Disclaimer: This did not happen. Fantasy is legal.
Codes: MF, Oral
Contestant 1: Ella HuntContestant 2: Penny LaneBlowjob Races: Contestant 3: Laura Hamilton
The first episode of Blowjob Races had been a roaring success, with ratings through the roof. The fact that Penny had beaten Ella's time only added fuel to the fire, sparking debates on social media and gossip columns alike. Was it skill? Luck? Or simply the fact that Tom had been more excitable than John? Whatever the reason, the public couldn't get enough. And they couldn't wait for the next episode.
Interest from UK celebrities skyrocketed overnight. Producers' inboxes flooded with inquiries—some genuine, some shameless—from C-list actors to retired athletes angling for screen time. By Wednesday morning, tabloids leaked that one TV presenter and one Glamour model were to be the next to participate.
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Laura Hamilton waited backstage, her nerves shredded. The
A Place in the Sun Presenter had never imagined her career would lead to this—yet here she was, adjusting the straps of her scandalously short bra and panties combo while the audience's murmurs swelled beyond the curtain. She ran her hand through her blonde hair and exhaled sharply. This was for charity. For exposure. For—God help her—the £4 million donation.
She'd watched the first episode of this circus with a mixture of horror and reluctant fascination. The way Ella's cheeks hollowed as she worked. The way Penny devoured Tom with such unapologetic hunger. Now Laura's own mouth felt dry, her pulse throbbing at her temples as she stood ready to be introduced.
Why had she decided to do this? She'd told herself it was for charity—worthy, noble—and a new challenge. She'd never been afraid of a challenge. Her producer had whispered "career boost," and she'd been naïve enough to believe him. Her partner had watched her pack the lingerie—black, sheer, nothing left to imagination—with a frown.
"Why the hell are you doing this again?" he had asked, arms crossed as she stuffed the silk into her overnight bag.
Laura had paused, fingers tightening around the lace. "Because I always said I'd try anything once." Her laugh sounded hollow even to herself.
Now, under the studio lights that smelled like overheated plastic and anticipation, she wondered if that was true. The curtain rustled, Bruce Foreskin's shadow moving just beyond it. The murmur of the audience crescendoed into scattered whoops.
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"Welcome everybody to Blowjob Races!" Bruce Foreskin's voice boomed through the speakers, his Ronseal coloured, manicured hand gesturing towards the audience, who replied with a deafening mix of cheers and wolf whistles.
"This is the show where two more of your favourite celebrities will race against the clock—and each other—to see who can play the skin flute until the music stops, fastest!" he continued, grinning into the camera as the crowd went wild.
"Now, last week we had two contestants set quite a stiff challenge for the two contestants tonight. Ella scored a magnificent 5 minutes and 43 seconds, Penny managed—somehow—to swallow Tom whole in just over 5 minutes! Tonight's ladies have their work cut out for them!" Bruce chuckled, adjusting his earpiece as murmurs built.
"The prize for the ultimate winner of Blowjob Races is a £4 million donation to Prostate Cancer awareness. So whilst licking their partners' lollies is the main event," Bruce winked, "the main reason we are here is for a good cause." He gestured dramatically to the screen behind him, where slow-motion highlights of Penny’s performances played—her lips stretched around Tom’s cock, his cum splattering her chest in pearly streaks, her radiant smile as the clock froze. The audience erupted again, fists pumping.
"Well, I think it's time we meet the man who will have his willy wetted tonight. Please, give a warm welcome to Barry!" Bruce announced with a flourish.
The audience roared as a rotund, balding man in his late fifties waddled onto stage—Barry from Essex, grinning like he'd won the lottery. He was clad in a silk bathing robe that did not hide his gut nor his tented erection.
Backstage, Laura's stomach lurched as Barry's name echoed through the studio. "Him? They got me him?" she whispered to the stagehand, who shrugged with a smirk. Through the curtain's slit, she watched him adjust himself obscenely under the robe—thick fingers rubbing the outline of his erection, a cheesy grin etched into his jowly face.
"Well, well...Barry from Essex! How are you feeling today!" Bruce boomed, slapping the man's back so hard it rippled his belly.
Barry chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Bloody brilliant, mate. Never thought I’d see the day I'd be on TV getting me knob polished!"
The audience howled as Bruce grinned. "It's a big day for you, Barry! Now, let's meet the lovely lady who'll be—" he paused for effect, "—handling your equipment tonight. Please welcome, the lovely Television Presenter, Laura Hamilton!"
The curtain parted. Laura stepped forward on shaky legs, the studio lights scalding her skin. The crowd's cheer was deafening—part admiration, part voyeuristic glee. She forced a smile, clutching the hem of her robe like armour. Barry's eyes bulged; his tongue flicked over his lips.
"Christ alive," he wheezed, gripping his robe tie. "She's even fitter in person."
