The Biggest Dick

He continued to watch Brenda, marooned now on her little platform, as she stared out into the sea of people. Dave followed her gaze, and saw that the arena appeared slightly darkened relative to the glare of Brenda's spotlight. From out of the shadows gleamed the eyes of hundreds of people, necks craned forward, breaths held, barely even blinking, all riveted on this disheveled woman with a ripped blouse—or more accurately, on the spectacle she would soon present. Brenda still clearly wasn't processing everything that was happening. She did not react to the cat-calls from the crowd, nor to the double-entendres Rocky continued to pour into his mic. But somehow, standing on that particular spot—and recalling dimly what had gone on there the day before—seemed to evoke in Brenda a sense of what it was she was supposed to do there. A sense of what it was that everyone was expecting to see happen next.

And so she began moving, with a mechanical deliberation. It wasn't that she was delaying, or even hesitating, Dave thought, but rather that she was proceeding carefully and precisely, plucking each successive movement out of the fog swirling in her mind, considering it, and then putting it into effect. She allowed her top to drape open again, and tugged with her hands at the upper sleeves, first left and then right, to extract her bare arms. Then she carefully began to fold the ruined blouse—fold it?!—and leaned over to place it gently on the floor beside her. Her soft-cup bra was also light pink (presumably coordinated to avoid showing through on TV, Dave thought ruefully), trimmed with lace, and low-cut. As she bent down, her breasts hung loose, barely restrained by the garment. The upper edge of each nipple peeked out from behind the soft fabric, just a shade or two darker pink. The audience had already had a lingering, close-up look at her tits today—heck, they had filled every studio monitor—and yet still a ragged chorus of cheers and hoots went up from the part of the audience that found themselves looking straight down her cleavage while she dangled.

And so it went. Brenda's long ripples of caramel-brown hair were mussed and tangled, but she didn't think to brush them back into place. (Actually, Dave noted, the way they hung in curly wisps in front of her eyes and cheeks was deeply fetching, albeit with a touch of pathos.) She eased off her navy flats, and then drew down the zipper on the right flank of her skirt. As before, instead of letting it drop to the ground, she stepped carefully out of it, like she was changing clothes after work. Her panties were a simple, hipster model in light blue—not frumpy or unappealing, but basic. The knee-raises involved in removing the skirt, first left, then right, exposed a flash of polyester-clad crotch each time, and the crowd ate this up. (Dave was fleetingly glad to see no pubic hair was poking out, although he also recognized that this was a ridiculous thought, given what was in store for her.) She leaned down to place the folded skirt on top of the blouse, and once again everyone enjoyed the view of her chest.

The little peeks and teases she had inadvertently made available to them had revved the crowd up, and they were in a frenzy now to see beneath Brenda's lingerie. She reached back and unhooked her bra. Almost casually she pulled one strap and then the other over her bare, golden-skinned shoulders, cupped both hands on her breasts, and pulled the bra away, baring her chest in one steady movement. Her tits were weighty and fulsome—tracing smooth concave arcs down from her clavicle and then swelling out to a pair of slightly pendulous teardrops. Dave knew that the audience members, seeing these luscious tits staring back at them, full frontal, could be in no doubt that Brenda was all woman. The only question when it came to tits like these was: would you rather cup their ample undersides, or simply grab them in two big handfuls.

Having doubled one half the bra over the other, Brenda bent over again to set it on the pile. The crowd was mesmerized. Her tits hung there for a frozen second, swaying, stretched tantalizingly downward by gravity, further accentuating the deep gap between them. Her nipples were large, three inches across maybe, and puffy, rising almost half an inch from the surrounding tissue. And now they were pointed straight downward, positioned at the very tips of the breasts as they hung there—light pink domes that begged to be massaged into hardness.

And so she was down to her panties. Even at the last, Brenda continued to undress, rather than strip. Dave supposed this was her mind's way of trying to normalize the unendurable. She pulled the light blue undies down to just above her knees—and, to the dismay of most present, the tilt of her torso and placement of her arms made it hard to see the pussy thus exposed. Then she stepped her legs out of them, one at a time. With each leg lift, the people in the seats strained to see the little flash of labia thus revealed. Although she was obviously not trying to entice, the maneuver still left the sense that she was opening herself up just a fraction more than she had to. Paradoxically, the classic panty tease-and-drop would have been considerably less tantalizing. For, of course, no one managed to see enough of the goodies between her thighs to be satisfied. The need to see—to know—the space between Brenda's legs crackled almost audibly through the room.

