Chapter 26: Betty’s Challenge

It took a couple of days for normality to return; Anna had seen most of the action and she hardly tired of me repeating the detail. She enjoyed me recounting my feelings of submission.

Of course, Betty enjoyed the show. She tweeted several stills from the broadcast and repeated her offer for me to join her in a challenge.

With my bank balance heading into scarlet territory, and few job applications yielding a phone call I sat down and talked it through my fiancée. We were in danger of needing to touch our wedding savings, and the pragmatist in me won over the pride. I didn’t want to be a porn star; it wasn’t my chosen vocation.

But it was the only way I could make any money and I rang Betty a few days later. The buxom blonde bombshell gleefully invited herself to my house a couple of days later.

“I was in the area,” she admitted as she lounged on our sofa, accepting a cup of tea from my partner. Anna was always a little awe struck by the adult producer and entertainer, and that day was no exception.

Betty purred when I admitted what I had told her on the telephone. Her eyes sparkled. “Quite simply,” she said. “I want a Challenge. Me and you. May the bigger slut win. This will be set up by the way that I win. But it’ll be close. Winner fucks the loser.”

“Oh OK.”

“There is a nightclub I often use. It’s in the City, but I have dozens of people no questions asked. Who can fuck, or suck, the most people.”

“Women too?”

Betty broke into a smile. “If you think you can pull lesbians!”

Anna giggled.

The evening was spent talking to Betty; we didn’t need to discuss the long plot of her pornographic masterpiece as it a simple piece of staged erotica. Instead, we passed the time talking as my new employer, or business partner, and we talked long into the night.

The next day I did my first STI test. Anna accompanied me to the soulless clinic a few miles from Manchester’s city centre. For the first time for a very long time I felt anxious as I stood naked, shivering slightly as the male doctor inspected my genitals with white latex gloves covering his hands.

It felt clinical, which I suppose it was.

The following day the agreed contract arrived in the post for me to sign. The film, when made, would see me receive £2,000 plus a 5% share of any revenue. The film would be uploaded to Betty’s members-only site as well as a handful of pay-per-download stores.

Anna hugged me as I signed it.

It was hard not to be nervous on the day of the recording in Betty’s home town of London. I stayed in a run-down hotel a few stops on the Underground from the venue and responded to some comments on Twitter; I’d neglected my social media profile in the few days since the mass orgy and there were more than a few comments.

In truth, I just needed to draw my attention away from what I was doing. I wasn’t ashamed, but I didn’t want to dwell on the uncertainty of the 24 hours that would follow.

Looking back, I can see how ridiculous it was; perhaps professional football players who spend ten years working their way through their club’s academy get the same feelings of nerves and excitement before their début. Perhaps Olympians who spend years training for their one shot at a gold medal can’t sleep the night before. Or perhaps, it was just me.

But I hardly slept all night until 4am and then overslept and had to skip breakfast as I hurriedly ran towards the Underground station.

“You’re late,” Betty moaned as the bedraggled man burst through the doors of the club. Two bouncers took a step towards the flustered man, before Betty stopped them with an icy stare at me.

“Sorry,” I panted, glancing at my phone. “Got lost,” I lied. “Big place is London.”

“Yes, indeed.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “We have a very tight schedule. Changing room is through here.”

The swingers club was almost empty but Betty assured me that she had plenty of plans; I felt out of place amongst the black and red erotic furnishings, and she showed me to a small area, normally reserved for the club dancers, to get changed in.

Four people turned to face me. “This is your fluffer, Ruby,” Betty said, airily waving towards a naked teenager; she can’t have been much more than nineteen.

She was thin; delicately so, but with a hairless body marked by a small number of tattoos. My eyes were drawn to a dark red gothic creature, a few inches long, inked onto her waist, off-centre from her belly button.

She was daubed by graffiti; her ankles and back, wrists and arms were marked by a sinister array of monsters and mythological figurines. Her eyes pierced my ogling of her thin, wiry body and petite breasts. “Hi,” I tried to confidently say.

“All of Ruby’s efforts will count towards your total. Just as Stewie’s efforts will count towards mine.”

I had forgotten the rules Betty had set; it didn’t really matter. People were not going to tune in to watch a game or a competition, it was a mere flimsy excuse for four nymphomaniacs to engage in a wild orgy while catering for every taste.

Heterosexual, check. Heterosexual anal, check. Gay sex, check. Lesbian, check. Public humiliation, check.

I was used to the gay humiliation.

In the end, it came to a Manchester vs London contest. Ruby’s origins were from the leafy suburbs of Hale, while Betty and Stewart were fucking for the Capital city.

It all sounded flimsy and silly, but I showered and had a make-up artist groom my genitals. I had a very light enema, clearing my rectum for the day’s activities before dressing in a “full body leather harness” which was a set of black straps that criss-crossed my body and left little covered and everything exposed. Betty approved whole-heartedly; Twitter agreed with her.

The next half-hour passed in a blur. Three men in white coats introduced us to the camera, and explained the rules of the game. The hustle of people around the camera was unmistakable; we were there to put on a show.

The crowd was stuffed with “some porn stars, lots of swingers, bored Londoners and desperate nymphos.” It wasn’t my biggest crowd, and I got the loudest cheer when I was introduced. It was ginseng to my ego.

Five minutes after I had nervously walked onto the stage of the club, I was preparing my first man. The cock in my hand was a great prize. The suited gentleman smiled at me; the top half of his face covered by a mask. It was mysterious; no doubt a city gentleman enjoying a free fuck on my account.