The o-contest

by BRK   

A 19-year-old online jerkoff star participates in a competitive 60-day no-nut challenge. Succeeding turns out to be harder than he thought.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it. It’s too hard.” I snickered, adding in a mutter, “I’m too hard.”

I knew I probably sounded loopy to whoever might be paying attention to the livestream the hoverbot next to me was feeding 24/7, but I didn’t care. Twenty-one days without an orgasm was making me punch-drunk; and life, or fate, or whatever horny supernatural power was governing my existence at the moment seemed bound and determined to make outlasting my opponents in this stupid o-challenge as excruciatingly difficult as possible.

Twenty-one days doesn’t sound like much, granted. But you gotta understand. I’m not just a randy 19-year-old boy with thick, hard equipment that feels pretty damn good in my hand. I’m a randy 19-year-old ExclusivelyEnthusiasts star who’s basically been training for the opposite of a no-nut contest for the past fucking year.

The idea was this. The bigwigs at EE clocked just how many of their top earners were making mucho dineros by flogging their meat for the cameras, and cooked up this big 60-day publicity-stunt competition to see which of us, out of the most obsessive and successful pro-level cock-floggers, could last the most days without spunking ourselves. The prize was a hundred thou in cold, hard cash plus bragging rights, including a permanent spot on the front page of the site for a full year.

I was like, I’m doing this. I gotta do this. Sure, I’ve basically managed to condition myself to cum multiple times a day, on camera, with hardly any stimulation. I made that my brand. But (I told myself), that just means I am attuned to my orgasms like no one else. I am driven, I am successful, I know my cock and balls better than any man on Earth knows his junk. I am the top dog. I got this.

So I accepted the invite and said I’d do it. They sent me some papers, and I signed an actual contract that said I was going to keep it in my pants and not orgasm for a full sixty days, laughing at how wonderfully fucked up the world was.

What surprised me was that past the first week it wasn’t sudden elimination. According to the terms, from week two onward, every orgasm incurred one jizzdemerit, plus a potential, undisclosed penalty to be determined by EE. I got the feeling that they didn’t expect anyone to make it the whole sixty days, and the winner would end up being decided based on lowest jizzdemerit count among the remaining contenders.

Of course, I was smugly certain I’d make it through with zero frickin’ jizzdemerits. I wasn’t going to cum until I had that check in my hands. I might even cum on the check, if I thought it would deposit afterwards.

Inking the contract meant agreeing to the hoverbot monitoring as well. The h-bots were pretty impressive, using what I was told was the latest in mini-drone technology—the one dogging me was no bigger than a fist and almost completely silent, all the rotors as internal as they could make them unless you looked at it from underneath, and the livestream images were like 32K HD. This thing was way ahead of what I thought was commercially possible. I forgot it was there sometimes. Most people didn’t even notice it, either, which is a little weird, but whatever.

Forcing everyone to accept h-bot monitoring was supposedly to deter cheating on our o-counts. This far in, though, I was starting to suspect they were also there so the fans could watch us get into sexy situations that were patently engineered to make us fail.

Originally there were ten of us, the top ten monkey-spankers according to a combination of view counts and earnings. But that was joke. Three of them orgasmed out in the first week, and out of the remaining seven, KielbasaKen, MisterTool, ToolMaster, BDOC, and SukkitSteve were also-rans from the start. It was always going to be between me and Evan11, that prick, and I was sure I had the inside track. See, I’d played soccer all through high school, and I’d been told I was a shoo-in for the college team when we did tryouts in the fall. I was used to holding my seed around hot naked guys in the showers and locker rooms. Evan, on the other hand, was famous for cumming within ten seconds of seeing a smooth, tightly muscled shirtless jock, and not just from images on a screen either. The handsome sleaze lived in a beach town and he used to livestream himself driving around secretly jerking off, spunking on his tee shirt without fail if he cruised past a hot, shirtless pedestrian. He got so many views for that kind of weird shit.

