The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Folks,” Livia tells an enthusiastic audience, “our next routine has some room for audience participation. We’re going to need three volunteers of the hot, abundantly female and open-minded persuasion. They will have the opportunity to win an Estee Lauder Spring Season deluxe makeup kit priced at over four hundred dollars —”

“And weighting more than most computers,” I interrupt. “Jesus, what do women put in there?!”

The stock Mars-and-Venus humor is scripted, of course; the girls do ooh-and-aah as we show glossy pictures of the expensive makeup set, though. It’s an excuse, really — something they can claim they wanted badly enough to do raunchy shit on our stage.

Now, I told you we’re pretty strapped for cash at this point. You might wonder why we’re giving away three (yeah, spoiler, every contestant will end up getting one, cause this isn’t a real contest as much as a comedic screw-job and we don’t want the unfairness of that to be, well, real) very expensive makeup kits. The answer is branding: Livia feels it’s absolutely critical to the success of the show that we splash luxury to our volunteers.

Women who pose for Debonair are respected; women who pose for Club International are assumed (often falsely, but still) to be desperate. The reason, in part, is that Debonair is a credible luxury brand. We want to be one, too — a tasteless, silly luxury brand, but still one women get prestige for their involvement with rather than contempt. That’s the theory behind us nearly maxing out the company BastardCard, at least.

“Fair warning, though, ladies — the routine is a bit raunchy! So it comes time to answer that age-old question — are the babes of Savannah as brave as those Northern pansies back in Delaware?”

We get a lot of enthusiastic raised hands. There’s a lovely ten-second camera pan over the audience, that takes the time to focus in on multiple red-faced coeds in tight shirts jumping up and down to try to get our attention. Girls — good-looking girls — really want to get on our stage, and I’m going to pick the ones that get to! That feels just amazing to me.

I pick Norma Jean (who’s still wildly enthusiastic even after our earlier hypno-hijinks) as well as Shanice (a giggly, buxom black lady with a buzzcut in a vivacious, bright green rah-rah skirt and matching hoop earrings) and River (a short, slender, flat-chested, gorgeously tanned brunette with straight long hair, luscious legs and a pleated schoolgirl skirt that’s scandalously short). I knew she’d be our third the second I laid eyes on her — she’s been subtly flipping and twirling that plaid skirt all night to attract male attention in an adeptly premeditated way.

Shanice is nervous, inexperienced, excitable and cute. She has sharp green eyes — so rare for a black girl. Norma Jean is thoughtful, feminine and submissive — clearly able to enjoy playful humiliation and disrespect as long as it’s wrapped in a gag as an excuse. River is sultry, adventurous, egotistical, sexually aggressive and a bit pompous. None of this is accidental — I’m looking for three specific personality types in a specific order, for the gag we’re setting up to have its maximum possible impact. Physically, I’m also looking a little lower than I usually do — I’m usually a breast man, but this routine is all about the legs and asses. Livia apparently approves of my choices.

“I must say, Marc, nice choices! Okay, ladies — hold up your left hands like you’re going to take a citizenship oath.”

Livia smacks Norma Jean playfully on the ass as she climbs on stage. She giggles and blushes, but doesn’t react in any way negatively — she seems to take it as just another element of the pervading feel of naughtiness in the club this evening and all but revels in it. That’s great — it’s a subtle test to make sure she’ll be okay with a bit that comes later.

“I’m a volunteer for the Sexy Scandal Spectacular. I’m game for a giggle. I will probably lose my dignity, and I may lose my modesty, but I’m going to have an amazing time and leave with one heck of a story to tell!”

I make eye contact with each of the three volunteers, and use a bit of subtle Eyefucking to get them even more excited. It’s barely even needed; we’ve done a good job of getting the whole club into a raunchy mood, and I chose three that seemed the most receptive. Livia gets them all standing in a straight line, as Mimi rolls out a large wheeled shelf-stand covered up by red satin curtains with gold trim.

I take a thick, old-style fountain pen out of my jeans-jacket. It’s very ornate and aristocratic-looking, and also an elaborate prop. I turn to Livia and address her conversationally, delivering the scripted intro patter.

“Now,” I say, “this is my pickup pen. Do you know why it’s called that?”

Livia gives me a sardonic look. “Because you’re a pickup artist and you’ve taken the whole theme-branding thing to an extent usually reserved for comic-book supervillains?”

“No chance! It’s ’cause hot girls look really sexy when they bend over to pick it up!”

“Why that specific pen?”

“Don’t stress the patter, baby.”

“So, what are we going to do with that pen?”

“Well, we have three absolutely gorgeous stunners up on stage with us. I figured we could have a little contest, to see which of them looks the hottest bending over to pick it up.”

Norma Jean looks appropriately offended at that — it is, by design, a bit insulting. Shanice seems a bit hyper and enthusiastic to be on stage, and River just arches an eyebrow at me and gives me a sultry, challenging stare. She gives off the vibe of a sexual carnivore — her favorite meat might be cock, but she kills before she eats. Her Aura isn’t weak, but it isn’t radiant either — I wonder if her sex appeal is more about status and competition with other women than actual sex. Of course, one doesn’t preclude the other.

“You know,” Livia says, “this contest does seem a bit cheap, tawdry and degrading.”

“Yup,” I agree. “Sure is fun, though!”

“Ooh,” Mimi says. “I love fun things!”

None of this dialogue is incidental. It’s a recurring theme in the Trips — that it’s good fun for girls to do things they’ve been told are tawdry, lewd or exploitative, as long as there’s a gag and a laugh track involved. You could go so far as to say drilling this into the college-age zeitgeist is Livia’s master plan — she wrote the dialogue with that intent.

In contrast to that reality, however, Livia’s persona is quick to put a more wholesome spin on my crass proposal. It’s not a believable spin, but that too is by design — we want to establish a frame of people accepting audacious buy-ins and using ridiculous excuses to paper over lewd activity; it’s part of the show’s appeal. “Now, girls, you need to know this routine isn’t just a bit of naughty fun. It’s got an important life lesson behind it that all of you can apply to investment, dating, home finance, career choices and countless other areas. We’re all about the edutainment here at the Sexy Scandal Spectacular — because, goodness knows, we’re not getting our redeeming social value anywhere else!”

The crowd laughs — Livia really cranked up her gonzo ringmaster charisma with the last line. When she continues, however, her tone is more serious. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce you to one of the most insidious and pervasive errors in human thinking: the idea that it has always been so, thus it will always be so. I want you to visualize a bowl of M&Ms sitting on your bedside table. Every morning, you take one out and eat it. You can assume that there will always be a candy to eat there, as there has always been a candy to eat there, ever since you put it there. But, of course, you know that isn’t true — with each candy you eat, there is one less in the bowl. Eventually, there will be none and you will need to refill the bowl or stop eating them. But that’s obvious — there are many other cases where this principle is equally in play, but far less apparent.”

I nod, and take over. “By definition, the first time any system fails, it has succeeded every time it was used before that first failure. It has a perfect record of success! How could it possibly fail?! It’s unthinkable! And yet, that is what every pattern break, every first failure is. Your car operates perfectly every morning until the first time it doesn’t. Life throws curveballs. The more you internalize this lesson, the better your life will be!”

Livia nods and grins. “Fortunately for all of you fine folks here tonight, our loyal Lord of Seduction, Marcelo Ambrose Knight, has prepared a special, interactive game to help everyone here tonight learn this important truth in a memorable way — a sexy, naughty game.”

I grin at Shanice. “Shanny-baby! You’re up first! Stand in the little green circle on stage, facing away from the audience, okay?”

She does so, giggling nervously. Mimi and I stand on opposite sides of her, facing the audience. Shanice’s busty, and has a thin white spaghetti-strap tank top on. It leaves her midriff bare — a taut, enticing expanse of dark teak skin. Her bra is thin and lacy, and I can barely make it out. She’s in strappy stiletto heels — bright green, matching her rah-rah skirt, eyes and earrings. I ask her to take off her shoes — I don’t want her to fall over with what we’re about to do. She smiles at me, enthusiastic but a bit nervous. “Sure! Are you a foot guy? I dated a foot guy once, so I don’t mind. I’d totally date you. Wait, did I say that out loud?”

Her toenails are painted a radiant green, to go with the rest of her outfit; her feet are, unsurprisingly, really nicely manicured overall. “Yes, baby, you did. But don’t worry about it. As for the feet... with a girl like you, there’s no way a guy could focus on just one part — it’s the whole package that sells your beauty.”

She grins the wide, nervous grin of a genuine amateur almost deliriously happy to have this much attention. That surprises me — she really is a pretty lady, but I guess there are a lot of pretty ladies in a nightclub. I didn’t know black girls could blush, but Shanice does, and looks gorgeous doing it. River, conversely, looks like she bit into a lemon — she must be one of those girls that doesn’t like other girls getting attention.

I position Shanice a bit with my hands, first on her shoulders but then sliding down to gently run a hand over her ass. That’s not actually me being purely lecherous, though — it’s a magician’s misdirection. If I’m being honest, I’m quite nervous right now — this routine requires both some adept handwork and getting a bit more touchy with strangers than I usually would. I chose the volunteers carefully, though, and I’m confident they’ll all have fun with it rather than feeling used or uncomfortable. I catch Shanice’s gaze and hold it as I set the pen on the floor at Shanice’s feet. “Okay, baby, what you need to do is really simple. As soon as Mimi starts the music, you bend over and pick up the pen — but do it real slow and sensual, right?”

“Yeah! For sure!”

I give her a thumbs up, and she grins. I step away from her, and Mimi starts the music. It’s the instrumental bow-chick-a-wow-wow type, not a recognizable vocal track — we want to set the cheesy-sexy mood, but not turn this into a music video.

Shanice isn’t really sensual — she’s giddy, daring and having fun. None the less, she does look over her shoulder and give the audience a sexy, playful little wave before bending over slowly to pick up the pen — and she looks fantastic doing it. She picks up the pen, lifting it slowly as I instructed her. As she lifts it, however, in perfect time her skirt also lifts — I hooked the pen into a tiny invisible thread on the stage when I set it down, and I used the ass-grab as an excuse to hook another thread to the back of her emerald rah-rah skirt. Turns out she’s wearing some lacy, moderately translucent green panties — and, like many black girls, she has a fantastic ass.

The audience laughs — it’s a pretty basic Benny Hill gag, but most people haven’t seen it done in real life. Shanice is funny, too — she’s totally oblivious to the skirt-lifting, but trying hard to be a crowd-pleaser. She re-positions her legs to spread them, and — fully leaned-over with a hand on the floor, she waves at the audience from between her own legs. She’s totally unaware, since the front of her skirt is still in place, that we can see all of her ass and — once her legs are spread — faint hints of beaver, too.