She didn't try to fold this last little bundle of cloth, but simply dropped it atop her neat stack of clothes. Then she straightened up, feet slightly apart, arms at her sides. Brenda's task was complete: it was all hanging out—she was stripped, exposed, resigned. A collective exhalation of release escaped from the onlookers. At last her naked form was on display for them, quelling some of the tension that had built up during her quirky little routine. The people basked in her vulnerability, and in their feeling of possession.

For Dave, on the other hand, this first glimpse of his naked wife brought a shock. Her pussy was bare! Never in their life together had she shaved it all off. And as far as he could tell (this was confirmed by subsequent events) she had not just shaved, but gotten a Brazilian wax. So that was what she had been doing at the hotel spa! He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out exactly why she had done this; and he certainly didn't have the nerve to ask her later. After their first conversation, a long three months ago, she had never given him even a hint that she thought—or feared—that they might lose. Still, that notion had evidently lingered in her mind somewhere, whether conscious or unconscious. This, apparently, was what she had done to prepare for the worst.

The worst was now fast approaching. "Brenda, I gotta say... WOW!," Rocky taunted. "You're really rocking the bare down there! You know—just between you and me—I feel like I wanna stick out my tongue and lick you from head to CAMELtoe!" Dave thought a glint of life was beginning to return to Brenda's sapphire eyes. He could well understand, though, how the stinging realization of their defeat had thrown her into such profound bewilderment. She had envisioned one narrative stretching out before her, and then, in an instant, there was a sharp break, and she found herself on a completely different path. A whole lot of things that she couldn't imagine and couldn't tolerate—things that she could not conceive allowing herself to be a part of—were suddenly bearing down on her like a freight train. She had believed they were in control, and then that comforting illusion had been stripped away. Her trust in Dave had been misplaced, and now a stranger was going to do things to her body, inside and out, that she herself had no say in at all. It was a lot to absorb.

But she did indeed appear to be coming out of her stupor, for her eyes seemed more focused, and her awareness of the things being said and done around her a bit more lucid. That was a mixed blessing, given the nature of Rocky's monologue. In response to his jibes, her right hand reflexively angled in front of her abdomen, half-obscuring her pussy. She wasn't making a serious effort to cover up—it was more a defensive move, almost as if to ward off a physical blow to the groin. Still a vocal contingent from the crowd was quick to boo any obstruction to their view. Her arm vacillated briefly, and then dropped back to her side. She was thinking clearly enough to understand that there was really no point in trying to conceal anything.

The view she provided was undeniably magnificent. Brenda was no flower at first bloom, it was true, but her well-cultivated body had matured into a harmonious ensemble of desirable femininity. She had probably never had a 'perfect' hourglass form, but her body still followed that general pattern. Beneath her cascades of hair and generous, gently swaying breasts, her belly was flat (with only the faintest of stretch marks visible below her navel), while her sides tucked in puckishly at the waist. Below that she widened to a broad pair of hips and a toned set of pleasingly-meaty thighs. Her pubic area lacked dramatic hills and valleys of the sort that Amy had unveiled the day before, and the interior of her pussy remained hidden within the protective wrapper of her labia. The effect, therefore, was that of a smooth curve, bending down and under to her hidden depths. This triangular expanse was broken only by her narrow slit, which started a good way up her pubic bone before plunging down between her thighs.

Rocky's motor-mouth rolled on, unabated. Who knows why he said the things he did—they often appeared only loosely connected to what he saw before him—but apparently he was good at steering events in a commercially-rewarding direction. "God you got some curvy hips, girl!," his voice dripped onto the mic, in a faux-conspiratorial undertone. "Now don't go lying to me, Brenda, 'cause I can tell, but isn't that cunt of yours just achin' to pop out Paul's baby? Easy as pie! How is it Dave ain't given you five or ten brats by now? Something wrong with his plumbing, am I right?"