So, I was well positioned at the start to win this thing. What I didn’t anticipate was how tough holding out would get when it had been three weeks without an o and none in sight ‘til the finish line.

I had a summer job before college started, stocking afternoons at the big box store, and it wasn’t helping. (I made bank on EE but that was a secret, family-wise, right? Thus, the I’m-a-normal-boy-honest day job.) Having a public-facing retail gig meant encountering lots of people, and it was summer so, sure, some of them would be hot and wearing not much. But, fuck, the number of ripped pretty-face guys in loose muscle shirts and skimpy shorts wandering the aisles I was working in and asking me where something is in the store was getting insane.

Yesterday? Yesterday there were two different perfect-faced fitness-model hot couples grabbing my shoulder to ask where the hardware section was right at the top of the shift, their eyes raking over me like they were about to invite me into their SUV and take me home to meet the dogs. All this, while I’m acutely aware of how my work trousers are barely hiding the big fat five-star award-winning hard-on I’ve been wake up with every morning since the contest started and literally can’t get rid of. I stood there sweating, customer-service smile smacked on like a mask, while all I can think of is how amazingly well my fat pipe would fit in their tight, round little muscle butts.

Then, that night, going home? At one of the stops, the crosstown bus I was on stayed put longer than usual, and I realized it was slowly filling to the brim with the entire rugby team from some private college nearby, all clean and showered and in matching uniforms and looking like they were heading for the photo shoot for this year’s Manly Athletes to Jerk Off To En Masse calendar. By the time we got moving again they were solidly packed in all around me, laughing and groping each other, and whenever one of them grabbed my ass instead of another player’s they were like, “Oh, sorry bro, thought you were someone else.”

I took a long, cold shower when I got home, and even that was a problem—the way this contest worked, three cold showers in a week counted as a jizzdemerit, and I’d already had my first one of the week the day before.

After that I checked the standings on my phone. Only Evan11 and I hadn’t spunked yet in the contest, and I swore all over again I would outlast him no matter how hard it got.

Today was what drove me right to the edge. Overnight, out of the clear blue sky, they decided stocking was a two-person job, and so this morning they paired me with this beautifully built jock in a string tank top and Daisy Duke cutoffs. His name was Jarod and he had no sense of personal space whatsoever. He’d come right up in my face and start grinning at me while my dick throbbed violently in work trousers. He was exactly my type, too, damn it, with those red cocksucking lips I love that stand out on a pale cream complexion so your eyes are always drawn to them, and shoulders so deliciously sculpted my tongue just wanted to find all the joins and swells.

Honestly, that strong tank top was going to kill me. I caught the day manager, Walt, over his shoulder. “Where’s his uniform?” I whined.

Walt just shrugged, not caring. “On order,” he said, and wandered off to do whatever it was managers actually did all day.

Fine. Whatever. I could deal with nonstop stimulation. I could.

We got to work in the cereal aisle, opening up the big boxes of product, and our hands and forearms kept touching as we reached in for the next Captain Crunch or whatever. He stood right beside me, too, and I mean right beside, so our shoulders and triceps were constantly brushing against each other. “Duuude,” I said, about to ask for my space (very reluctantly, and solely in the interests of keeping my dick from finally exploding), when he interrupted me.

“You know, I kinda recognize you,” he said in an undertone as he faced the Super Sugar Crisp next to me. He eased a little closer so his bare upper arm was pressing lightly against mine through my uniform polo. “You’re SukkitSteve, right?” he glanced up at me, his blue eyes drinking me in like my face was hard to resist looking at.

I gaped at him, incredulous I’d been confused with that surferboy eight-inch wannabe—half the time you were as likely to be watching him toking as stroking. Or so I’d heard. Looking around quickly for any shoppers or employees that might overhear, I bent toward him and hissed, “What, just because we’re both blond? Dude, I’m—” I balked, suddenly realizing I was about to say my screen name aloud for the first time in real life, but it was too late now. “—I’m EasyShot, not—not that guy.”

