The Contest

What would life be without competition?

Friendly?

Probably.

Calm?

Most likely.

But most of all, it would definitely be boring.

*

She was to kill or die for. Beautiful – for sure. But attitude! Sweet heaven, did Magdalene have the right attitude!

We had known each other for years; three brothers in Budweiser arms and Magdalene, the centre of all our attention. For several years, nevertheless, contact had been increasingly sporadic. The four of us testing our wings, finding universities, new cities, new friends. Whenever we met it was like we had never parted. On the contrary, distance seemed to glue us together; friendship became deeper. But, sad to say, cometogethers were scarce.

"I've found that I need a strong man in my life. To control me, decide for me and teach me to obey."

Her words spurred immediate laughter – she had been pushing men around for as long as any of us could remember; she had been pushing us around. But laughter stopped and turned into nervous giggles as we saw the sincerity in her face.

She looked at us, long enough to make each and every one of us uneasy. She seemed to dare us and examine our reaction; if we would turn away our eyes. Nobody did, which seemed to please her. She smiled wryly.

"It's not like I'll kneel to anyone and beg for attention. I need someone I can trust and more importantly, someone that will fight for me. Someone who is strong enough to fight me. I enjoy the fight. I will enjoy this next one even more. So the hunter enjoys the chase more than the kill? Well, for this prey, too, the chase is the essence of life."

We were accustomed to her monologues. In the past we'd learnt about the environmental movement as well as women's lib. She loved to be the centre of attention and, admittedly, each of us willingly placed her on a pedestal. We'd actually talked about it. All of us felt diminished in her presence, felt like her obedient servants, despite the fact that we were no less bullies than the other guy otherwise. I never considered myself to be particularly docile let alone submissive, but around Magdalene, I turned into a sissy. With other women, including my live-in lover, I was usually rather dominant. Not primarily through physical action – any games including ropes and knots and occasional spankings were quite playful and consensual – but manifested by my obsession to control my partners. The calculated anticipation of her next words would give me a kick. A successful seduction leaving her craving for my body would render immense satisfaction. The final target: conniving mind control leading to actions beyond her wildest dreams; acts of humiliation and self-depravation; was orgasmic. I didn't mention this to the guys though and wouldn't have dreamt of introducing Magdalene to my little fetishes. Until now. I was overwhelmed by the fact that she had just told us – me – that she was made for me.

I quickly learnt that this was not the case. She had, indeed, told all three of us.

"I know that I can trust each and every one of you, no matter what. And I love you all. Not just 'love like a friend'-love but really love you. Surprised? Really, you can't be. But I haven't had sex with anyone of you although I have to confess that I've been tempted to move a lot further than first and second base."

Where was she going with all this? Was she about to get married or what?

"I'm twenty-five but it feels like I'm racing towards forty. I want to grow up, marry and raise kids in a little house with a yard in the suburbs. That is to say: one day I want to do this. But there are other things I want to do first. This brings me back to my recent discovery: I want a steadfast Dom that is willing and able to break me into an obedient slave. And I want that Dom to be one of you guys. I don't think I could trust anyone else enough."

She looked at us. She must have heard the audible thud when our chins dropped to the floor and if there were one moment when she might have thought about reconsidering her choice of candidates for the steadfast task she had told us about, it must have been when she gazed upon the foolish looks on our faces.

"The question is: Who is man enough to take the challenge?"

Backs straightened. Throats cleared. Muscles flexed.

"A contest: I give each of you an assignment and he who completes his task in the way that appeals to me the most will earn the right to collar me."

Confident, I quickly responded positively to the challenge, gave Magdalene, in hindsight foolish, compliments for her brilliant idea. Given my appetite for Ds-relationships and my, I though, superior experience, I was sure that I would come out a winner. No matter how much I liked my brethren, this was a fight to the death.

"So, kitten, I can't really see how this contest of yours fits your new lifestyle at all. First of all, slut, the sub doesn't choose her Master but the Master takes pity on a slave. Secondly, when did subs start setting up the rules? Finally, and that's a matter of practicalities, all of us live together with other women. You might prove to be a good slave with a spankable ass but, I can only talk for myself, my collared sub back home is very much to my satisfaction."