Yes, Brenda was definitely coming back to her senses. As this latest series of insults and innuendos hit home, she turned her head for a moment and caught Dave's gaze—the first time she had looked at him since Paul's victory had been declared. Her blue eyes had a haunted quality, but exactly what the glance signified Dave found impossible to say. A futile plea for rescue? Sympathy for the denigration of his manhood? Growing recognition that what was to come would very likely end up impregnating her? He had no idea.

"OK Brenda, you saw how much fun Amy had with our little contraption yesterday, right? Dave gave her quite a ride didn't he? Yes, he was having some FUN with that young filly's pussy... Now I think that Amy was kind a slut. She just laid herself wiiiide open for your man, didn't she? But why should she have all the fun? I think it's time for you to step up and give that machine a fling. 'Cause I know Paul's sure looking forward to inserting his TEN INCH DICK into that sweet little hole of yours..."

A very lucid panic was definitely rising in Brenda's form now. You could see her muscles tensing and twitching, her chest heaving higher, her eyes starting to dart from one spot to another, pupils dilated. Under immediate threat of physical violation, Dave figured, the adrenal response was kicking in. Fight or flight. He believed for a second that she was going to actually try to run off the stage; and he honestly didn't know what would happen if she did. But the truth was that on this show, the purest violence was psychological, not physical, and somehow Brenda seemed to get that too. Her expression was crying out: this is institutionalized rape! They can't do this to me! They can't make me get in that machine! They can't open me up the way Dave did Amy! And yet at that same moment, another part of her brain apparently recognized, somehow, that blind action was not going to get her out of this situation. And so she kept herself in check, rooted to the spot.

The panic didn't dissipate, but instead was redirected. You could see the gears turning in Brenda's mind, as she tried to think a way out of her peril. But the more she applied reason to the situation, Dave knew, the more unavoidable her fate would loom. Logic could only tell her that the producers of the show held every last card. She may not have read the rules, but Brenda was businesslike when it came to forms and contracts, and Dave believed she had a reasonably coherent sense of all the papers they'd signed. It was true, in a technical sense, that no one could force her to open up her legs and allow some stranger's cock inside her. However, the contracts did clearly state that if they did anything to disrupt the day's production, they would be on the hook for all its costs. That sum must run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. It would wipe out the kids' college fund, their 401k's, the house, the cars. They'd be out on the street, and still their wages would probably be garnished until the day they died. There was a very good reason that the producers didn't accept any brokes or deadbeats.

Moreover, who could they complain to about this if they wanted to? They weren't in America anymore. No, the producers were definitely not stupid. From the little he had seen of this podunk third-world island, Dave was confident that no one there would give a rat's ass about some random woman from El Norte with an implausible allegation of sexual coercion. Especially not when the producers had (no doubt) made a long practice of greasing the palms of local officials.

(Dave was troubled by one additional thought, which he fervently hoped hadn't occurred to Brenda, and simultaneously pretended hadn't occurred to him either. This was that if they accused the show of attempted rape now, then that might lead to questions about that... thing... he himself had done the day before...)

It appeared that Brenda was reaching a broadly similar set of conclusions: that she was going to have to relinquish herself, her body, for the next half hour, and then try to pick up the pieces afterwards. She stepped off the platform. With quick, jerking steps—an indecisive gait that betrayed a continued warring of thoughts and emotions in her mind—Brenda followed Delilah's gestured guidance toward the web of slender, unyielding steel rods that awaited her.

-----

Dave was looking at Brenda's back now. Her ass cheeks rested on a pair of the articulated metal rods. Down from there, they ran behind her legs; upwards they joined at her coccyx, followed her back, and branched off behind both arms. At key points she was anchored to them with straps that appeared soft but steely. Wherever the rods moved, she would move.