The pint-sized blonde presenter walked over to Bruce and Barry with exaggerated confidence, her heels clicking on the stage. Up close, Barry smelled of Lynx Africa and stale sweat. Laura's manicured fingers—still clutching her robe—twitched as Bruce leaned in with his microphone.
"So, Laura," Bruce purred, "any pre-game strategies for tackling Barry's... tent pole there?" The camera zoomed in on the damp patch tenting Barry's robe. The audience laughed at this quip, and Laura felt her ears burn hot.
She forced a chuckle, fingers tightening around the microphone. "Well, Bruce, I've handled trickier negotiations on A Place in the Sun," she lied smoothly. Barry's grin widened at the implication.
"Well, as you can see from the scoreboard there, Ella's time is 5:43 and Penny's is 5:05—so Laura, you've got your work cut out for you!" Bruce announced, gesturing to the glowing digital display. The crowd erupted in cheers as Laura swallowed hard, her gaze flicking between Barry's tented robe and the timer. "What will be your strategy?"
Laura exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers twitching at her robe belt. "Pressure points," she lied smoothly. "Slow buildup, then..." She mimed a sudden twist of her wrist. The audience whooped as Barry's knees visibly buckled.
Bruce grinned. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, let's see if Laura can flip Barry's property market in record time!" He signaled the crew—lights dimmed except for the spotlight on Laura, now shedding her robe with forced grace. The black lace barely covered anything; Barry's cheeks flushed puce as she knelt before him.
"Remember, Laura, you cannot touch Barry's todger until the buzzer goes. If you do, you will be disqualified." Bruce Foreskin warned with a smirk. The audience murmured, their eyes glued to the stage.
Barry dropped his own robe with a flourish, revealing a thick, flushed erection bobbing against his stomach. Laura fought the urge to recoil—his pubes were trimmed into a haphazard fashion, his thighs slick with sweat. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers as Bruce theatrically shielded his eyes. "Good lord, Barry! Warn a man before you unleash that thing!"
"It's all for you, darling." Barry grinned, adjusting his stance proudly as Laura's throat tightened. The studio lights glared down, illuminating every vein pulsing along his shaft. She heard the crowd start the countdown. *10,9,8*
Bruce leaned in, microphone brushing Laura's shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Laura! Don't tell me Barry's crown jewels have you spooked?" The audience roared. *6,5*
Laura's fingers dug into her own thighs. The scent of Barry's sweat hit her as she inhaled sharply. *3,2* His cock twitched, glistening under the lights. *1.* The buzzer blared.
Her hand shot out before she could think—wrapping around his base, feeling the pulse beneath hot skin. The audience's cheer became white noise. Barry groaned, hips jerking forward into her grip. Laura's other hand cupped his balls with practiced hesitation, rolling them gently like she'd seen Penny do.
"Attagirl," Barry hissed, his stomach jiggling as Laura's fingers squeezed experimentally. His cock throbbed in her grip—thicker than she'd anticipated, the skin tacky with pre-cum. The studio lights glared down, turning every bead of sweat into a spotlight. She leaned her face closer, catching the scent of Lynx Africa, adrenaline, and sweat. The audience's chant ("Suck it! Suck it!") pulsed in time with Barry's twitching erection.
Laura's first lick was tentative—just the flat of her tongue along his underside, tasting salt and sweat. Barry's breath hitched. She closed her eyes and imagined the £4 million cheque, the magazine covers, her producer's thumbs-up from the wings. When she took him between her lips, it wasn't arousal that made her moan—it was the visceral shock of flesh filling her mouth, the way his pubes tickled her nose. Barry's hips jerked. "Fuckin' hell," he rasped, fingers tangling in her hair.
She found a rhythm: shallow sucks punctuated by the wet pop of her lips releasing his tip, her free hand kneading his balls. The audience's cheers blurred into static. Someone—Bruce?—yelled something about "proper-tongue action." Barry's thighs trembled. Laura focused on his cock, the way the veins pulsed under her tongue, the bitter-salt taste blooming across her palate.
"Look up at me." Barry's voice was rough, his fingers tightening in Laura's hair. She tilted her head back, his cock sliding between her lips, and met his glazed green eyes with her blue ones. The studio lights reflected in his pupils like car headlights before impact. "Yeah, just like that." His hips thrust shallowly, the tip nudging the back of her throat. Laura gagged but held firm, her fingers digging into his thighs. The audience roared approval.
He reached down and began to fondle her bra-encased breasts, his fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly. Laura suppressed a shudder as his thick fingers pinched her nipples through the fabric, his cock twitching against her tongue. She could hear Bruce’s commentary—something about “proper enthusiasm”—but it was drowned out by the wet smacks of her lips working Barry’s shaft, her saliva slicking his length. His grip on her hair tightened as she hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, feeling him pulse against her palate.