The words were plain enough although the language was coarser than I had ever heard Peter before, but what scared me was his logic and casual grip on the subject. In terms of BDSM-terminology, at least, he was as fluent as me if not better. So, it's a competition between the two of us, I figured before my thoughts were interrupted by Matthew, our third companion.

"Magdalene, you know damn well that my fiancé looks adorable in ropes; you've even seen it live and complimented my choice of servant. Why would you ever believe that I'd go for an obstinate trollop like yourself who doesn't even have the manners to kneel before addressing not one, but three prospective patrons?"

Egocentricity comes to me naturally. Some people argue that only the egocentric can achieve true success; only the egocentric can put their own fortune before every other consideration. Maybe it is true. Nevertheless, this time my winkers had led me to a loser's corner. Not only had I walked unknowingly about the lifestyles of my two closest friends since childhood but I also realized that they were far closer to Magdalene than I would have ever thought. Deep down, I had always nurtured the romantic belief that one day, the two of us would team up and live happily ever after.

Fat chance.

I now realized how silly my first few remarks had been. My companions had immediately caught the drift whereas I had been overwhelmed by what I thought was divine intervention as the woman of my dreams had confessed to her submissive personality. More like a work by the devil. My puny and pitiful appearance stood in stark contrast to the firm backbones of my two friends. Magdalene's eyes shone, but she hardly glanced in my direction.

"Hey boys, just because I've recently admitted, even to myself, what kind of lifestyle I want, doesn't mean that the three of you suddenly have become anything more than the cute little boys I've known for ages. And with regards to your girlfriends: I agree, Matthew, that your Lorna looks good in ropes but that's what professional photographers think too and for that matter their publishers. Lorna isn't a natural born sub; she's a natural born model. How long before she makes twice or three times what you do in a year? Has she ever really, really submitted to you? You know she hasn't and she never will. And Peter: Yes, I can believe that Louise can be to your satisfaction – when you're drunk or otherwise mentally incapacitated. Let's face it: the intellectual stimulation that she will ever offer is less than bowl of chowder. And besides, is she really yours? I thought she offered her services to anyone that opted for them?"

She was ruthless. But she made impact, I give her that. Both Matthew and Peter had shrunk at her words and their own proud words had turned into an unintelligible mumble. I was ambivalent. On one hand I was relieved that she had not sputtered insults in my direction too, but on the other hand the neglect was almost worse.

"Magdalene, you have always been the girl of my dreams..."

I spoke to her with a voice of exaggerated sarcasm although the words were truer than I was ready to confess.

"I would be very keen to accept your challenge and I am certain that I'd prove to be a worthy champion. So for argument's sake, what kind of contest would you have in mind? What would the assignments look like?"

I all but melted when she faced me with a warm smile and appreciating nod. She then looked at Matthew and Peter as if to see if they had gathered their composure. Apparently she was satisfied because she nodded at them. Less heartily, I could have sworn, but then again I was spellbound.

"I love you all, I can't say that enough many times. If I knew how, I'd let you all be my Doms. But that's hardly doable, is it? One Master can keep several slaves, but one slave couldn't possibly serve several masters, huh?"

We nodded reluctantly. I had already painted a mental image of Magdalene eagerly accepting our cocks in every thinkable way in a feverish ménage à quatre. I even felt my groins starting to tingle slightly before the fantasy was broken as she continued.

"I was thinking of reciprocity."

She studied our perplexed faces and smiled elusively.

"I've been thinking a bit on this. I need strength and firmness, sure, but those characteristics can be played. As in a game or act. I am not convinced that I would truly respect a Dom until he has shown me that he is prepared to go all the way; that he is prepared to cross all borders that he will, I sincerely wish, have me to cross eventually. At least metaphorically. After all, it wouldn't be very exciting if a Dom would pre-market upcoming events by walking through every step of the way himself just to prove that he was able to reciprocate, would it?"