She’s in the process of standing back up when she starts to get suspicious at all the audience hooting, laughter and catcalls. Fortunately, we foresaw this. Mimi presses an RC switch. The pen suddenly glows and vibrates loudly — honestly, for lack of a better term, it roars. Shanice, already nervous, screams her lungs out — not a little yelp, but a full-throated howl. She jumps about wildly, and the invisible thread holding her skirt up snaps. It’s an almost caricaturally feminine reaction to a horror movie jump scare, but it’s also totally genuine — she was already riding an adrenaline wave, after all, before we decided to scare the shit out of her.

Shanice is screaming and dancing about like there’s Bolivian fire ants crawling up those lovely black legs, and her chest is flying every which way so violently one of the spaghetti-straps on her top snaps. You can understand, I’m sure, why I wanted her strappy stilettos off. She finally runs up to me and leaps into my arms aggressively, clutching me and wrapping her legs around my waist to hold them off the ground. Her emerald eyes are almost impossibly wide.

Shanice is two inches taller than me and weighs a fair bit more than my slight frame does, too. None the less, I work out, and it pays off here; my muscles strain and cord, but I manage to hold Shanice up smoothly and pass it off to the audience as effortless in body language. That makes me feel really proud, honestly, and my intuition suggests to me that Shanice is the type to be impressed with a bit of strong-man chivalry.

“Why hello there, little miss! Fancy seeing you here.”

The coed just clutches me for a few seconds. It’s oddly intimate, and I can feel her heart pounding against my chest. Finally, her adrenaline-soaked brain starts to come down from the surge. “Baby, it’s okay,” I tell her. “Just a little prank, nothing harmful. We might be naughty fellas, but we keep our audience safe!”

She grins maniacally. “You... you are a bastard, and I think I love you!”

I smile. “I get that exact response a lot.”

A second or two passes with her still clasped tight against me, and I pat her lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, baby. Time to let go.”

Her eyes flash playfully. “Don’t wanna,” she tells me. “If you can get your cheap thrills, I can get mine too.”

Seems fair, honestly. The audience laughs at that — the women more than the men. She wants something before letting go, so I kiss Shanice. It’s on the lips, but sensually rather than lewdly at first — the lewdness comes from her side, as she sticks her tongue in my mouth. Nice! I know she’s acting on adrenaline, but I still love that she’s got the ego to take the sexual lead with me on stage, even if the audience can’t see anything. Finally, she loosens up and we separate. The women in the audience all give her a great big cheer, and she grins like a maniac as she walks back to her place in the lineup.

Next up is Norma Jean. Her heels clack-clack-clack on the hardwood stage floor as she walks up, and her hips swivel sexily. When she reaches us, she takes off her heels just like Shanice did — giving the audience a sneak preview of her bending over. She looks right up at me, catches my gaze vanishing into the cavernous abyss of her cleavage and winks playfully. The audience laughs. As she unfastens her heels, her bust sways back and forth slightly in the tied-off plaid belly-shirt — but that’s not the real focus of my attention for long. Her white designer jeans are the tightest I’ve ever seen, being all but painted on and highlighting every curve of her long, slender legs and elegantly sensual hips.

I set the pen back on the ground, and she stares at it suspiciously. “So what happens when I touch the pen?” she asks archly.

“You have absolutely no idea,” I tell her bluntly. “It could very well be... shocking. That’s the philosophical point of the exercise — and what makes the game so exciting. Whatever happens, though, try to make it sexy and not lose your cool.”

“Do I get a kiss when I finish, too?”

“Perhaps. If you still want one.”

This is going kinkier than we planned — kissing Shanice was an improv, since she wanted some kind of thrill and I wanted to please her after scaring the hell out of her. Norma Jean turns to the audience and gives them a big grin and an over-head wave, getting a loud cheer in response. Mimi and I stand on each side of her, just like we did with Shanice.

The music this time is subtly different. It’s still an instrumental, hip-swinging “strippers, fuck yeah!” beat, but the bass is heavier and more sonorous in subtle ways, and there’s a slight mix of chimes and tubular bells that is dissonant. Given how we shocked and scared Shanice and then told Norma Jean explicitly she has no idea what to expect, there’s some actual tension now — the music does a great job conveying that in a manner that comes in just under most people’s conscious perception.

Norma Jean turns around, dancing slightly to the music, and leans over slowly to pick up the pen. She smiles and really milks it. The seam of the jeans is deep in her ass crack, perfectly showing the curvature of each cheek; white denim conforms to the inch-wide thigh gap between her slender thighs, letting me make out the intoxicatingly plump hill of her taint and vulva from behind. The weathered brown leather of the brand label at the top of the jeans morphs into some kind of patriarchal mark of ownership in my fevered sexual imagination.

She reaches out to touch the pen — but I can see she’s nervous. She pokes it gingerly a bit to see if it’s going to roar at her, then looks out at the audience, smiles and tenderly picks it up. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, nervous but proud, her long blonde hair dangling down from her bent-over posture to pool on the varnished oak floor below her. She’s clearly very focused on the idea that the pen is a trick prop, in some way, and seems to be trying to figure out the puzzle or outwit our game at the same time she milks her farmer’s daughter appeal for the audience.

That’s when I take one hand, spread the thumb and fingers and give Norma Jean a really solid goosing. It’s rough, but (I hope) not enough to be painful. My thumb slides into the deep denim crease of her ass-cheeks, and my fingers slip right between her legs to cup her vulva. She hollers, genuinely shocked, and stands ramrod-straight instantly. Her mouth is open, her eyes wide. Our cameras get her reaction shot in slow motion, and it’s pretty glorious. The pen goes flying, skittering across the wooden stage. A large portion of the audience gasps.

I’m not normally a “wandering hands” kind of guy. The football jocks at my high school all were, and I never wanted to be a meathead like them. Across all my sexual conquests, I’ve goosed exactly one woman before this — we had a very playfully combative dynamic that worked its way up to where I could do things like that, and it felt okay, and she enjoyed it.

So I’m honestly pretty nervous right now, inside — but of course, I don’t show a trace of that externally. I honestly wonder if Livia put this in the script to test my limits a bit. That can’t be the only reason, though — it does fit naturally into the gag. In spite of my discomfort with the act, I also can’t deny getting a kinky thrill out of it — a flow of blood zeroes in on my groin like a heat-seeking missile.

“Well,” I tell Norma Jean glibly, “you did lose your composure, but you looked really sexy losing it — so we can give you half marks.”

Everyone laughs uproariously. I scan the audience — a few people, mostly women, are pretty offended that I groped Norma Jean, but the vast majority are taking it in good humor.

Norma Jean’s pissed off, obviously, since women tend to get pissed when you goose them — especially if it’s on stage, in public. Her cheeks flush a brilliant crimson, and she clenches her fists. She’s angry and humiliated — but she’s also wildly aroused, and a bit ashamed of that; I can see her struggling to conceal it. Fuck, after a second or two, I can smell her arousal — I definitely picked the right girl for this little stunt! Emotionally paralyzed, she falls back on the default societal script in this situation and bitch-slaps me across the face, hard enough to leave a red handprint. It stings like a motherfucker, but I just take it and grin back at her.

“I’m wondering if I still want to kiss you or knee you in the groin,” she finally snaps. It seems performative, though — the only reason she’s angry is because a girl is expected to be angry after you goose her.

“I get that a lot, too. Word of advice: you get more fun out of the kissing than out of the kneeing, in the long run. It’s up to you, though.”

She picks option three, and just turns away primly. “On a scale of one to ten, I’m gonna have to give your conduct a... zero.”

The audience laughs; I do too. Fair cop — that’s clever. She walks back to her place in line, albeit with a bit more sensuous hip-swiveling than one might expect from a genuinely panicked or aggrieved lady.

Our final contestant is River, the queen of the club (in her own mind, at least). She’s wearing a tight black shirt with an irregular pattern of multi-colored dots — it reminds me of the title sequence to Dr. No — though obviously it’s her short, pleated plaid skirt that really captures the eyes. She clearly has no bra on — the avant-garde shirt is thin, and I can see her nipples though it. She probably can’t wear one; she doesn’t even have an A-cup, not that the absence reduces my enthusiasm — I can visualize her squirming as I tease her nipples with my tongue.

Her thighs are lovely — thicker than twiggy Norma Jean’s, but perfectly fit, gorgeously tanned and intoxicatingly bare. She’s living, walking proof that short girls can have fantastic, sexy legs. Her lips are covered with glossy red lipstick, and she has a black satin bow-tie holding her hair in a loose ponytail. Her hazel eyes are dominant, immediately demanding the respect and deference of those around her. I meet her gaze and don’t look away, challenging her.

River licks her glossy red lips in a very overtly sexual way, and steps right into my personal space, golden eyes staring at me. She’s aggressive but intimidated — maybe not at being groped, but in wondering how things might escalate from there or what we might pull next — but she’s also an adventurer at heart, and not the kind of girl who backs down. I really nailed the selection for this bit!

Her tone is sultry and conversational, even if the words are accusatory. “So, are you going to molest me too, shorty?”

“No comment,” I tell her playfully.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I like unexpected things.”

She’s trying to win — both me and the makeup set, I guess, or just the contest in general. She’s incredibly competitive, and proud of herself.

The music is even more perfect this time — still a sexy beat a girl can strip to, and it fits in with the other two pieces, but some of the notes are just off, dissonant and jarring, giving the whole number a tense feeling of wrongness. It’s like we asked Goblin to write an instrumental stripper anthem.

(We didn’t, but we did look at the soundtracks of both Halloween and Suspiria and ask how much of that we could capture while still having something that sounds at least superficially like the kind of synth beat girls’ clothes fall off to on Cinemax. Mimi got the not-Goblin custom track from a MIDI composers’ BBS, as a freebie from an amateur fan. It probably helps that her profile pic is her as the bitchy security guard, and she gives out the wet tee shots from later in that show to anyone who flirts nicely and literately with her online without being creepy.)

River takes a second to glare at Norma before waving to the audience, flanked by Mimi and I. She twirls around, flaring her skirt — and flashing a pair of brilliantly red tanga-style panties. She might be flat up top, but she’s got a fantastic little bubble butt with perfectly smooth tan skin and great curves. I can make out the tan lines of a rather scandalous thong bikini bottom under her satin tanga panties. As she leans down to pick up the pen, she puts her hands on her knees. The short skirt rides up even farther, getting a huge cheer from the audience — though they obviously can’t make out the details I can, standing two feet away. Viewed through her legs from behind, her vulva looks like a closed tulip bulb, radiantly highlighted by that red satin fabric against her brown-toasted skin. I’m suddenly, absurdly happy we’re getting this all on high-quality 35mm film.

