“And you’ve gotta give the people what they want,” Chase says.
“What about what I want?” I whimper as they turn me around to face the stage.
“You want to be a winner, don’t you?” Eric asks.
“Want to be a winner so you can take our fucking cum like the good little whore you are?” Chase adds.
“Yes,” I whisper. “M-more than anything.”
“Then go get ‘em,” Eric says, pushing me forward.
“Show ‘em what you’re made of.” Chase squeezes my han
d before I go.
“And now for our final contestant,” the announcer on the stage croons into the mic. “The glamorous, delectable, and totally nude…Protein Plus’ Kara Gilmore!”
I take a wobbly step forward, then another. Then another.
As the lights hit me, my nipples get harder than ever. I’m pretty sure they make all the pussy-juice still on my face and thighs glitter in their glow.
I am a fucking winner, dammit.
And if I have to convince this whole arena full of people to give me a stupid fucking crown just so I can get my lips wrapped around Chase and Eric’s 12-inch dicks again…
Then it’s time to fucking shine, baby.
Kara
The first step I take onto the stage is shaky.
So is the second.
But by the third, I’m gliding, and by the fourth, I’m sashaying in my heels like a dame in a Fred Astaire flick.
Except, of course, I’m naked—but other than that, I’m cool, calm, and collected as can be.
It’s kind of weird, being naked in front of a crowd. Mom always told me that when I speak in front of many people, I should envision them naked. This is a lot like that—except now I’m the one in the nude.
But you get used to being naked after a while, I’ve realized—and the orgasms Chase and Eric just gave me aren’t exactly hurting. The longer I have my clothes off, the more natural it feels.
By the time I’m at my place on stage, standing there before the mic, I’m not even fazed.
I’m in the zone. I’m focused—as much as I can be, considering how wet I am.
“Good evening, Kara,” the pageant host says to me.
This dude has the leatheriest tan skin and the shiniest white smile I’ve ever seen. He looks like even his Botox has had Botox, and his comb-over had a comb-over. Plus, I’m pretty sure somebody tied his bow tie too tightly.
“Good evening, America,” I say, finding a camera filming me over the crowd and giving it my sauciest wink.
The host looks flustered—typical fucking dude, to be on a stage surrounded by beautiful naked women and still expect to be the star of the show.
“First and foremost, Miss Gilmore,” he says, “let me just ask—how was your trip?”
The pervy-looking dude at the drum kit in the orchestra pit grins up at me and follows up the bad joke with a little snare, bass—ba dum tish!
I’m fucking annoyed—I feel like they’re trying to rile me up. Maybe if I wasn’t still all drunk on orgasm, it would’ve worked, too.