Wet T-Shirt Contest

by M1ke Hunt

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .

Desc: Sex Story: (#19) with this handy title you need an explanation?

Special Announcement:

I've set up a little web page with all of my stories. I wanted to have the address be M1KE HUNT, but that name made the server get wet and it became unstable. You understand. So I've had to open up yet a THIRD address. It's MrM1KE@aol.com. I asked one of the tech support people at AOL why it wouldn't work at the M1KE HUNT name, and while she was eating lunch she told me "Gruumpg xopplwv tuupixxt flmp HTML." And then she said "Wiomghfflup htwelng asdfghjkl ersmpo AOL." So now I understand.

The website is <http://members.aol.com/mrm1ke>. Actually it's not a website because it's not on the web. Jeez, I'm already lying and I haven't even started the story yet! No "www" in the address, notice? AOL must be trying to save on electrons.

Anyway, MrM1KE is the address, and it's my new e-mail address, too. I need to get some of the old addresses back, especially since I bought that new "Nationwide Pizza by E-mail" franchise. Only $2500! Maybe you've heard of them? I hadn't until I got their e-mail. At first I thought it was just spam, but I read it and it sure looks like a winner to me. Hey! Spam pizzas! I just thought of it! Anyhow, the company has a special deal with FedEx to get 'em to you quick. And they'll let me buy a special oven from them for only another $2000. The program is actually quite involved. And they're very big on hygiene. I have to wash my hands every time I leave the bathroom! Sheesh.

I'll keep the other addresses open for a while, but if you're going to write, use the MrM1KE address, would you? Yes, the 2nd character in "M1KE" is still a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. I guess the "Mister" part sounds a little formal, but a successful businessman, like I am about to be, needs to present a certain dignity to the community, don't you think?

Oh, and check out the website, or whatever you call it when it's not on the web. I'm trying to get the pizzas to dance, but they're not cooperating yet. It has something to do with "rehmmilmpf gualomit frempling sahtpoxl Java" or something. At least that's what she told me.

People under age 7 can't read this. Can't read anything, actually.
People under age 12 shouldn't read this; they won't understand it.
People under age 18 mustn't read this; it's illegal.

If you're 18 or over, put your dick in your hand and LET'S GO!
(Ladies are encouraged to substitute a clitoris for the aforementioned dick.)

I didn't belong on stage, at least not on this one. I was on Spring Break along with about four jillion other college kids and was just farting around at one of two hundred beaches in Florida when I won a contest.

It wasn't exactly a competition to be proud of, not one I'd tell my grandkids about probably. I chugged a liter of beer faster than ten other guys and won. And I didn't even puke afterwards.

Luckily I was comfortable in front of people. I'd been in the Drama Club in high school, and had even had a couple of small parts in some of the college plays. So being in front of an audience was no big deal. I mean, how hard could this assignment be? I didn't have to act. I was supposed to pour water on about 20 girls in a wet T-shirt contest. I figured I could handle it.

Little did I know.

First, there's a technique I had to master, as the guy actually running the show told me.

"Listen," he said. "You think you're just going to splash water on them, but there's more to it than that. You have to make sure to pour just at the top of their tits. Watch out for their hair, don't get it wet, cause they'll go nuts. Make sure you try to keep the water in the tub, I don't want somebody slipping and falling off the stage. After you're done with each girl, get a new pitcher for the next one; I don't want you wandering around when it's time to get the next girl started. Be careful. The pitchers are glass..." He kept droning. Like if I'd known it was this complicated, I would have applied for my union card. Tit-Waterers of America, Team 304, you know?

I went backstage to the dressing room. There were more than 20 girls in various stages of undress. Some instinctively clasped their arms in front of themselves as I poked my head through the door. "Weird," I thought. "They're about to prance around in front of 300 guys in a wet, low cut muscle shirt."

"Ten minutes," I called out. The action in the room became frantic. Men's cotton undershirts started flying everywhere. Bathing suit bottoms were donned; a few of the girls were already dressed for the event and spent their remaining minutes touching up their eye makeup or their hair. I couldn't really see any of them. I felt like a Gulf War fighter pilot on the road to Kuwait: Too many targets of opportunity. I couldn't single out any of them.

The crowd was getting restless. Of course. 300 guys in a bar, waiting for women to come out and take off their clothes. This was not exactly a refined Symphony Hall audience. They hooted and jeered. A few whistled.

The emcee stepped on stage. I took my position next to a kids' plastic swim tub. I picked up a pitcher and held it over my head. The crowd went wild. The emcee grinned. I guess I did good.

He waved his arms to hush the crowd. When the noise had quieted a little he began his spiel.