River copies Shanice — flirting with the audience from between her own legs spread in a V. She pulls off her bow-tie hairclip and lets her long, glossy black hair fall free, shaking it out like a glamour model. She strokes the pen with it, running it over the floor and flinching only ever so slightly as static electricity crackles. She reaches out with long, blood-red press-ons and gingerly picks up the pen...

And then Mimi pies her ass.

Seriously, our bubbly blonde bimbo reaches inside the curtained rack we rolled out and pulls out a great big chocolate pie piled high with whipped cream, and in one smooth gesture pulls River’s skirt all the way up and slams it into her perfect little ass, mashing it around and between her legs before letting go. As soon as she does this, the sinister music cuts out with a record scratch, there’s a whomp-whomp sad trombone sound effect and jaunty, whimsical comedy music takes its place.

Mimi waited until River was looking out at the audience to do this. When her ass gets plastered, she flinches and freezes briefly, but doesn’t show a lot of initial reaction — she was clearly ready to be groped and is trying to play it all cool and aloof. The audience, conversely, is puzzled for a second... and then bursts into laughter — really crazy, over-the-top laughter powered by the mood whiplash we intentionally created.

River’s face freezes as she tries to figure out what the fuck just happened, and what she’s feeling as cold whipped cream and chocolate mousse slide down her enticing inner thighs and run along the firm curves of her shapely legs. And, may I say, those legs that have looked so enticing to everyone present all night, look even better adorned with long streaks of cream and chocolate. The spectacle is absurd, but still bizarrely very erotic — especially when paired with the baffled look on River’s face that only gradually changes to mortified embarrassment. She looks at me, and slowly realizes I never touched her — and then she glances at Mimi, who giggles guiltily and gives her a playful little finger-wave. River’s cheeks turn crimson.

Clumps of filling, cream and pie crust land on the floor at her feet with audible plops. Panicked, she grabs her own ass with a hand and gets a handful of pie-goo. She stands up straight, raises it slowly to her head and smells it, trying to figure out what it is. She’s thankful, I guess, that she didn’t somehow shit herself when she identifies the goop as chocolate pie filling. “What the hell! You... you... you pied my ass.”

“Yup,” I agree.

This honestly, really puzzles her — and her bafflement drives the crowd wild. I guess she never saw Kentucky Fried Movie. “You. Pied. My. Ass.”

“We’ve covered that part, possum,” Livia tells her airily. “Try to move on from it.”

She’s not, though. She’s starting to get predictably angry — she is a bit pompous, after all, and doesn’t like being deflated. “I thought this contest would be sexy, but now I just feel silly!”

Livia nods sagely as the queen of the club squirms about, trying to clean chocolate mousse out of her ass crack. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Norma Jean watching her with unusual interest — and squirming sympathetically a bit herself. “Sex is as inherently ridiculous as it is pleasurable. To truly savor the latter, you must accept and embrace the former.”

“Very profound,” River tells her dryly, blushing furiously. “You’re trying to tell me you’re teaching me some important life lesson by shoving a cream pie up my skirt?!”

She is, though. It’s very much a real life philosophy to Livia, and when it actually settles into my mind, more than a bit revelatory to me as well.

“Yup!” I confirm with jovial good humor, and she can’t help but smile at my sheer persistence.

River shakes her head. Norma and Shanice giggle at her expense, and she glares at the duo. “I need to say, this is messing with my sense of normalcy just a wee little bit. I repeat: you pied my ass!”

I give Mimi a meaningful look, then reply to River. “Now, tell me: if we had pied you in the face, would that be more the kind of thing you would expect and could process?”

She pauses to think. “Honestly, yeah, kind of. It... I mean, I wouldn’t be happy, but it’s at least a thing I can understand happening, and expect people to laugh at —”

I’m exerting all my sexual magnetism to keep her gaze locked with my own, so River really doesn’t see it coming when Mimi grabs her hair from behind and shoves a big, goopy pistachio pie right into her face. Pastel green goop runs down her dotty shirt in long streaks. When Mimi lets the pie pan fall away, River waves her arms about for a second before cleaning the crust off her face.

“I really should have seen that coming,” she says dryly.

I smirk. “Can’t argue with that.”

River sputters. “Oh, quit being a smug douche canoe. I have chocolate mousse flowing into places I don’t even want to mention.”

Livia grins. “Oh, don’t be bashful! I’m sure our audience would really enjoy you describing them in detail.”

“No.”

“Really?” I ask. “We can’t possibly entice you to get a bit more descriptive? You don’t seem like a prudish girl...”

“Let’s just say I have jewelry you can’t see right now, and I’m really hoping it’s rust-proof!”

“I’ve heard the best way to clean such things is with saliva. If you need a hand with that —”

“In your dreams, loverboy! This contest is so unfair!”

“Yes,” Livia says. “That’s the point. Complacency will fuck you up, and if you don’t know the rules the only winning move is not to play the game. Things wear down. The center cannot hold. There’s never a first failure until there is. Don’t be complacent — have a backup plan for when things go oblong, or life will eat you alive!”

The cutie with the chocolate-covered tushy glares. “What the hell kind of backup plan am I supposed to have for being pied in the ass?!”

Livia waves her hand dismissively. “Stop torturing the metaphor, possum. Just be glad your first big pattern break comes with free chocolate mousse instead of a hospital visit.”

For emphasis, Livia sticks out a finger and provocatively scoops some pie filling off River’s inner thigh — then licks it off sensually. “It’s a good pie, too — all rich and creamy, just like its bearer!”

River steps back defensively, weirded out by the sapphic innuendo. “No, seriously — what do I do now? I didn’t exactly know to bring spare panties!”

Livia rolls her eyes dismissively. “Fine, fine, here.”

And then we get the big ‘phwoar!’ moment — for me as much as the crowd! Livia, you’ll recall, is in a very tight, very sexy denim minidress. Well, she just casually hikes the hem of that sucker up and pulls down her own Grade Three black sheer panties, stepping out of them adeptly before smoothing the minidress back in place — but not before everyone gets a brief but heart-stopping flash of her curly black bush. I will admit to gasping and staring along with everyone else present — this is totally improv, and blindsides me as much as the audience. I want Livia so very much right now, and silently swear to myself I’ll pick up the pace on my schemes to entrap and conquer her.

Livia carries it off spectacularly, with an airily casual everyday manner even in this ludicrous action. She hands her panties to an understandably shocked River, who takes them almost autonomously — staring at Livia in shock.

Livia laughs. “Oh, we’re just screwing with you. We have clean underwear backstage.”

“Yeah,” River says, at a loss for words. She turns to me. Her attempt at sensuous lip-licking is somewhat derailed by a logical but still unanticipated pistachio flavor-bombing. “I still say I got a raw deal compared to Norma and Shanice.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Would you really rather be in Norma’s place?”

“Yes!”

“Well, okay then.”

So I reach around and give her a nice solid goose, meeting Livia’s gaze as I do so. Livia grins — it was too perfect a setup to let pass. It isn’t what River wanted or what she expected, but it is (technically) what she asked for. Things are kinda slippery down there, and digits almost slide into places they really aren’t meant to go — but I manage to avoid making the act a lot more obscene than intended. River yelps loudly and jumps, but strangely doesn’t protest. Shanice screams in gleeful sympathy with her. I guess it’s the kind of abuse and humiliation River had expected and steeled herself for, as opposed to the kind she never could have seen coming and still really doesn’t entirely understand.

Then she looks at me and leans in closely — I guess, hoping for what Shanice got, too. It seems like odd timing. Maybe she just wants to reaffirm her heterosexuality, or show the audience her sexual competitiveness. I’m not passing up the opportunity while it’s open, though, so I kiss her. She’s a sensual, nasty kisser — I can tell there’s no way in hell I’m going to hook up with her after humiliating her on stage, and she manages to make me regret that. Maybe that’s the point, honestly. I wave a chocolate and cream-coated hand in the air victoriously as we kiss, though, and the boys in the audience hoot and holler for me in lads’ camaraderie. I kinda feel like I just scored, even though I know in reality I won’t.

When River finally pulls away from me, there’s big green streaks on my denim top. “Sorry about your jacket,” she says in a not at all penitent tone as she walks back to join the other two girls. Norma Jean and Shanice giggle at her predicament as she rejoins them, and she murders them with vicious glares.

“So,” Shanice asks giddily, “who won?”

“Well,” Livia tells the three assembled girls, “I haven’t actually told you a lot about how we’re judging this contest, have I? That probably has something to do with the whole ‘knowing the rules before you play the game’ parable we’ve got going on. So, in the spirit of capricious mischief that has characterized our whole little game to date, I do hereby declare that whichever lady looks the cleanest and most presentable exactly five minutes from now is clearly the one who deserves the expensive makeup.”

With that, she raises her hand above her head and snaps her fingers. All the little electronic clips holding the red satin curtains over the rolling shelf fall away, revealing... well, I’d like to say row upon row of cream pies, but our budget turned out to only include thirty-three of them — so that’s what’s there, minus two. Our three contestants stare at the shelf. The audience catches on before they do, laughing and cheering to goad them on.

All three contestants are a bit emotionally off-balance right now. We scared the already hyper Shanice and gave her a huge adrenaline rush, then humiliated and aroused the submissive Norma Jean, and finally punctured the ego of the proud princess River. They’re all a bit off-kilter, slappy and impulsive, with lowered boundaries that make them more willing to go along with this wackiness on the spur of the moment — and go all-in with it rather than hesitating and being awkward and cautious. I even ordered them to match the gags — the giddy one gets scared, the subby one gets groped and the proud, serious one gets the ass-pie. And by the time all that is done, they’re in the right headspace to have a genuine, uninhibited, slapstick-style pie fight in real life.

Norma Jean’s quick-witted. She grabs two pies before the other girls realize what’s going on. River’s just in the process of arming herself when Norma sandwiches her head between the two big gooey pies. She drops the pies she was holding and waves her hands about wildly, completely blinded. As soon as the first pies hit, Mimi cues up the assigned music — a Benny Hill inspired, fast-paced slapstick score that tells the ladies this is all just silly playful fun.