His face lit up, his smile washing through my balls and giving me a hefty top-off of arousal that I really didn’t need. “Bro, for real? You’re awesome! Your dick is so big, I’ve cum to you so many times.” His eyes dropped lazily down my well-filled work shirt toward my trousers. He didn’t literally lick his lips, but he didn’t have to. Distractedly he added, “I guess I never really looked at your face as much.”

“Thanks,” I snarked. I wasn’t too offended. I knew I was really good looking, almost as much as this fucker in front of me, but I’ll admit I did tend to focus my streams on my body and my dick.

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I could see how much he was into said body and dick. This was not good. Hunger was a big turn-on for me, and his eyes were so hungry for my dick I think my hardon actually got about seven percent harder against my hip as I stared back at him.

His hand was on my flank, and I wasn’t sure when it had got there. It was warm through the fabric of my shirt in the over-air-conditioned store.

“Bro,” he whispered urgently, “I gotta see it.”

The solid iron bar of my dick strained against my pants like it was ready to burst out. I shivered. “That’s what the app is for,” I managed.

He smiled lewdly. “It’s right there, though,” he said. “Help me out, bro.”

I realized his hand was sliding along the side of my left glute, inches from its hard, flexing prize. Jerkily I took a step back, kicking the shipping box we were emptying into the middle of the aisle—right in the way of a handsome DILF couple that was eyeing me up like a prize steer. “Sorry, sorry,” I babbled, moving the box out of their way.

“No problem,” the beardier DILF said silkily.

I gulped, giving Jarod a wild look. “You can finish here, right? I just going to go and—” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, then turned abruptly and fled, out of the aisle, through the stockrooms, and out the back door.

This area was next to the loading dock and completely separate from the customer parking area, so between deliveries there should be no one back here but the occasional smoker. I looked around. No one here, no one in the loading dock. That furtive check was all I had time for. Fumbling at my work trousers, I got them open and let my dick spring free, snapping to full attention at a stiff thirty-degree angle from my abs. The glans and foreskin were already slippery with precum, and I didn’t waste any time grabbing my immutable tool with my left fist and working myself to my first ignominious jizzdemerit.

It didn’t take long. I had barely made two passes with my hand before I lived up to my name and erupted with big, surging arcs of cum. The amount of release was phenomenal—the first rounds spattered audibly on the concrete in front of me, pap-pap-pap, like a track from an ambient white noise playlist. Incredible pleasure flooded through me as I spectacularly nutted again and again. It was epic, honestly, the best orgasm I could remember.

Heavy and sated, I leaned back against the brick wall of the building behind me as the last spurts started to ebb. The euphoria was hitting me like a drug, the good stuff that would keep me high for a while. Fuck, I thought a little dazedly, if it’s this good after three weeks, I’m gonna start cumming on the full moon only from now on.

I heard some hoots and clapping and looked up to see a couple of the stock guys assigned to the back room were out of the loading dock, applauding my performance and whistling their appreciation. Listlessly I gave them the finger, and they laughed, moseying back to work.

After a while my sensory system evened out enough I could think again, and I knew I would need to do like the loading guys and do my actual job. With some difficulty, it must be said, I managed to tuck my semi-hard dick away and zipped myself back up before heading inside. As I did so, I was critically assessing the last little bit of my day on instant replay. I was a little chagrinned at my broken resolve, but also physically very relieved.

I couldn’t help but worry, though, as I started thinking about the contest again. My rivalry with my orgasm-nemesis, Evan11, was neck-and-neck, and I wasn’t going to let one little cum-spurting relapse get in the way of solidly and decisively beating that prick, and, yeah, pun intended.

I was wiped when I got back to my tidy little one-bedroom apartment that night. It was close to midnight and I was still feeling a little floaty from that single, epic, forbidden orgasm. My dick remembered it and wanted more of the same, and my balls were like, Come on, what’s wrong with you?