"Hey Guys, Welcome to the Happy Lizard Lounge!" A big cheer. He waved his arms again. "And welcome to the Friday night wet T-shirt contest!" A bigger cheer. He quieted the crowd again.

"Tonight we have 24 beautiful girls in the back just waiting to come out and let you see what you shouldn't see!" Another cheer. "Here are the rules:" A few boos. Guys are so juvenile, you know? "First, no booing." More boos. "Anyone booing will be thrown off the premises, face first." Silence. "These girls are working hard up here..." A few snickers..."and we don't want ANYONE embarrassed. Understood?" A few hands clapped. "Second, we'll judge by your applause. General noise, whistles, hands clapping, whatever. It all counts. So make yourselves heard if you like the girl. Third, we'll narrow the field to a final five, then have a run-off competition. Fourth, I'm the final judge. Period. OK, that's it."

He paused. He looked over the crowd, now milling about in anticipation. "OK, let's PARTY!" he screamed. The crowd erupted. Music blared from the huge speakers on both sides of the stage. The noise lasted at least a full minute, maybe two. He made no effort to quiet the audience.

When the decibels began to decline, he pulled the microphone back to his mouth and said, "Let's welcome Sissy!" The crowd roared. Sissy stepped forward, and he held her hand as though they were doing a minuet. She walked in a circle around him. He led her to me.

I motioned for her to step into the plastic tub. I picked up a pitcher of water. It was cold, I knew. The beaker actually had a few ice cubes floating in the top, I guessed to bring the girls nipples up quickly. I threw the pitcher of water at her front and it splashed wildly. It soaked her shirt, of course, but much of the water flew outside the tub onto the stage. I guess the emcee was right; I'd have to be more careful. He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

Sissy stepped forward on to the stage. She had a nice figure, with medium sized breasts, topped by pointy nipples that showed easily through the man's thin cotton work shirt that was the girls' approved uniform. She danced and bounced through a three minute song and the guys loved it. When the music faded, the emcee pointed to the crowd and said "Let's hear it for Sissy." A big cheer went up. He was judging.

"OK guys," he said. "Let's welcome our next contestant for tonight's big $500 prize. Here comes Michelle." Michelle walked out from the wings and paraded across the stage. The emcee waved her over to me, and I got ready. She stepped into my tub, and stuck her chest way out. I poured the water carefully across her chest, watching as the cloth soaked it up, then clung to her every contour. The emcee looked at me and smiled. I was learning.

Michelle stepped out of the tub and walked to the apron of the stage. The music started, a heavy percussion number that lent itself to a violent dance. Michelle didn't disappoint. She bumped and bounced, her heavy tits bobbling under the wet undershirt. About half way through the number she crossed her arms in front of herself, picked up the bottom of the shirt and began to take it off. As it reached the level of her breasts the crowd went wild, and she paused before she continued. She had a big smile on her face. She was having a good time. Michelle got a great round of applause when it was over, and the emcee charged straight ahead.

"Time for contestant #3. From Phoenix, Arizona, welcome Francis!" I expected an 80 year old. Instead a cute blonde girl came forward. She was only about 5'2", but had an amazing hourglass figure. She wore a hip-cut bathing suit bottom and the standard issue man's white cotton undershirt. On her it was huge, but nobody seemed to mind.

I did my duty. I wasn't tired of this job yet; maybe by the year 2525 I would be, you know? As I raised the pitcher, she leaned over but pulled the top of the neck forward. She wanted me to pour the water on the inside of the shirt. As she stretched the material forward, I had a splendid view of her magnificent real estate. She bent over to give me a better look. I looked, and looked, and looked, until I heard the emcee on the PA system saying "Let's get Mike going, or the rest of us won't ever see Francis." A roar from the crowd snapped my reverie, and I poured. I grabbed a second pitcher. She didn't really need it, but if she was going to stand there and pull her shirt open for me, I was going to take advantage of it.

Francis leapt out of the tub and began her dance. Instead of lifting the bottom of her shirt, however, she tugged down at the neckline and bent forward, allowing the audience first a flash of one breast, then another. She yanked at the neckline harder, and the cloth began to give way. It ripped about halfway down her chest, which apparently satisfied her for the moment. She put her hands on each side of the tear and began to tug it apart. She had just finished completely ripping the shirt as the music ended, and the crowd went nuts. Francis had perfect tits. She'd be a finalist, for sure.

The emcee announced Sheryl. She came over to me and said "Just pour the water down the sides of my breasts. Leave the middle part dry."

I had completed my apprenticeship in tit-watering, I guess, and was moving on to the more complicated aspects of the job. I did as she asked. The undershirt clung to the sides of her breasts, and the nipples were clearly outlined, but the center section wasn't wet at all. It was a different effect, and like all displays involving tits and water, a nice one.