Norma has a wicked sense of humor, though, so she hands pies to Shanice and grabs more herself, then waits patiently for River to flail about a bit and finally wipe most of the goop off her face before she gets plastered (and blinded) again with another four pies in synchronicity. Well... the contest doesn’t have a decisive winner yet, but at this point I’d say it has a decisive loser. Norma Jean and Shanice smear pie goop all over the helpless River with their hands — it’s honestly more than a bit Sapphic, though I don’t think any of the participants realize that on a conscious level. Mimi and Livia sure do, though.

River never actually gets her hands on an intact pie. She flails about and screams — though her panicked yelps are nothing compared to hyper Shanice’s ear-piercing screams of giddy delight. River and Norma eventually end up ineptly grappling and fall to the ground together, rolling around in pie mess. Them being fixed in place gives Shanice the opportunity to just basically drop pies on them from above, and she does so.

River bitch-slaps Norma Jean at one point, really hard, and then struggles away from her. Everything just stops for a second, with Norma on top of the tinier River, pinning her. The audience is a bit shocked. Then Shanice grabs a pie and shoves it right into Norma Jean’s delicious denim-coated ass, just like Mimi did to River, and everyone (including Norma) starts laughing again. Norma Jean squirms in a way that I find... evocative, let’s say, when the cold pie filling strikes her ass.

At this point, I should mention Dina. She’s the prototypical Southern cougar waitress — hot, sassy, flirty and always ready with a sardonic comment. She takes her fashion sense from The Dukes of Hazzard and Barbara Bach — cowboy boots, tight cutoff jeans and a very skimpy plaid shirt tied tightly around rigid silicone double-D’s. She’s probably in her early fifties, and looks fantastic — despite the laugh-lines on her face and the weathering of her skin, her belly of iron suggests she’s an utter nut for aerobics.

I never actually get to talk to her — I know her name only from her nametag — but I saw her around when we pitched the show to the Management at Hostess Central, and some of the things she said to the customers made me laugh out loud. There’s a fifteen-year certificate of employment for her on the wall — she’s like an institution here.

Well, I peg her as a sports fan — an aggressive one — because right when River bitch-slaps Norma Jean, Dina picks a side. She runs right up to the railing around the stage and starts aggressively heckling River — calling her a tart and a skank with bad aim and worse body odor.

River gets back up and finally grabs a pie in one hand and a handful of Norma Jean’s long, blonde hair in the other. She slams the pie right into the submissive blonde’s face, and sticky strawberry filling streams down her tight shirt. Dina boos loudly, and some other members of the crowd join her. River’s being competitive, but Norma just laughs, seeming happy with this — River’s the only one really concerned about winning. Norma Jean and Shanice pick up pies and sort of... tease each other with them, holding them near each other’s faces and waving them about. River sneaks up behind Shanice, however, and shoves her own pie into her face from behind — then smears it down all over her clothing.

Now, I mentioned that Shanice already tore one of the straps on her spaghetti-strap white tanktop, right? Well, a second later there’s a big, pendulous black tit with an erect nipple dangling out, visible to the whole audience. Even rewatching the footage we have, I can’t tell if it was an honest accident or a really pervy, vindictive move on River’s part. Either way, though, it’s a really hot moment. Norma bursts out laughing as soon as she sees it, and when Shanice realizes she’s exposed she clutches her chest but laughs even harder herself — hysterically amused at her own involuntary flashing.

This is a wonderful excuse for Mimi to turn up the heat. We’ve been manipulating our volunteers with music all night, and here we’re really going for broke. The hue of the stage lighting has slowly been changing from clean, sharp white to a hot magenta shade that gives the whole affair a boudoir look. The Yakety Sax imitation we use slows its tempo gradually over the playtime — too gradually to notice. Mimi slowly fades it out as it gets slower, at the same time gradually fading in a different track — a steamy sax and horns blend you’d more expect to hear in risqué late-night Cinemax programming. Mimi actually has specific dials in the sound controls to fade one track out and the other in to match the progression of events on stage.

Our volunteers are, of course, very distracted by having a pie fight, so they don’t notice the blending music — well, not consciously, at least. It definitely impacts their mood, expectations and sense of the appropriate — just as it was designed to do.

River turns away from Shanice and grabs two more pies. She’s trying to decide what to do and runs at me. I just throw my arms wide, remembering what I told Livia when she first asked me about WAM. River slams one pie into my face, and rubs another all over my torso. Ah, I took an apple pie to the face, I guess, with a spicy cinnamon tang. Tastes good.

Norma Jean sidles up to me and starts rubbing the pie all over me. I let her, wiping my face off then wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. She’s almost cuddling with me. It’s sexy, in a weird sticky way. Our relative heights make it look faintly comical and emasculate me a bit, but also position my head perfectly to look right down into Norma’s spectacular cleavage. That’s a tradeoff I’m more than willing to accept! I can feel the warmth of her bust pressed against my shoulders. She’s being oddly sensual about it — the lights and music are clearly working.

These three girls aren’t WAM fetishists, but they’re still enjoying the rare opportunity to have a real-life pie fight. It’s one of those dual-appeal fetishes many people will enjoy even if they don’t find it erotic — it’s liberating in a gleefully childish sense. It’s too wasteful and complex to set up for everyday catharsis, but we’re going to turn a nice profit on our footage of these sexy girls being tricked into an odd fetish-appeal situation. That they’re all having great fun as well — even competitive River — is just a happy bonus.

Norma’s just pulling away from me, laughing and flirting, when Shanice slips behind her with a heaping butter cream pie — and shoves it right down her cleavage. Norma Jean screams from the cold shock, throwing back her head and laughing at the sheer absurdist delight of it — but Shanice gets a bit too sensual, caught up in the moment; she really squeezes and gropes Norma’s lovely breasts. Norma Jean involuntarily sighs in a very suggestive way, and Shanice blushes. I’m pretty sure Shanice is bi at this point.

Norma Jean may be getting a little more out of it as well. The way she stared at River when she was trying to get chocolate out of her ass-crack, the way she squirmed in sensual bliss when Shanice pied her ass, the way she kind of slithered about on top of the pie-plastered River, or sighs as Shanice rubs pie on her breasts — they all say to me that she might be enjoying the feel of slippery food all over her body in a not entirely platonic way. So maybe she’ll have a new kink in the future — I’m not sure.

And then the most amazing thing happens. The two pie-plastered pretties stare into each others’ eyes, and Shanice leans forward and kisses Norma Jean on the lips. The blonde doesn’t pull back, either, but leans into it — letting the bordello lighting and sexy sax backbeat possess her, enjoying a moment of transgressive, allegedly unprompted fun as she discovers for the first time what another girl’s lips taste like. Probably banana cream, in this particular case.

I still have my arm around Norma’s waist, and I imagine I can feel her pulse quicken, the feminine heat surge through her lanky young body. Both their faces look so achingly beautiful in that moment as they stare into each other’s eyes — elegant features lit by magenta lamps, streaked and smeared materially with colorful pie filling and radiantly white whipped cream, and more abstractly with raw lust and novel sensual delight.

If we just told Shanice and Norma Jean to kiss with words, they probably would have refused — or gone through with it in an awkward and nervous transactional pantomime. But we ‘told’ them to using lighting and music instead, and that just slid right past their normal defenses and carried them away into a wanton wonderland. Girls — especially club girls — pay acute attention to all kinds of subtle social cues telling them how to act. Consciously fucking with those social cues without them realizing it is one of the most insidious (and fun) forms of mental influence imaginable.

Even with our subtle catalysts, however, the carefree sexual self-discoveries can’t go on forever. Norma eventually gets nervous and impishly smears the side of Shanice’s face with still more pie filling, causing the lip-lock to break apart and both girls to be wracked with fits of giggles as they engage in a playful, messy slap-fight. I hold them close greedily using both arms, enjoying the feel of their body heat against my own.

By the time they finish, Norma’s plaid shirt is hanging wide open, showing her sturdy push-up bra — and both girls suddenly realize, consciously but too late, that this has left the realm of wacky fun and gone somewhere with unexpected fetishistic and sapphic connotations. Their brief but consuming surge of sapphic lust will never be acknowledged in the show’s dialogue at all.

Our weird little bubble of suspended social norms has burst, awkwardness intrudes and suddenly there’s more guarded space around the girls and they’re a lot less touchy with each other. Mimi knows better than to push our luck too far — the sax and horn track was already gradually getting softer, even as a more generic hard rock beat rises to replace it; the pornotronic magenta lighting is likewise gradually shifting back to standard white. Ah, well — it was glorious while it lasted!

Everything gets pretty chaotic from there. The contestants are now throwing pies at each other without touching, sometimes from a distance away, which means they hit a lot less. The three girls start running around chasing each other and trying to dodge. Most of the rest of the pies end up on the walls and floor. Somehow Mimi gets a splatter of cream filling in her fluffy blonde hair while remaining otherwise clean.

Shanice, incredibly over-excited, throws several that go really wild. One flies out into the audience, landing dead center in the middle of some shocked customers’ table. Another nails a stuffed elk head above the main staff doors. The third, however, is the most memorable: Shanice manages to accidentally nail Dina dead-center in the face with a banana cream pie on a wild, long-distance throw. Ironically, the waitress is in the middle of cheering Shanice on when she takes it right in the kisser. River smirks at the friendly fire — she really can be gloriously bitchy in a charismatic way that almost makes it endearing.

The shocked waitress staggers back, hands in the air. The pie crust slides slowly off her face and lands in her cleavage with a plop. Banana cream flows around the great valleys of her big fake breasts and drips downward into her cleavage like a clogged garbage disposal. She wipes the goo off her face as best she can, and then tries to get it off her chest while partially blind... and manages to pull down her skimpy top in the process. And there we are: two big, hard, silicone titties, implants stretching the skin tight, right out in plain sight — and we didn’t even plan it! The crowd stares, agape.

Dina finally glances down at her exposed chest and speartip nipples, then around to the staring crowd, then back to her tits. “What’cha all starin’ at like dumbstruck deer? They’re just titties! Okay, they’re damn fine titties, but still...”

I’m gonna wager this isn’t the first time the patrons of Hostess Central have met Dina’s tits on the open air of the dance floor — but, based on audience reactions, it’s also not a common enough occurrence to not still be intensely captivating. In seconds, she’s surrounded by handsome, muscular and chivalrous men literally half her age, all eager to help her tidy up. Dina doesn’t look like she needs their aid — she comes off as a stone-cold badass, honestly — but she does accept it with a slight, sly smile. I wonder which one — or ones — she’ll be accepting other things from, later tonight. Right on!