Honestly, I don't think anyone of us grasped more than the outlines of what she was talking about, but we all did our best to look intelligent and interested.

"No, I was thinking more in the line of giving each of you a task that would challenge you. Challenge your pride, your machismo, your endurance and virility; well a task that would prove your steadfastness by having to endure submission and humiliation like a true slave."

I looked for mockery in her eyes, but if she was pulling our legs, I could not tell. She added an irresistible yet conniving teaser:

"Naturally, I would expect that the one of you that comes out a winner, will top any challenges I could ever invent and seek revenge for any humiliation on behalf of him and his good long-time friends."

I can swear that by now, she could tell that I was drooling. A quick glance at my companions told me that they had not withstood her words unaffected either; their excitement was manifested by shy but unmistaken bulges stretching their pants. Magdalene apparently noticed. She licked her lips – far more elaborative than what would have been appropriate in any social circumstance.

"What do you say? Are you mice or men?"

"I'm in. I can take anything you throw at me."

My words boasted far more confidence than I really owned but I was determined that from now on Magdalene would not see any trace of my initial feebleness.

"Yeah, you're a cunning slut but count me in as well."

"Sure, I wouldn't miss this for the world, darling."

Peter and Matthew were obviously just as eager as I was.

"Then let's begin."

Her word lingered ominously in the air. Now we were three brothers in arms put against each other in a contest that no one could really imagine losing. What would happen to friendship? Would the losers, inevitably there would be two losers, be able to face either the winner or Magdalene considering the endurances and humiliation that was to be suffered, no mention of the extreme humiliation of losing? Thoughts crossed my mind and fluttered away. It seemed so far away and of absolutely no importance. By now, one needed a knife to cut through the testosterone that filled the room. Competition was everything. Winning was more.

Tension was, as always, broken by Magdalene. She moved around in the room, giggled, started talking about everyday things. Now it was settled. The contest would begin. I had not realized it, but until now, she had been nervous like hell. No wonder. Even though we'd known each other for almost two decades, we had never had a discussion this intense. Well discussion. More like a monologue, but nonetheless at a level to which we had never ventured before. The sound of her relaxing was not rocks falling to the floor but the ringing of her laughter, her melodious humming. She was like a child preparing her birthday party – full of optimism and excited anticipation.

"The world isn't fair. I have three assignments scribbled down on three cards. They are quite different and some of you might believe that you've fared far worse than your competitors. If you're lucky, you'll end up with an assignment of your liking, who knows?"

Mischievous woman. She grinned – she had a ball. She held the cards towards us, face down.

"Who will draw first?"

We all moved our hands but Matthew was the most agile. He took the middle card and covered it with his hands while he read it in silence, frowning occasionally. Magdalene watched intensely, almost jumping with enthusiasm. Matthew cleared his throat and started reading from the card.

"You will offer passers-by a mouthful of your chocolate-covered body. Your Patron of the day will choose the time and place but the rule is that your assignment is not completed until all chocolate is gone."

Matthew looked at us. There was a hint of dismay showing in his expression.

"Passers-by? Patron of the day?"

"Oh, I forgot to mention that each of you will be supervising one of your friends while he's completing his chore. For safety, as well as to make sure that the implementation of the task is meticulous. Why don't we let Mark be your supervisor Matthew while you can oversee Peter and Peter checks on Mark? Naturally, I'll be head mistress and allowed to overrule any decision made by the patron of the day."

She giggled girlishly but we all recognized the effect of her devilish scheme; each of us would be subject to the whims of a fellow contender whose mercy would determine the endurances of the mission as well as possibly decide its successful completion. Suddenly, I had been thrown into the game and had to choose a time and place for Matthew's gastronomical task.

"Any time and any place?"

I spoke slowly and could not refrain from smiling wickedly. Magdalene answered immediately:

"Any time and any place. But – and this is a pretty important but – if Matthew for any reason does not accomplish his mission, you will take an equal share of the blame and loose points in the contest. If, on the other hand, Matthew excels, you will get some of the credit. Isn't it so a patronage should work? Basically you will need to work together rather than against each other. If you, Mark, manages to find a great stage for Matthew to work from so that he successfully finds enough mouths to feed with his chocolate covered body, you will both gain from it whereas Peter will be the sole beneficiary if Matthew fails."