She danced to the center of the stage, where she jiggled and bounced for the audience. But their enthusiasm was restrained, especially after seeing Francis. With about a minute to go in her song, Sheryl ran back to my area, grabbed a pitcher of water, and ran back to the front of the stage. She let it fly against herself in one huge motion, the giant "Splat" of water ricocheting off her chest and breasts and dousing the first two rows of the audience. The emcee looked at me. I shrugged as if to say "Not my fault, mon."

Sheryl's finish got a good reaction from the crowd but I didn't know if she'd make the finals or not.

Next came Lucy (cute), then Roberta (tasty), then Leigh (hard). The emcee made a joke out of her name. "Is it pronounced 'Lee' or 'Lay'", he leered. Like she'd never heard it before.

She grabbed the microphone and said "It's 'Lee', like in 'Is it ree-LEE all the way in, yet?'

Even the emcee was flustered. The crowd erupted. She could have been wearing a rubber raincoat; I knew she'd make the finals. She did a good dance, cementing her position. The crowd loved her. So did I. And I don't usually like 'hard.' Leigh was a good horse, 'well-rode' as they say.

We went through another half-dozen in quick succession. All lovely. All curvaceous. All ended up with the shirt on the stage instead of on their body.

Then came Maxine. She knew what to do without coaxing. She walked the length of the stage, approached me, and stuck out her tits. I watered her as I had the others. I was getting good at this. Her music started. She ripped off her shirt within the first 30 seconds. I couldn't wait to see what she was going to do next. She walked to the front of the stage, turned around and bent over. She wiggled her ass at the audience, and the guys hooted and hollered. She stayed bent over, with her hands on her ankles. She slowly slid them up her legs until she reached the bottom of her suit.

Then in one quick motion, she grabbed the edge of the triangle of cloth and yanked it to the side, revealing her cunt to the entire audience. The screams were incredible, and drowned out the emcee who was bellowing on the PA system trying to restore order. He waved at the DJ to cut the audio, but the music guy was as entranced as I was in the performance on stage and didn't see the signal. The emcee fairly ran to the sound booth and killed the CD. The song stopped, leaving only the noise from the cheering crowd. A few boos were heard.

"Sorry guys. Sorry. Can't do that. Don't want to lose our liquor license." Maxine remained bent over for the audience's viewing pleasure. "Maxine," he called. "MAXINE," he called again. She bent her neck to look up at him. "I'm sorry, you're disqualified." More boos from the audience. "No, ah, below the belt shots. Didn't they explain that to you in the dressing room?" She nodded; she knew but didn't care. The crowd ate it up.

"Sorry. You're disqualified," he repeated. "Try again another night, OK?" She finally straightened up. The crowd cheered her off the stage with one of the loudest ovations of the evening.

We went through another series of girls. Tall and short, blonde and brunette, big chested and small. Some with fabulous legs, some with terrific tits, all with a great attitude. Every girl had something to commend herself, and I was just happy to play my little part in helping. It's the kind of guy I am.

By the time the last contestant came on stage, I was a pro. Perfectly pouring my water first across their nipples, then higher up on the slopes of the breasts, finally all the way across their chest. Unless they had special instructions for me, which they rarely did.

I knew who the winners were. Everybody did. Oh maybe there could have been six or seven finalists instead of five, but it was clear who belonged on stage for the second and final round. The emcee brought his five favorites all back at the same time and had them dance to a song. I was surprised. I thought they'd all do an individual number again. I guess he was tired or something. Or maybe it was 1:00 in the morning and the bar wasn't doing its earlier business. Anyway, the five girls danced, and then he held his hand over each of their heads and asked for applause.

It came down to two, Francis and Leigh, two of the early contestants of the night. I thought they had a little unfair advantage, because once the first 10 girls or so had danced it was really hard to break out of the pack. The award could have gone either way, from the crowd noise. But the emcee picked Leigh as the $500 winner, and gave Francis the $100 runner-up prize. It was a popular choice, judging from the crowd reaction. I'd've flipped 'em, myself.

My moment in the spotlight had ended. I didn't care. I'd had an erection for two hours and I needed some relief. Any relief. I'd've even happily used Lefty, if you know what I mean.

Which, of course, is exactly how my evening ended. You're surprised? It could happen, even in a dirty story. Lefty's helped me a lot. We're pals.

The next day I hit the beach, refreshed and relaxed. Actually it was about 2PM before I got any part of my body into truly functional mode, but I was on vacation and I thought that was pretty good, considering.