Looking past his wife, Dave could see Paul and Kim. Kim seemed to want to give Paul the best possible send-off—to make sure he was unburdened by any guilt, fully aroused, and ready to enjoy every second of his time with Brenda. Not that Paul would have needed much pumping up—anyone could see that his eyes had been glued to Brenda's naked form ever since the moment that her slit came into view: his jaw was set, his nostrils flared. Kim gave a little giggle as she looked over at his cock—yes, there was no doubt he was primed. His foreskin was fully back, and his ponderous beet-red shaft ran parallel to the ground now, along a vector aimed in Brenda's direction. Kim leaned partway over, took the head of his cock between her lips (more or less filling her mouth), and gave it a little suck. "That's for luck," she chirped. Then she stood up on her toes to kiss his downturned mouth, caressing his chest as she did so. Finally she slapped his bare backside and said "I love you, honey—have fun! And make sure you put it all the way inside her!"

"Love you too Kim," Paul said gruffly, as he moved to collect the joystick from the production assistant. Paul's fingers may have been stubby, but they seemed to fly over the controller. He probably wasted a lot of time playing video games, thought Dave. At any rate, he had clearly read the instruction book. He had a grin on his face as he put Brenda through her paces. Dave didn't know exactly what Paul was trying to achieve. Maybe he enjoyed the power of manipulating his very own naked female marionette. Maybe he was trying to disorient Brenda, and lower her resistance. Or maybe (even probably, to judge by his frank smile), it was just a lark for him. Paul didn't seem to be a particularly complicated individual.

First Paul flipped Brenda upside down, and spread her arms and legs wide. The pose was something like the famous da Vinci figure, except inverted and female, and with the legs somewhat further apart. In spinning her end over end, Paul had turned Brenda's front toward Dave. She didn't look at him—maybe she was too dizzy to know what she was looking at. Her hair and tits hung toward the ground, creating an odd spectacle. More erotically, her clamshell outer lips had split open, leaving her pussy exposed for the first time, inner folds splayed out toward the sky. Paul moved closer to her back, and with a proprietary gesture of ownership, draped his upper arm between her butt-cheeks, in order to slowly and methodically rub her nub of a clit, with a circular motion.

Dave thought, fairly or not, that the next maneuver was meant for him personally. Paul rotated Brenda again, not back to front this time, but clockwise, so that she continued to face Dave. This brought her upright, with her arms still outstretched. Paul then began narrowing Brenda's thighs, until they were only five or six inches apart. This was sufficient for her labia to close up again. Paul was still behind Brenda, and for a minute Dave couldn't see what he was doing. Then a pair of clumsy hands circled around the woman's hips, dug into her crotch, and pulled her open once more. Her clitoris was revealed, a small pinkish-brown button, as were the two frills of sensitive inner tissue which descended from it. Next, Dave saw Paul's enormous cock begin to poke out between her legs. Paul ran the head of it across Brenda's inner lips and clit, one, two, three times—the soft flesh of their respective organs deforming and mingling as he pressed against her folds. Then he moved closer in and pressed his groin up against Brenda's ass, shifting the base of his cock into the space between her pussy lips. While he was doing this, more and more of the head and shaft poked out from between her crotch, at a spot that lay squarely in Dave's line of vision. Brenda was looking at it too, from above, and Dave guessed she could see four... five... six inches, sticking straight out between her legs, while all the time feeling a nobby, fleshy, stony hardness pressing up into her parted slit. Now, as Paul began thrusting his shaft back and forth along her pussy (his girth filling most of the gap between her legs), she followed the cyclic motion of the glans with her eyes, as if spellbound. Her expression was agitated, her jaw clenched; Dave could only imagine her state of mind as she contemplated the size of that prick, and anticipated that these same piston movements would soon be directed deep into her cunt.

Paul pulled out and manipulated the controls once more. The next pose seemed intended to thrill the cameras. Brenda was face-down now, head slightly lower than tail, with her thighs and knees stretched wide. Paul gave her back an arch, forcing her pussy back and her ass still higher into the air. In effect she was in a crawling position, legs akimbo, but with every part of her form tweaked to maximize the exposure of the space between her legs. As the piece-de-resistance, he rotated her slightly, so her wide-spread ass was pointed directly at Camera 2. Dave could see the money-shot on the studio monitors. Brenda's silky-smooth nether regions filled the screen. Not only were her outer labia open, but even the ruddy inner lips had been tugged apart by the stretch of her thighs. The spot where her vagina curved into her body was clearly visible, and above that her anus made a cute little pink pucker.