Silence.

One could almost hear synapses working in our heads when we tried to figure out the implications of the increasingly complex rules. Did Magdalene invent rules as we went along? Nobody dared to ask. It would have been out of character for her to enter this game without due preparations. Still. Who could really tell? Nobody dared to ask.

It was my call. Time and place. I asked for a quick respite. My mind was a melting pot of ideas but a plan was already forging. I normally abhor the so called jet set but finally, only now, did I begin to realize that a distant acquaintance might come in handy. Phone call.

"Thursdays. That's our Red Light Night. You won't have sex, will you?"

I evaded the question the best I could. How the hell should I know where this crazy game would end? But at least I had found a stage and an open-minded audience that maybe, only maybe would help turning this impossible task into a victory. Alexandra was in her mid-fifties, once perfect catch, still gorgeous owner of several night clubs. The establishment in mind was the Satyricon, an avant garde artist's club that had made a reputation of daring live art exhibitions. I thought it was perfect for the occasion. Alexandra seemed at least reasonably interested. Good thing that I had assisted her with this and that in the past.

Today was Tuesday. What other arrangements would I need to make in order to help my "slave of the day" accomplish his mission? Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. That should be easy enough to assemble. Lindt would be the easy way out but I decided to go for Valrhona – this was a one shot opportunity; no point in being cheap. A quick call to Satyricon's chef had me understand that, sure, a quantity that large of chocolate might be melted to the appropriate temperature, but why? I chose to inaugurate him into my planned work of art, albeit not the following feeding frenzy, and to my relief, he was exhilarated and promised to make due arrangements to enable a swift chocolate-glazing of the subject.

Next step: plan for my own assistance in phase two. I nurtured little or no hope that even the most open-minded people would even think of the option to actually take a bite of the chocolate off poor Matthew's body, let alone his private parts without due inspiration. So I decided that I would need to act as a conferencier at the show. Leather. I could think of no better outfit than a gay leather man outfit no matter how much it would go against my personal proclivity. There is no business like show business, and the show must go on. Settled and done. Wednesday was all about shopping.

Thursday. I had a few discussions with Matthew on particulars but none of us dared to even touch on the subject of appropriateness or regret. Four eternal friends had all but in blood promised to go through with the Contest. There was no turning back.

Day became evening became early night. The event had been announced to midnight and we had arrived to the Satyricon two hours early to make preparations. The excitement of the chef astonished us both. He had prepared an enormous pot of chocolate, which I had had delivered during the day. He had also covered a whole room in plastics for our lewd body painting.

Now that was a challenge. Chocolate, albeit melted, was not an easy thing to work with. The gooey substance was either to cold and hardened much too quickly to spread evenly, or too hot, to Matthew's demise. The poor guy, butt naked, learnt that chocolate, however sweet, will burn like hell if dripped over private parts. Two hours proved almost too little but with the cheering assistance of the Satyricon's kitchen personnel, we managed to get Matthew covered from the top of his head to his toes. It was not, perhaps, the perfect work of art that any of us had hoped for – the chocolate would not keep from breaking at the joints of his limbs when he moved and the overall impression was rather a mud cake that a smooth piece of luxury chocolate. But he was covered.

Midnight. Lights on. Action.

Timing was perfect. The audience, aroused from dancing and ample amounts of champagne and liquor proved just as thrilled at Matthew's appearance as I would have ever whished for. It was ecstatic. The greeting was overwhelming; applause, cheers, salacious comments. I could not spot either Magdalene or Peter but I was positive that at least Magdalene was present; she would not miss this for the world. I had directed Matthew to take the pose of an ancient Spartan Olympic athlete – forceful, heads up, one hand pointing towards the sky. I felt damned proud and ventured a quick thought about changing career altogether: Was art always this rewarding for the ego?