Shanice is mortified, enough to let her now pie-smeared left tit dangle out for another second before remembering to cover herself. “Ohmigod, Ma’am, I am so sorry!”

“Ah, love, don’t worry ’bout it,” the waitress cackles. “This here’s a night tah remember! It’s all in fun! I love this show — we oughtta to have ’em back more often!”

Sorry, Dina — one night only.

River runs up and hits Shanice in the back of the head with the last pie. Shanice just blinks in shock as syrupy pecan filling runs down her back, then giggles euphorically. River probably meant to humiliate Shanice more, but just ends up making herself look comedically petty.

Livia blows a whistle and raises her arms. “Time! Time! Oh, calm down, ladies! No need to get so competitive! We are, predictably, just fucking with you. That was the whole point of the game, after all. We even told you that. So don’t worry — you’ve all been great sports, and had some fun, and we have a nice makeup set for each of you. The show will also reimburse you for any damaged clothing. I’d say you’re all winners, but really, let’s be honest here. I think we can all agree it’s the guys in the audience who were the real winners tonight, right? Am I right, guys? Am I right?”

She sure is, and manages to generate a huge, lusty cheer by pointing it out. River does not seem pleased by this interpretation, but Norma Jean actually grins and laughs, waving her hands back and forth in the air like she’s at a bitchin’ rock concert, clearly delighted. The lanky blonde looks breath-taking, swaying her slender, pie-smeared body back and forth, swinging her long messy hair in the air wildly, grinning like an absolute maniac.

Shanice, for her part, is jumping up and down with equal fervor, frequently forgetting to cover her one stray sweater puppy, and failing to give many fucks when she does notice. River, conversely, is pouting. Admittedly, she does have a cute pout.

The applause eventually dies down. Towels get handed out so the girls and I can get cleaned up, and Shanice gets a Trips bathrobe to cover her modesty. River realizes she got really carried away, and quietly apologizes to Norma Jean and Shanice. That part’s important — I saw it happen, but it’s not on our tapes because it’s all whispered and subtle. Just for the record: we provoked her; we provoked all three of them, in the hopes of getting a real-life sexy catfight, and boy did they deliver!

Surely you remember the straw basket routine we did with Macy, Karen and Charlene, getting them to strip on stage? We could easily try that here with these girls, but we don’t. Truth is, we have baskets exactly like those with us. Livia glances at me, wondering if we should — but I shake my head sharply. Part of being a pickup artist is knowing when to test a limit — and when not to. The Noodle girls were clubgoers and at least mild hedonists; these three are much more everyday college ladies. If we push them to strip off, it will just get uncomfortable really quickly — part of how we get so many hot girls in the Trips is being able to read the room and know what won’t fly.

Everything up to this point has been ‘wacky hijinks’. Well, sort of. River got to be the center of attention, Shanice got her thrill and some childlike glee and Norma Jean got off on being humiliated in public. Everyone had fun, but that doesn’t mean they’re ready to strip down for us. Norma just won’t, River’s angry and not dumb and I think even Shanice needs a bit of time to figure out her own limits and orientation. Let’s leave this while it’s still in the “good if hardly clean fun” category and not make it uncomfortable.

Honestly, with Shanice’s sheer panties and broken spaghetti-strap, Dina’s spontaneous involvement and River’s nipples and skirt, we got way more skin on film then we probably should have from these three. In a way, it’s naughtier if they don’t strip off, because it makes the brief flashes of accidental nudity all the more risqué. Besides, if we play our cards right, our next routine is going to involve a lot more spontaneous amateur nudity than this one was set up to — and I don’t want to kill the initial momentum of the next set of volunteers by making the first set actually say no to us.

The crowd is giddy — both lusty and a bit slap-happy from the unexpected, surreal intrusion of slapstick tropes into their everyday reality. I hustle the three volunteers off stage, and get a stagehand to take down lists of their damaged clothing — and give Shanice my number. I watch Norma Jean wring pie filling out of her long blonde hair sensually, and scrape it off her clothes as well. She’s feeling herself up, really enjoying the odd sensation of the goo on her body. I want to talk to her, but she knows people at the club and they’re all around her. I decide I’ll give her some contact info later, after the rest of the third Decan — but I never get to. She leaves early. Such a shame!

I also take one last glance at River. Bitchy, but so very hot with that intense angry expression, pie smeared all over her glossy hair and her thin shirt plastered to her chest by pie filling, her prominently hard nipples standing out. I don’t see a point in trying with her, though — she’ll just cut me down. She had the least sexual fun of our three contestants, but I don’t feel too bad for her — Hostess Central regulars will be gossiping about what she got up to on stage at our show for months to come, and I suspect that’s exactly what she wants. Her anger is ultimately performative.

It’s a paradox — I’m a self-described breast man, and she’s got nothing at all up top. In spite of that, though, I’d really like a closer look at her nothing at all without a shirt between my eyes and her nipples. Ah, well — that’s what the imagination is for, right? It just goes to show: no matter what a guy (or, I would speculate, a girl) thinks they’re into, there’s more than one way to crank their libido.

Meanwhile, Livia’s on stage keeping up the relentless momentum. We’re not giving the audience any time to come down from the surreal high of a pie fight in real life. We’re not even cleaning the stage. “You know, the guys sure got an eyeful with that routine! Well, that’s great, but we want to give the ladies something nice to look at as well. Our next bit is going to get to the real meat of the evening... and ladies, at the Sexy Scandal Spectacular, our meat of choice is beefcake!

“So, we’re going to need a handsome male volunteer — but, don’t worry, I think you’ll agree at this point that our show always has some ‘guy appeal’ going for it, if you know what I mean! Aw, yeah, for sure, you know it! And we’re going to get a bit naughty, so this should be an unattached dude. Sorry, all you boys in the dating game — your dates wouldn’t forgive us if we let you play our reindeer games!”

It’s Livia vamping and promising to bring the sexy, looking unbelievable in a denim minidress shortly after flashing her pootie, so instantly hundreds of guys raise their hands. Livia picks one — and yeah, he really is handsome, in a more traditional way than I am: six one, broad shoulders, big muscles, lantern jaw. Your basic fireman-calendar beefcake template. He’s wearing tight jeans, a tight shirt, a Stetson hat and steel-toed boots.

Livia hugs him close as soon as he’s on stage, and he doesn’t resist. This is a seduction of sorts, after all. I’m just walking back on stage myself at this point, having traded out the pie-stained denim jacket for a garden-variety black leather one.

“Hey, studmuffin, what’s your name?”

“Bradley, Ma’am.”

“Ooh, ‘Ma’am’, that’s so respectful it kinda makes me shiver. Someone raised you right, I can tell that!”

The crowd laughs. Bradley smiles awkwardly and blushes.

“So, we’ve had some eye candy for the guys already thanks to our lovely therapy patient Lorraine and our three Bend-Over Beauties in the pickup pen contest — I figure us girls ought to get something as well! Brad, sweetie, I know we’ve only just met, but I feel we kind of have a rapport going on here. I want to ask you a big favor. For the sake of all the lovely ladies in our audience, would you be willing to take your shirt off?”

Fun fact: we credited Shanice, River and Norma Jean on the N-VHS tapes as the “Bend-Over Beauties” based on Livia’s dialogue here. I feel a bit bad about that — but only a bit. They did agree to the contest, after all, knowing exactly what it was about.

Bradley shrugs. “Sure,” he says, and pulls it off.

The women in the audience cheer wildly. “Wow, that’s amazing. You’re without a doubt the most handsome man in this club, and very probably in this entire city.”

“Gosh,” he says. “Thanks. Ma’am.”

Livia shivers a bit when he says ‘Ma’am’ — good follow-up on her earlier patter, or maybe she’s just really into his down-home folksiness. I suspect the former, though — Livia goes more for the bad boys. I don’t totally buy Bradley’s ingenue act — sure, we put him on the spot and he’s a bit flustered. But he also knows he’s hot stuff, and while he probably isn’t naïve enough to think he’s going to end up in Livia’s bed as a result of this he probably does expect to leave with a hot date as a result of his on-stage indignities.

“Would you be willing to go a bit further for the sake of our entertainment? The jeans, perhaps?”

He considers, and his words in response show a shrewdness. “Hospitality has it’s limits, Ma’am — but you’re cute, so I can part with my jeans. That’s as much as you’re going to get to see, though.”

So he strips off the jeans to stand there in his boxers, much to the crowd and Livia’s enthusiasm. I quietly sidle up beside him, for my scripted bit when Livia drops the big lure.

“Well,” Livia tells the audience, “I don’t know about you, but I sure am entertained!”

The women in the crowd agree loudly enough to shake the rafters. Liv turns back to Bradley. “Brad, baby, I know that I’ve crossed a bunch of lines tonight already, but I’m hoping it will be okay if I ask you one more big favor — and no, it doesn’t involve any full frontal, though it is quite strikingly forward.”

Bradley actually considers his options carefully. “What the hell,” he finally says. “I make no guarantees, but you can at least ask.”

“Would you be okay with me auctioning you off like a slab of beef to some random hot babes?”

The whole crowd, men and women, laugh uproariously at the sheer audacity of Livia’s blunt request. I elbow Brad in the ribs in a guyish way and deliver my carefully-prepared line. “Bro, go for it! The girls will be cute; I promise you won’t regret it!”

The crowd doesn’t hear me whisper to him over the cheers. As soon as the noise dies down, however, Livia clarifies her request. “Just for dates, mind you — anything else would be up to you and the lady in question.”

Bradley pauses to think. His eyes, however, are inevitably drawn toward Livia’s enticing cleavage. “Well, if you want to auction me off on stage, I ought to get something in exchange. But I’m in a good mood, so I’ll give you a bargain price. How about a kiss?”

Points to Brad — he’s smooth as well as handsome, and I can admire him as a player here. Livia doesn’t negotiate — instead, wordlessly, she fakes him out. She leans in to kiss him on the cheek, her lips almost touching his flesh — then, at the last minute, she swerves and kisses him full on the lips. It’s not a chaste kiss in any way — Livia’s aggressive, and soon their lips are locked in a French kiss, tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Brad’s hands even slide downward to give Livia’s ass a firm squeeze as they kiss.

Okay, Brad’s not the Good Ole Boy he first appears — but he’s not being any more aggressive to Livia than she was to him, so good on him!

The makeout finally breaks apart, leaving Livia with visibly smeared lipstick. “Okay, ladies, just so you know what you’re going to be fighting for tonight... you can add ‘excellent kisser’ to the bucket list of our featured hunk’s desirable qualities!”

