear whatever they wanted—the one concession being that they must don a white robe during the day of the competition when not naked.

Among the champions who filed by included a seven-foot tall Nigerian dressed in a colorful orange and white, two-piece robe complete with headdress and spear; a dark, swarthy Latino from Columbia dressed in the military fatigues of his country; a small, thin specimen from China outfitted in an ostentatious-looking kimono; and a pygmy from the Andaman Islands, wearing nothing more than a pair of cutoff dungarees and a scowl.

My own team was going to take up the rear, and as it was now almost 8:45 AM, I excused myself from my duties and headed toward the back of the congregation. I found my team members waiting for me at the appointed spot, designated by a placard bearing the image of the French flag attached to a tall, wooden pole. I was happy to see that Craig was already there making small talk with the girls.

"He's here!" Joanna shouted when she saw me approach.

Our champion was dressed casually in a pair of brown slacks, a short-sleeve olive green shirt, and loafers. His longish, blonde hair shone brilliantly in the sun as he made his way toward me. Although I wanted to take him immediately into my arms, I indicated that he should keep his distance.

"Later," I told him. "Not now. Not in front of the Sisters."

"It's great to see you," he said cheerfully, as he fought to keep his hands by his side. "And you look really beautiful."

"You look pretty nice yourself," I said. "What do you think of all this?"

"I'm blown away completely," he replied. "There are so many people here. Is this thing being filmed?"

"Yes, but you'll never see it on television."

"No," he laughed. "I don't suppose you would."

One of the acolytes called out my name just then, indicating with a wave of her hand that it was time for our team to fall in line.

"Okay," I said to Craig and the girls. "Let's do it."

Following the directions of one of the Sisters, we drew up into a casual formation and proceeded slowly into the tunnel behind a contingent from Romania. After we had received our nametags, we climbed aboard one of the larger vehicles, which was used to transport our group and the Romanians into the tunnel. A few minutes later we found ourselves disembarking before the immense metal doors that led into the first level of the Masturbatorium.

As we made our way through the gateway, Charlotte turned to me and whispered in my ear.

"Look who's taking up the rear."

It was Angelique and her team. Jacques had been relegated to the end of the line. He was wearing a pair of light blue shorts and a white short-sleeve shirt. There were no socks on his feet, just a pair of open-toed sandals. He looked somewhat worn down, as if he had not slept for several days.

But what interested me most were the team members themselves. It was now that I was able to see, for the first time, which women had chosen to align themselves with my adversary.

Angelique stood at the head of the line, the one who would undoubtedly act as Masturbatrix. The other women with her were Marge Davis, Greta Hofsteddar, Anya Rostokovitch, Selena Montaldo, and Yin Ping Hun. I had no idea what functions they would perform within the team, but I knew Angelique had often spoken highly of Marge Davis, and I presumed she would be accepting the role of second in command. Charlotte brought to my attention the fact that these women were part of a group that had not approved of my tactics during the test, and I remembered that a few of them, Marge and Greta especially, had refused to offer their congratulations on my victory over Angelique.

Angelique's team gave us a cursory inspection before following us into the Masturbatorium. There were are few feeble smiles exchanged between my team and hers, but no one proffered their hand in greeting or made any advances toward us. For a brief instant I saw Charlotte and Angelique lock gazes, and one could not mistake the hatred in my cousin's eyes.

"I'd like to slap that insolent, little face of hers," I said to Charlotte.

"She's afraid," she replied, as we crossed the threshold into the first level. "For all her posturing, she's more afraid of losing than anyone else."

"Maybe," I replied. "But I still want to slap her."

"Remember what we discussed. No confrontations. Victory in the competition is all you should be concerned about. If you want to demolish your cousin, that's the way to do it."

The first level was pretty much as I had remembered it with several modifications, one of which was the addition of a row of tables to the right of where we had entered. The acolytes who manned this area provided assistance to the teams by answering questions, directing traffic, and offering whatever help they could to the visiting delegations. The names of the teams and their respective training rooms were periodically announced over the loudspeakers, but some groups invariably lost their way in the vast labyrinth of the bustling concourse. But, in general, most people seemed to get to their various locations with the minimum of fuss.

Twenty training rooms were on the first level and another twenty were located on the floor below. These rooms were self-contained worlds containing all manner of training equipment, some familiar, some not; medical supplies; and all kinds of other related paraphernalia like gloves, lotions, salves, towels, etc. Some other changes to the décor included the rearrangement of furniture to make room for a cluster of prefabricated booths, which were to accommodate the judges, a dais set up opposite the booths, and various cosmetic changes such as the inclusion of protective, red, plastic carpets, which, I presumed, were to keep the floor free of sperm. In addition, a massive Sisterhood flag had been hung halfway down from the ceiling in the middle of the room. It was made of black silk and embroidered with the image of a huge golden sun around which the words "Audaces fortuna iuvat" were placed.

Our training room was located on the first level, not far from the elevators. It was a large, square room about 20' x 20' in dimension, and was well lit with florescent lighting. The room had a phone, a television, a computer, a few chairs, and a water cooler, in addition to the requisite training equipment. But what first got my attention was a strange-looking device that sat intrusively in the middle of the floor: a giant, black leather and chrome affair that looked like it was meant to sandwich a man in between the upper and lower portions of its treacherous, wide-open maw.

"Oh shit!" Zula exclaimed, as she laid her eyes on the machine. "I heard about this thing, but I didn't know they had one."

"What is it?" I inquired.

"It's called an "Extractinator," she replied, as she walked in front of it and ran her hand over the chrome surface. "For the absolute in total control."

End of Chapter 7