I felt grungy, so I took a long shower—a hot one, this time—and kept my hands off my dick with what felt like a superhuman effort of will. Finally I made some Tottori-style beef ramen and, still warm from the shower and totally buck naked, plopped down at the kitchen table with my laptop and logged into the creators side of the EE site.

A smile bloomed across my face as I used chopsticks to help me slurp my noodles. All evening I’d been cringing at the thought of seeing Evan11 on top, zero jizzdemerits to one, with me falling ingloriously into the peloton of also-ran online wankers who couldn’t keep from blowing their loads even with a six-figure payout on the line. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. According to the tote board I wasn’t the only one to slip up today: my cockrival had spunked, too. The race was still tied.

Curiously, under Evan11’s name in the statbox was a line of linked text that read “Penalties available: 1.” Still sucking up delicious noodles, I reached around and clicked. A chat window opened up, the same AI bot I’d used before for advice on livestream topics and on-site marketing idea. This time it said, “Congratulations, EasyShot! In today’s end-of-day tallies, your main rival, Evan11, racked up one (1) jizzdemerit. Because he has tied with you for the lead, you have earned the chance to apply one (1) penalty change to Evan11. What would you like to do?”

I stared at the blinking cursor, wanting to laugh despite being in mid-slurp. I was definitely still high, because my imagination was off and running at the thought of making “penalty changes” to that long-dicked schmuck. Presumably the idea was to make it so the contest was harder on Evan, so to speak, and I was so on board with that. My dick flexed excitedly, tapping against the side of the table.

I finished sucking in my noodles and typed in, “What are my options?”

Instantly, the AI bot replied, “Valid options include any change to Evan11 or his circumstances that might make it more challenging for him to refrain from orgasming during the contest.”

Any change, huh? I grinned and typed eagerly, “Like, bigger balls?”

There was half-beat hesitation, and then the AI bot replied, “Okay. Is that your requested change?”

I sucked in a fresh stream of noodles, giddy at the idea of constantly-ready-to-cum Evan needing to nut more urgently than ever because of his heavier, seed-churning balls. It didn’t even seem silly, or like something to be questioned. Something in me just went with it, loving the possibilities. I swallowed my ramen and typed, “Absolutely.”

“Okay,” the AI bot replied. “Your penalty has been applied. Is there anything more I can help you with?”

Ignoring the question, I closed the chat window and checked the stat board. The line under Evan’s name was grayed out and now read, “Penalties available: 0.” I giggled, finishing my meal with glee. It didn’t even occur to me that, given the mutual failure and the tied results, ol’ Evan might have gotten a penalty, too—not until there was a sudden banging on my apartment door just as the last noodle was slipping past my lips.

I looked up, wide-eyed, my towering cock twitching like an antenna. The banging came again. Slowly, I set down my empty bowl and crept to the door. “Who is it?” I called.

“Dude, it’s me, Jarod! Please, open up!”

Frowning, I slowly threw the deadbolts and opened the door. There, in my hallway, was my nearly irresistible, personal-space-oblivious new coworker, looking forlorn and miserable. He was completely drenched head to toe, his string tank-top plastered to his hefty chest and chiseled abs like it was some weird new kind of full-body tattoo. Alarmingly, by his feet was a carry-on-sized leather valise.

“Dude, I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “The sprinkler system in my apartment went haywire, and I got nowhere to go. I can bunk with you for a few days, right?” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed the bag and pushed past me into my living room, leaving me standing at the door staring at his amazing ass clinging to his sodden cutoffs, my big, crazy hard dick wanting into that crease like a moth spotting an especially sexy porch light.

This was either the worst luck imaginable, or I just got penaltied, I thought dejectedly, closing the door and falling against it, shaking my head. Not only was I totally boned, I was now also totally fucked.

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