Well, that’s that. Our devious trap is officially baited, and as I glance around at the women in the audience I can see it’s some very tempting bait indeed. Women are, very literally, licking their lips. The raunchy kiss with a stranger, and Brad grabbing Livia’s ass, did put some more conservative Southern girls off — but that’s fine. They’re not really what we want as volunteers anyway.

The crowd laughs, and Livia’s narration continues. “Now you might be thinkin’ we’re doing something like The Dating Game, but that’s not it at all! We know how Southern girls swing — Marcelo tells me they breed ’em strong down here, and he grew up in these parts so I believe him! So we’re gonna have a little athletic contest here tonight, and the prize is a year-long door pass and bar tab at Hostess Central, a box set of Christian Dior’s new Wildflower perfume... and Bradley’s number. Ladies, if you play and win, you don’t have to call him — you can just take the perfume and bar tab. But — if you do decide to give him a call, no one but you and him needs to know about it, either! So... do we have any beautiful young ladies brave enough to volunteer to get up on our stage and play some sexy games?”

Livia sure knows how to hook ’em. The hot stud in his boxers, the deniable date, the use of the word ‘brave’... it’s all dead-on perfect for this crowd. More than half of the girls in the club raise their hands, but Mimi and I used the Sieve and we know exactly who we want.

We grab eight girls total. Four of them look like veteran party girls (and possibly strippers) — toned, tanned, wild and willing stunners. Three more volunteers are real cuties, but far more demure — more modestly dressed and less brazen, like the cute girl off the street. They’re still interested in both their fifteen minutes of fame and in a date with Bradley, mind you — they’re just not as glammed-up and toned as the club veterans. They’re relatively normal college girls — the kind that are open to the idea of a little exhibitionism or hanky-panky, but have never actually got up the nerve to engage in it.

We’re trying for another Cathy, obviously, though none of them quite have the same spark, the same rawness of long-repressed sexual energy, that she did. We’re also not going nearly as upscale, here — getting Cathy naked was seriously taboo, and we haven’t had the time and luck to find and cultivate someone like that here.

Our eighth pick is another ringer — a seriously buff Samoan fitness model named Kendra. Lady must weigh a hundred and eighty pounds without an ounce of fat on her body — she looks like she walked right off the shooting of one of those Ironman Swimsuit Spectacular videos — you know, the specialty VHS tapes with the hot muscle chicks whose swimsuits never manage to stay on?

There’s a reason for this. We’ve got a rather devious scheme to compromise the modesty of our three demure girls next door — an evil, hot scheme.

Livia gets the eight girls lined up on stage. She interviews each of them briefly — pointedly asking them if they have any plans for the upcoming Spring Break, and if they’ve heard about our planned show in Lauderdale. Obviously, they haven’t — but they do. Plug! Plug! Plug!

Of the party girls, Bryce is a tall, broad-shouldered, busty redheaded bartender with a ‘Joisey Goil’ accent, a knife-scar from her ear down to her neck and a loud personality. Audra’s a petite, soft-spoken blonde with a pixie cut, light pink lipstick and eyeshadow and a jeweled lace choker. I read her as a deep submissive who can be a lot savvier and more socially adept than she presents herself as — yet also credible, and in ways overly easily influenced by a dominant personality. She’s got a pouty “daddy’s little girl” persona — I guess it goes with the words “Daddy’s Little Girl” written in overly-stylized pink cursive script on the tight purple tank top clinging to her pert C-cups. (Pay attention to her — she’ll be important later!)

Livia dotes on Audra as she brings her up, trying out a really cheesy line I may have boasted that I once managed to actually pull off. “You seem familiar. Didn’t I reserve a seat for you once?”

Audra seems baffled. “I don’t know. Where was it?”

Livia grins. “On my face.”

It’s a bit unusual, for a girl to openly hit on another girl like that — but it was funny, and Livia’s charismatic, and together those things sell it. The crowd laughs and Audra giggles, blushing furiously. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

Sensing blood, Livia turns up the smarm and wraps an arm around Audra’s shoulders possessively. “If that surprises you, possum, it’s because you don’t know me that well. You know, I can think of several entertaining activities we could use to get to know each other better...”

The audience laughs again, but it’s more nervous now. Audra squirms, going from amused and sexy-embarrassed to outright repulsed. I wince in sympathy for Livia. She had it — a funny, sexy joke delivered well, that got a positive response from the mark — and then she ruined it by being overly eager and going too far. Livia senses this and lets her go, moving on to our next volunteer and not acknowledging the misstep.

Kia’s a tall, mixed-race sporty babe wearing what looks like a skin-tight designer track suit adapted into clubwear; she’s got piercing hazel eyes, a challenging stare, flawless caramel skin and neatly-manicured and patterned cornrows. Shell is a giggly, straight-haired blonde in the archetypal little black dress, whose most distinctive features are the intricate floral corsage she has in her hair and the rainbow-jeweled straps of her designer purse.

The amateurs are all really cute, though in a more down-to-earth way. Dakota’s an awkward, tanned, round-faced coed in a neon cyan bob-cut novelty wig, garish pastel clubwear and novelty sunglasses — she comes off as horny, frustrated and desperate to be noticed despite being fairly attractive overall.

Madison is a heftier blonde with long, straight, silky hair — not fully obese, but far from slender; maybe a size fourteen — in the stock cowgirl attire for Hostess Central. Her weight really flatters her, honestly — her open, optimistic and congenial personality is enhanced by a plump-cheeked, round cherubic face. More crudely, she benefits immensely (pun intended) from the delightful effect some heavier girls show where the fat all seems to migrate chestward — those are some jumbo-scale tig ol’ bitties she has stuffed into that tied-off denim crop top! She might have the largest natural breasts I’ve ever seen on a woman I find attractive — bigger even than Mimi. Hot damn!

Joyce is the quiet one — a short-haired, wiry brunette with deep green eyes framed by round glasses in steel frames, dressed fairly conservatively (by club standards) in an Atlanta Braves jersey and jeans. I don’t know anything about her life, but to my Aura sight she radiates pent-up sexual energy and weird kinky fantasies she’s never had the courage to try in real life. She’s a nerd, likely on track to become a sexy librarian of the deeply repressed variety if we weren’t about to throw a monkey wrench into her life-path. I imagine her living a very reserved daily life, but sneaking out at night to raid adult stores to top up her secret collection of really weird porn tapes.

At this point, Livia reveals what she has in mind. “Since I know everyone in college has their mind on Spring Break at this time of year, why don’t we give the audience a little teaser of the festivities to come? Ladies, how many of your would be willing to participate in a Bikini Tug-o-War, right here and now in this club?”

There’s immediate uncertainty and questions, but the beefcake in boxers helps flood the three amateurs’ hormones and dampen their natural caution. The Sieve scores another win as all eight girls agree to the contest with minimum persuasion — as I’ve said before, even the normal everyday girls want a chance to show off, be the center of attention and do something sexy. It just has to be set up right.

I hand each girl a sealed black plastic bag with a swimsuit in it, and they get sent backstage to change. This bit is a trick — it seems like it’s all casual and random, but I’m actually dividing the girls up in a quite premeditated manner. The bags are subtly marked to differentiate the red bikinis from the blue ones, and I put the three amateur girls and the muscle-babe on one team and the four hardcore party girls on the other. The girls run offstage to changing stalls to get their bikinis on, and come back fully changed after a brief line-dancing recess.

Livia rolls a heavy carpet off the stage and moves a board aside, revealing the setup we arranged with the club yesterday. There’s a paper rectangle on the floor, about twelve feet on each side, with its borders marked with brilliant red masking tape securing it to the floor. We set out gym mats around it. The girls stroll out on stage, looking fantastic in matching bikinis — tight bandeau bikini tops and more conventional bikini bottoms. They’re not the most revealing bikinis I’ve ever seen, but for what we’ve got planned they won’t have to be.

The four party girls stride out proudly, flaunting their figures. Kia catches my eye with her proud smile, looking fantastic — busty, leggy and super-fit. Audra’s giggly and playful — and her natural C-cups jiggle a lot in the bandeau top. The real amateurs are a lot more demure — and that excites both me and the audience. Dakota’s a sporty girl with an athletic figure, and honestly looks way better in a bikini than all the gaudy shit she wore before, even if her cyan wig does clash with the bright red fabric.

We don’t have a bikini sized well for Madison, which makes her immensely shy coming out — but the effect isn’t exactly unflattering; I’d prefer an adjective like, say, pornographic. She gets an immense, unequivocally positive cheer from the audience, and her confidence is visibly buoyed by it.

Joyce is equally shy, not that she has any reason to be — she was apparently hiding a shockingly fantastic figure under her chaste clothes, and it excites me to get an eyeful of what was earlier so carefully concealed. The bandeau top highlights her pale C-cup cleavage amazingly. She’s really pale and trim, with nicely curved hips, an outie navel and long, smooth, creamy white legs. Her bikini bottoms sport a faint but enticing camel toe.

Not that I don’t enjoy the view on a sensual level, but I also scrutinize the three amateurs’ body language very carefully. Even our bikinis might be the most revealing thing this trio has worn in public — and they did swear the Trips oath; they might not know their fate is sealed, but they at least suspect things have the potential to get raunchier than they first appear with surprising speed. I can see modesty on their faces, warring with the excitement of an exhibitionism virgin, the forbidden allure of being the center of this much attention in really carnal sense. There’s no true fear, though — no deadly serious reluctance.

That’s great — the excitement is the green light, but the kind of fear I’m talking about is the red light. I’ve learned to see it in the eyes — the telltale sign of the psycho jealous boyfriend, the fundamentalist Christian family, the scholarship that hinges on a decent public reputation. There’s none of that here — the reluctance comes purely from social mores that they already have strong internal temptations to transgress anyway. We’re just going to give them a little shove, and they’re going to have the night of their lives, buoyed on surging adrenaline and estrogen.

Be warned, O Seductive Readers — unless you can tell this stuff about women with the same certainty that I can, do not try the kind of deviously perverted stunt we’re about to pull on these women yourself. It won’t end as consequence-free for you as it does for us. We’re trained professionals, after all!

Livia gets the four party girls in blue bikinis on one side of the paper square and the other four girls in red on the opposite side, and hands them each one end of a big rope. The rope has positioning flags along it’s length — ribbons that dangle down a full yard. The girls get in position for a tug-of-war. “Now,” Livia says, “here are the rules. Nobody pulls until I blow my whistle. Once the war starts, the first team to have a girl set foot in the paper square loses. The winning team gets the perfume, the bar tab, Brad’s number and mucho bragging rights. The losing team gets diddly and squat. Any questions?”