"Let's see those tits." Barry's command was a throaty growl, his fingers already tugging at the clasp. The audience's cheers surged like a tidal wave as Laura hesitated—then complied, the black lace falling away to expose her large breasts. Barry's cock twitched against her chin, pre-come glistening on her lower lip. "That's it, darling, let 'em see what you're working with,"
"Looks like the big guns are coming out to play!" Bruce egged on, his voice dripping with amusement.
Barry reached down and began squeezing Laura's large breasts roughly, kneading the soft flesh. Laura suppressed a wince as his thick fingers pinched her nipples, her skin flushing under the harsh studio lights. She concentrated on trying to make him come as quickly as possible, sucking him with renewed vigor—her lips smacking wetly around his cock, saliva slicking his shaft. His balls were covered in saliva as it dripped down her chin.
The audience roared their approval while Bruce egged them on—"Looks like Laura's pulling out all the stops! Literally!"—as Barry suddenly yanked her head forward, forcing her nose into his pubes. Her gag reflex kicked in violently, tears pricking her eyes as she took him deep. The salty musk of his skin filled her nostrils as her throat convulsed around him.
"Fuckin' hell, she’s got a mouth on her," Barry gasped, hips stuttering as Laura’s nails dug into his thighs. She could feel his pulse thundering beneath her lips—hot, insistent—as she worked him with desperate precision. Someone in the audience shouted "*Swallow it whole!*" and Barry chuckled, tightening his grip on her hair.
She pulled back just enough to swirl her tongue around the leaking head, her free hand pumping his shaft in rhythm. Barry cursed, his stomach quivering. "That’s it, darling, just like—*Christ*—just like that."
He was close, so close, and Laura knew it. She kept swirling her tongue like a maniac, her lips tight around his shaft, her hand jerking the base in quick, practiced strokes. His breath was shortening, his hips thrusting erratically against her face. She could hear Bruce’s voice distantly—something about "the pressure mounting"—but it was drowned out by the wet, obscene sounds of her mouth working him over, and his moans of ecstasy.
"Fuck, I'm gonna..." Barry's warning came as a strangled gasp, as Laura pulled away from his cock, aiming it at her bare chest. But he bucked forward unexpectedly—his swollen tip catching her chin before erupting in thick, sticky ropes that splattered across her lips and collarbone. "Shit—sorry, love," he panted, though his grin said otherwise. The audience howled as Laura blinked, shocked, her tongue darting out instinctively—salty, musky—before she caught herself.
Bruce was already thrusting the microphone between them. "Looks like Barry couldn't hold back his enthusiasm!" The crowd's laughter pulsed through the studio as Laura wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, Barry's seed smearing her wrist. The clock behind them froze: **4 minutes, 45 seconds**. A new record.
Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Well, well—Laura Hamilton, you've just blown past Penny's time!"
The audience erupted into deafening cheers, their chants of *"Lau-ra! Lau-ra!"* echoing as Laura wiped another streak of Barry’s cum from her chin. Her knees ached against the hard stage floor, her pulse hammering in her throat—but the adrenaline was electric. She glanced up at the clock, the numbers gleaming back at her: 4:45. A disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. She’d done it. She stood up and wiped her hands on her discarded robe, trying to ignore how the sticky residue clung to her fingers.
"I can't believe it!" she laughed again, genuinely shocked as she looked at the timer. The audience was still cheering, and Bruce was grinning like an idiot.
"Well, believe it Laura! You have now taken the lead in the Blowjob Races challenge!" Bruce crowed, seizing her wrist and thrusting her hand into the air like a prizefighter. The studio lights burned hotter, Barry’s cum cooling in sticky rivulets between her breasts. Laura’s vision blurred momentarily—whether from the spotlights or the absurdity of it all, she wasn’t sure.
"And Barry! How are you feeling after *that* sizzling performance?" Bruce shoved the microphone into Barry's sweaty face as the man swayed, still dazed, his softening cock glistening under the studio lights.
"Like I just won the bloody lottery," Barry wheezed, mopping his forehead with his discarded robe. The audience howled as he grinned at Laura, whose cheeks burned under the streaks of his ejaculate. "Cheers, love. You’ve got a proper magic gob on you."
Bruce’s manicured fingers clapped Laura’s shoulder. "Looks like Laura came prepared—emphasis on came hehehehehe—" The groan from the crowd drowned out his chuckle as the camera zoomed in on Laura’s glistening chin and breasts.
"But!" Bruce twirled dramatically toward the side stage, "Don't forget that we have one more contestant tonight who now must try and break the new record set by Laura! So don't go away, and we'll see you after the break! For more Blowjob Races!"
Topic: Blowjob Races: Contestant 3: Laura Hamilton (Laura Hamilton) (Read 3216 times)