After watching the girls in their bikinis on the beach and the good looking guys and smooth talkers work their magic on them, I looked at Lefty and said, "Probably you and me again tonight, kid." That's the trouble with Spring Break: Lots of promise, not enough delivery, at least for me. I suppose everybody thinks that. Except for Jerry Valentine, of course. Quarterback on the football team. Handsome as the day is long. Smooth around girls. Maybe I'll write a torture story about him someday.

I had just finished dinner, chili and a beer, and was headed back up to the room to change. The hotel was severely elevator challenged, to use the popular vernacular. Three lifts for 10 floors, probably 40 rooms to a floor. At dinnertime it was a madhouse. Somebody told me it was the same at breakfast. I wouldn't know.

About 15 of us crowded into the car that arrived after a wait of several minutes. Which was pretty good, because the capacity of the car was 12, I think. So we weren't seriously overloaded. Thank goodness! I was one of the first ones aboard; I ended up against the back wall.

We were on our way up, albeit slowly, when I realized that one of my T-shirt contestants was standing directly in front of me in the elevator. I remembered her because she was one of the final two, the one who had lost. I scanned my somewhat disabled memory banks and pulled up her name.

"Francis," I said. "I thought you should have won."

She twisted her head and looked up into my face. It took her a few moments to recognize me. At least I think that's what that blinking of her eyes meant.

"M1KE HUNT," I said. "I was the water pourer. You should have won. Could have gone either way, I guess, but I thought you were better." I was speaking in a lower than average voice and with the gibberish of the other conversations in the elevator, nobody heard except her. People may be quiet in most elevators, but not at Spring Break, not at this hotel, and especially not when people are getting ready to go out and party.

She smiled a killer smile. "Thanks," she said without a trace of embarrassment. "I would have liked to. Not only for the ego. The 500-bucks would have been nice, too."

"Yeah, well, I didn't get a vote. But you were terrific. You LOOK fabulous."

"Thanks," she said, as the elevator reached the fourth floor. Somebody had punched "6"; we were about to stop for a departure. It might even have been her.

I was just about to ask if she wanted to go out for a drink when suddenly the elevator lurched. We heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal, and the box holding us stopped dead. The overhead fluorescent went out, and an emergency battery light came on dimly. The battery was on its last legs.

Silence. Then sudden pandemonium. Voices were screaming, people were shouting instructions to others who weren't listening. After 30 seconds of madness the noise began to subside. Somebody told the people up by the front to search for an emergency phone. The elevator quieted as someone went about the task.

"Got it!" a voice said.

"Pick it up," another voice called out.

"Duh," the first voice replied.

Suddenly there was a loud thud, and a scream.

"Oh shit," said one voice.

"Oh shit," said another.

"What? What happened?" a chorus of voices from the back including mine wanted to know.

"Somebody fainted," came the reply. "Get back. Give her air."

We were already nose to nipple. But everybody pushed back to give the faintee some room. Which had the effect of pushing Francis directly into me. Her back pressed firmly into my chest, my groin made a pointed statement at her rear.

"Sorry," I whispered. "This is not the best impression I could be making..."

"I like the impression just fine," she said, twisting her head slightly and looking me in the eye. She wiggled her fanny.


In the Boy Scouts they had taught us to be prepared. They never said for what. Now I knew. I was prepared to take advantage of this magnificent opportunity that fate had presented me. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, but that had the effect of hunching me over and stopping the contact between my boner and her butt. I talked quickly. "How about dinner, later?" I said.

"Can't," she said. "I have a date."

"How about tomorrow?" I countered.

"Leaving on a 10AM flight. Sorry."

I clearly had a crisis to deal with. What to do, what to do... I stood back up straight and pushed my hardening dick into her rear. She wiggled. I took one of her hands and brought it around back and placed it on top of my bathing suit. She squeezed. I used my other hand to free my cock from the webbing that held it inside the suit, and let it escape down one of the pant legs. She grasped it.

I couldn't believe it. Skin to skin contact. Epidermal ecstasy. In a crowded elevator. With a gorgeous girl, who I had only been introduced to, sort of, the night before. Her hand kept a tight hold on me, as she squeezed and massaged my engorged penis. Now it was time for my hands to go to work.

I slipped a hand up under her windbreaker, and my fingers fluttered across her bare stomach. I made contact with the lower edge of her bikini top and continued my march upwards. I cupped her breast through the suit. In spite of its small size the material was heavy; there was some kind of backing inside to provide support and I could barely feel the breast flesh that I longed to touch. I grappled with the bottom edge of the suit, and she tried to help. She shimmied her torso as I slipped the top up and over her breast. It must have scraped as it released, but I couldn't help it.

Then I held her naked tit in my hand and was rewarded with the feel of a hard nipple dancing against my fingertips. She continued her massage on my dick as I pumped her jug with my hand; we stayed like that for a minute, possibly more.

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Story tagged with:
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