Given what I’ve already told you about our fetishes and interests, O Deductive Reader, you’ve probably already figured out that the big paper square on the floor is not just a marker — it actually conceals an inflatable pool, much like the one we tricked Cathy into running right into. The pool is in a recess on the stage normally used to stow sound equipment and has a removable lid. The lip of the pool was supposed to be flush with the floor. You likely also can probably conjecture that the pit is full of some mysterious kind of gunk that a WAM fetishist like Mimi would find it appealing to watch a shocked coed faceplant into. If you figured that out, well, congratulations — you have at least two brain cells to rub together.

Unfortunately for us, however, one of the party girls catches on ahead of time as well. The paper is a bit torn on one side, and the inflatable pool is one frustrating inch higher than the surface of the stage, so it’s not honestly that hard for someone with any degree of situational awareness to guess the messy twist.

“Livia?” Kia asks.

“Yes?”

“What’s in the pit?”

Livia’s a bit blindsided, so I cover the question with smooth bravado. “Well... let’s just say if you lose, you’re going to find out the hard way.”

Girls on the other team giggle. I meet Kia’s gaze, and we try to stare each other down — it’s oddly intense. I apply a bit of subtle Eyefucking, though, and we end up looking away at about the same time.

Livia positions Bradley right behind the square opposite the audience, exactly between the two teams like the prize he is — fitting symbolism, as he’s really what they’re struggling over. The perfume and bar tab are just there as excuses, so the girls don’t feel uncomfortable about pursuing a blatantly sexual prize. “Can I press one more personal question on you, studmuffin?”

“Sure,” he replies.

“Do you like confident girls?”

Now, this is where things could go more seriously off-script — if Brad says he likes shy girls or something else, or just refuses the obvious prompt to punk our show. But Livia meets his gaze, and I think he sees the mischief in her eyes and decides that whatever she’s planning, he’s up for it and probably going to enjoy watching it. As it happens, he’s wildly right.

“Yeah,” he says, “confidence is one of the sexiest things a woman can have going for her.”

Livia saunters over to the red team — that’s the one that has three girls next door and a fitness model so insanely ripped we might as well call it Team Unfair Advantage. “So... you ladies feeling confident?”

“Hell yeah,” Dakota hollers proudly.

“What do you think of your chances?” Livia asks Madison, standing right behind the Ironman model.

She glances at her teammate before answering. “We’ve going to pound those wimps and take all the glory and the dreamboat!”

“So you feel really sure of victory?”

“Damn straight!”

Livia licks her lips. On the inevitable N-VHS of this show, we get her expression in close up — and, dear god, does it turn my crank. I don’t care what you think of me for this, but Livia in full on, gleeful predatory trickster mode makes every part of my body tingle — one part a lot more than the rest, though. “Then, you girls want to raise the stakes a bit, turn up the heat and really get the audience invested in this game?”

The Team Overpowered girls glance at each other, then at Brad’s ripped torso. “What do we do?”

“Well, you don’t have to, but it sure would be a big show of bravado if you took those marker ribbons on the rope and tied them around your bikini tops. Of course, it could get a bit embarrassing if you lose...”

Now, if you think about this for a second, it seem intuitive what will happen here — the winners will use the rope to pull the losers’ bikini tops off, giving everyone watching a rather naughty thrill. However, if you think about it for more than a second, it will become obvious what’s actually likely to happen — namely, anyone with their swimsuit tied to a rope people are struggling over is probably going to suffer a bit of deliciously erotic exposure in the course of the game regardless of whether they’re on the winning or losing side.

Livia presses, making sure the girls have only a second to think about it. They look at each other awkwardly.

“You’re on,” Dakota says proudly.

“What the hell,” Joyce says, blushing furiously. “I’m doing it too.”

“I’m in,” Kendra announces.

Madison grins. “Okay, then. If you will, I’m onboard too.”

Team Red trades high-fives, then gets back in position; each girl ties one of the tassels around her bikini top. These tops have Velcro tabs in the back rather than hooks, so they won’t tear into flesh or bend joints in weird directions when pulled — they’ll just come off with a libido-stimulating snap.

Livia saunters over to Team Blue. “Well, Team Red looks pretty confident. How about you lot?”

Shell gives her a withering stare. “That one chick is huge, and even the other girls weigh more than us. This is more than a bit lopsided.”

“Hey,” Bryce interjects sharply. “I work out! So does Kia. Show some spirit!”

Livia shrugs glibly. “You see? I think you’ve got an actual chance here.”

In the end, though, the party girls all tie ribbons to their tops. It’s not too surprising — they like attention and are the kind of girls who flash at parties anyway, so it’s not a big leap for them. Our tall, saucy redhead decides to go a step further and ties one of the ribbons around her bottoms — yikes! Full frontal was not planned for, but we’re right there with Moses when it comes to our reverence for the anticipated appearance of a fiery bush.

Livia and I go over to stand beside Brad. Livia puts the whistle in her mouth before the girls have a chance to devote too much time contemplating their predicament, and a shrill note pieces the air. The sexy struggle begins!

Mimi cues up some action-movie montage music designed to really get the adrenaline pumping. Initially, the contest seems surprisingly even — Bryce is determined and Kia disciplined, but Dakota’s energetic and Madison gives it her all. Shell, Audra and Joyce don’t really seem used to this kind of athletics, though. Kendra, our muscle-babe ringer, is doing exactly what we hired her for — making the contest look dramatic before she throws it in the party girls’ favor.

As the rope jostles back and forth, Kia is the first to suffer a tragically predictable wardrobe malfunction — her bandeau top stretches forward, making that delectable caramel cleavage buckle, before snapping off to reveal her large, impossibly dark areolae and stubby nipples. Her pert natural C-cups jostle back and forth as she struggles, a faint sheen of sweat making her blue bottoms cling to her fantastic gym-bunny ass. She’s a vain girl, though (not that I’m in any position to hold that against her, and it’s really not the thing I most want to hold against her right now anyway!), and it all almost ends there as she gets distracted looking out at the crowd and drinking in their gleeful reaction to her exposed ta-tas.

“Kia!” Bryce shouts — being first in line, she gets pulled forward and almost ends up yanked into the pit. “Focus!”

She does so. Bryce pulls hard and regains some wiggle room — but the ribbon tied to her bottoms does its own wiggling in the process, and soon the side of Bryce’s bottoms are pulled down just enough to show an enticing inch of neatly-trimmed copper fur. Mimi, ever alert, manages to get a really nice camera close-up as they slide down, followed by a reaction shot of Bryce’s undaunted expression.

The renewed vigor of the Blue Team now taxes the Reds. Wow, Joyce is really struggling — you can see the sincere exertion on her face! She’s drop-dead gorgeous in a bikini, but she’s also a willowy little slip of a girl, so the raw intensity of her effort does nothing. It’s very cute, though, and it even makes me feel a bit bad for how this is set to go down — she really wants to win, and I doubt it’s the perfume sets at the forefront of her mind.

Madison’s prodigious cleavage is jostled back and forth by its attached ribbon — but not quite exposed. Her bikini being so tight gives her an advantage there. Joyce stumbles forward, and Kendra’s bandeau pops off with a loud snap — she’s got big implants, and they’re very firm and unmoving, though her nipples do stand up proudly.

She just grunts — this isn’t her first nude video, after all. It’s not that convincing that she’s exerting her fullest — she will get called on this much later when the N-VHS has come out and the Trips are far more popular, and will admit she’s a ringer. There’s no real rancor from anyone when it comes out, though.

In the back of the Red lineup, conversely, Dakota is exerting herself to the fullest — but it doesn’t turn out so great for her. The rope slips out of her sweaty hands, and she falls on her ass. Her bandeau strains and pops off, revealing her pale tan lines, perky B-cups and puffy pink gumdrops to the leering audience. From there it’s all over for Team Supposedly Overpowered. In front, Joyce gets pulled right to the lip of the pit.

Her arms pinwheel and she careens off balance. As she plunges downward, the ribbon tied to her bandeau actually spins her around. The bandeau slides off her chest, showing off the pale white flesh of her perky C-cups and tiny, dark brown areolae. It stretches around and she bounces back up briefly, with her top acting almost like a bungee cord, before it snaps and she plummets — tearing through the thin paper and landing topless on her back in an inflatable pool full of clingy, goopy wet oatmeal. Well, not full per se, but at least well-coated — we didn’t use the pump we used for the huge fudge pool at the Noodle, but there’s at least several big buckets’ worth in there.

As the first tops pop off, Mimi’s soundtrack changes abruptly from the serious action-montage beat back to the sexy sax and horns, complete with a record-scratch sound effect. It’s not a subtle manipulation of the mood this time, though — more like a leering, albeit amusing, punchline.

We’ve got a fixed camera pointed right at the pit in the rafters, so we get some wonderfully clear, crisp shots of the gorgeous geek landing on her back, topless, in the oatmeal. Her breasts pool and shift on her chest as she bounces off the yielding rubber. Her hair splays out in a corona around her head. Her long, smooth legs squirm against the greasy oatmeal. She’s just stunned for a long second, before she realizes she’s topless.

Her mouth opens wide in shock, and slender, oatmeal-coated arms fly up to cover her already-lost modesty. She blushes radiantly, horrified and exhilarated. As far as I know, this is her first time naked in public, let alone naked on film — and all I can say is, for a debut performance she really knocks it out of the park! She paradoxically makes me want to protect and shield her — and also to do utterly obscene things to her exposed body.

Livia blows the whistle, signaling a clear victory for Team Party Girl — but they obviously don’t stop pulling. Girls like them don’t volunteer for a naughty game and then not do the naughty thing, after all.

“Get em!” Audra shouts, simultaneously girlish and vindictive, and Bryce and Kia heave at the taut rope with newfound vigor.

Dakota apparently thought the game was over, as she was just relaxing — but she still has the rope wrapped around her hand. She gets yanked unexpectedly forward and roughly denuded, careening into the oatmeal pit below. She actually lands right on top of Joyce with a splatter — the two ladies are breast to breast in a rather compromising, sapphically-charged position. Splatters of grey oatmeal look wonderfully distinct on Dakota’s tan flesh.

As appealing at that visual is, however, it’s not where the audience’s attention is focused. Madison’s bandeau stretches and strains as the rope slips through her hands; she lets go to avoid rope burn, and the top snaps fully off. Maddy’s ginormous danglers spring free, swaying back and forth like wrecking balls. She’s got large pink areolae and blunt nipples, and the overly-tight bikini top leaves a clear imprint on her breasts even after it’s left her body. The crowd gives a cheer that shakes the very foundation of Hostess Central as Madison is exposed. The blonde sweetheart covers her chest protectively with her arms and blushes — her expression vacillating between crimson mortification and gleeful delight at the crowd’s reaction.

Time for my line. Livia gave it to me, both because I do the cocky asshole so well and because she figured it would motivate the girls more if I said it than if she did. “Hey, everyone, it’s surprise new rule time! The winners have to get all the losers in the pit before they can claim their prizes!”

Nobody bothers to argue. Team Blue drops the rope and starts moving toward Kendra and Madison. Bryce doesn’t make it without incident, however — a determined Joyce reaches an oatmeal-covered grasping hand out of the pit and grabs the ribbon affixed to her bottoms, giving it a strong yank. She’s got this amazingly devilish, lustful and vindictive expression on her face when she does this that I suspect she wishes we hadn’t caught on film — we did, though. Bryce’s bottoms get pulled down to her knees, giving the whole club (and our cameras) a brief view of the much-anticipated burning bush, and the plump pussy lips it conceals.

She’s shocked and a bit embarrassed, and her first instinct is to try to get away — but her top and bottoms are both still tethered, and her bottoms are tangled around her knees. She loses balance, flailing, and Dakota and Joyce pull her into the oatmeal pit. She lands with a wet squelch, a bit squicked by the sliminess of the oatmeal running over her body. Thrashing around, she tugs at the rope and manages to comedically pull her own top off — revealing some quite nice double D’s.

“Aw, fucknuggets,” Bryce declares amusingly after spitting out a mouthful of oatmeal. Dakota throws handfuls of the sticky goop at her with a vindictive grin, however — and Joyce starts rubbing it all over her fully-exposed body! I don’t think Joyce consciously realizes her hands are grasping and squeezing parts of a stranger she probably shouldn’t grasp and squeeze — her id seems to be firmly in the driver’s seat at this point — but Bryce laughs, seeming more resigned and bemused than offended.

Kia, Audra and Shell reach Kendra and Madison. Kia runs up and tries to grab Madison, who has to stretch out her arms to grapple with her. This renews the crowd’s line of sight with her massive swaying breasts, and the audience cheers in sheer horny delight as the two topless giggling beauties struggle awkwardly. Audra gets a mischievous grin, however — Kia and Madison are right at the edge of the pit anyway, so Audra just pushes them both in together. The crowd laughs at the unexpected twist.

Shell and Audra are both willowy model-girls, however — they double-team Kendra, but they don’t have a hope. She just grabs them both and hucks them into the sticky oatmeal effortlessly. Then she reaches out to Brad, grabs his hand, and tosses him into the pit with the seven other contestants and walks off stage with a smug, hip-swinging swagger. This wasn’t scripted, but she did carry it off with a kind of charisma that made it work and gets a big cheer from the crowd. Her team might have lost, but I have to credit her for raw style in her exit! I guess she saved some after-show time, too, being the only one who won’t be washing clumps of oatmeal out of her hair.

Seven hot women giggle, grapple and tussle in the oatmeal, gradually turning into interchangeable goop-people — I can still make Kia out by skin tone and Madison by her figure, but that’s about it. It’s pretty sexy — and it does get a bit sapphic, I guess, even if most of the girls are focused on Brad as soon as he gets tossed in. The amateur girls are constantly conflicted between using their arms to protect their modesty and using them to grapple with the other girls. The party girls, well, aren’t.

Bryce, at some point, comes up sneakily behind Joyce and rips her bikini bottoms off, waving them triumphantly for the crowd. Yikes! Well, I guess Joyce started it, so turnabout is only fair play. She looks so mortified, though. After that, Joyce and Dakota team up to pin the hapless, saucy Bryce. I get really distracted at this point — Kia, Shell and Audra are all cozying up to their prize, Brad, and Madison decides to distract and annoy Kia by motorboating her. Motorboating? More like suffocating! I really can’t imagine any better way for a man to die than drowning in all that massive, warm flesh. I wonder if Kia feels the same way — I won’t speculate, but I like to imagine Madison really does distract her from Brad, fully and completely.

Even after using it as an overt gag, however, we still have one final, deliciously devious trick to play with the soundtrack. The sexy sax gradually fades out, replaced by a repetitive, thumping club-tune with a very specific rhythm and a very deep bass. The party girls start grinding and jiving almost habitually, well-trained by countless nights at nightclubs to let the music possess them. Being naked, conveniently horizontal and all tangled up in oatmeal and other girls’ limbs, however, the result resembles a weird fusion of really sexy club dancing and sexual pantomime.

The pulsing backbeat of the music gets stronger and stronger. Audra and Shell’s ‘cuddling’ with Brad becomes more like grinding, one on each side of him like he’s James Bond walking into a casino, breasts crushed deliciously against his chest, as the music drives them to thrust and pump. Far more scandalous, though, are Kia and Joyce — face to face, staring at each other intensely, rolling around, grunting and thrusting in time with an insidiously sexual rhythm that just keeps getting harder and harder, hotter and hotter.

Okay, I guess you could make an argument it was just a catfight — especially with the oatmeal to cover up the details — but you could also make a pretty strong case they were engaged in tribadism without consciously knowing what tribadism even is! Nobody can prove they did, but nobody can prove they didn’t, either. Everyone who buys our tapes, though, seems to agree this scene is hot as all fuck.

Mimi finally lets the music fade out. This has gone further than we expected it to, and sadly ends on a bit of a down note — Dakota’s playfully holding Audra, rubbing oatmeal in the giggling blonde beauty’s hair, when Audra suddenly screams — and there’s droplets of red mixing in the oatmeal. Audra ripped a piercing. Ow! After the initial shock, we figure out she’s not badly hurt — and is, in fact, still cheerful — but the bubble-mood of giggly, playful, insidiously sapphic fun has been decisively punctured for the second time this evening. Playtime is sadly over.

We get Audra out of the goo, clean off her face with wet towels and bandage up her ear. It looked worse than it is, though. Mimi, who knows first aid, escorts her off-stage. I help Brad and the rest of the girls out of the pit. Once it’s clear Audra’s fine, a bit of the sexy comes back — Kia is the first out, and it looks like she managed to lose her bikini bottoms at some point in the chaos. She also looks, well, all sweaty and trembly — a state you could credibly compare to afterglow.

She does a full frontal victory strut around the stage, arms in the air, hips swinging back and forth, clumps of white oatmeal running down her smooth brown skin, showing off her deep black nipples, neatly trimmed bush and gym-bunny taut stomach. Damn, girl! She’s got a lot to be proud of, and she’s willing to flaunt it for the sake of our show. Thanks, babe! We owe you! You helped make it a night to remember!

Dakota’s next, mostly covering her bare chest but occasionally flashing when the crowd begs her vociferously enough. Brad never gets naked, but he does have a massive boner and wet boxers, which he can’t fully conceal as he climbs out of the pit even if he does bashfully cover it with his hands afterward. The ladies in the audience absolutely love this — both his erection and his embarrassment. Madison tries as best she can to cover her chest, but her arms can’t manage to contain those massive, slippery, dangling ta-tas and she keeps involuntarily flashing erect nipples to the delighted crowd.

It’s only now that the pit is a bit emptier that I realize the amazingly kinky thing that happened. I thought Bryce got herself tangled up in the rope, but it’s more than that: Dakota and Joyce fucking hog-tied her, live and in an oatmeal pit. I’m dead certain it was Joyce’s idea, too. I mean, sure, it’s a cowboy bar, so you could say it’s a funny application of the theme — and if you buy that, I’ve got some land to sell you in Alaska.

We get a scissors from the medkit and manage to untangle Bryce’s legs. We leave her arms bound behind her back, though, because kink is awesome and we want to encourage it. I even ask Joyce to lead her out by a rope, which she does. Bryce is blushing and angry, but also a bit turned on — she’s not too down on what’s going on here. As for Joyce, well — her cheeks are burning crimson, and she’s probably going to spend some time considering her own desires and fantasies in the future.

My request was pretty sneaky in a way, too — asking her to hold Bryce’s leash on the walk out leaves her only one free hand to cover her breasts and pussy, which isn’t enough. Clearly mortified but unable to decide where to keep the hand, she ultimately ends up showing everybody everything at one point or another on the walk to the backstage exit.

I might have led her in a bit of a circuitous route on purpose. Yes, I’m a bad man — it’s what I’m famous for.

And that, my friends, is how you get relatively normal, everyday girls who Don’t Do That Kind Of Thing to have an gleeful, giggly topless catfight in a big pool full of oatmeal — and perhaps even sneak in a secret sapphic sex scene and add a bit of bondage to boot!

I don’t have any concrete information about how Bradley’s possible dates with Shell, Kia or Bryce will go, though I’ll be hearing a bit of gossip about Audra’s next chapter. I strongly suspect at least some of the girls call him, and some dates do happen, and both our stud and our party girls have some adult-themed fun (not that it’s really any of my business). Regardless of the prize-dates, well, let’s just say both Bradley and at least one of the club girls have seen the inside of Livia’s pickup crib. Sadly, I’m not involved in either instance.

Now, O Judgmental Reader, you may feel the Trips exploited the three amateur girls involved in this contest — after all, they wagered their dignity (and their boobies) on a contest that our deliciously buff ringer helped to fix against them. And, to an extent, we did — and we couldn’t very well give them Bradley’s number without giving the game away at this point. When we met them backstage, however, I was able to give them a consolation prize — my own number. I did turn on the charm a bit in the process, and after getting some oatmeal on it I had an entirely reasonable excuse to take my own shirt off as well.

I honestly think every volunteer in our contest that night had fun on stage, and later got what they wanted off stage — whether that was a good fuck or just a cool story to tell. I don’t think they ended the evening feeling lonely or used, honestly — and, further in the future after I became a full-blown celebrity sex symbol, well, those three certainly earned themselves a story to tell at parties!

Since these three young ladies are more demure (and have quite normal, mainstream careers all these years later) it’s sadly not appropriate for me to be sharing any other juicy details about them — which, if any, chose to contact me to ask me out for the promised dates, and what if anything we did on those dates. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell with such women, after all. Should you still feel they got a raw deal or the short end of the stick, however, I will simply ask you to consider this: skills count. For all of his many lauded desirable qualities, I doubt Bradley knows the exact set of sexual techniques necessary to bring a lady to a blended orgasm and sustain it for over a minute.

Just sayin’.

I could say other things about the raw end of the stick in this context as well — but I’m a gentleman, so I won’t.