Story – Tiffany’s Dreams: Beat The Mitt – Part 2
Tiffany’s Dreams – Beat the Mitt
Part 2 by FurCreamer
Drake ran over to the platform as Brandy followed with more restrained steps. Drake had unbuttoned his pants half way by the time he arrived, ascending the stairs to the raised chair and taking his seat on the sable cushioned chair beside Morgan Goodchild, her enormous blue fox coat, and, of course, the chinchilla mitt on her right hand.
Drake leaned back in the comfortable chair, the nine inch cock waving between his legs from his hurried movements. Brandy nodded, the official Beat the Mitt measuring girls were never wrong, though they’d had a few prospective contestants never make it on air after their assumptions about the caliber of their artillery were proven to be rather wishful thinking.
Brandy climbed the steps to the top of the platform and took her place beside Morgan. “So Morgan, ready to turn this crank?”
“Sure am, Brandy, he’s not going to last five seconds,” she replied, holding up the chinchilla mitt again.
“Okay, then let’s find out…” she turned, held out her arm, and called out, “Let’s have 20 seconds on the clock!”
A large digital display hung on the back of the set, accurate to microseconds, flared to life with “20:00:00” blazing in glowing yellow.
“Ready Drake?”
“R-ready!” he stammered. Between his hairy thighs, Drake’s cock drooled clear fluids that ran down his shaft and over his nuts, staining the sable cushions with droplets of precum.
“Ready Morgan?”
“Ready,” the star replied with a self satisfied smile.
“BEAT THE MITT!”
At Brandy’s call, Morgan leaned down and grasped Drake’s cock with the chinchilla mitt, curling around the shaft at the base. From above, this nestled Drake’s dick vertically in the mitt, from the trunk to the very tip, where the leaking crown pressed to the mitt’s edge where it mixed with the big round blue fox cuff of Morgan’s enormous blue fox coat.
Behind them the clock began to count down, as did the audience, who, in unison, shouted, “ONE!”
Morgan jerked upwards and Drake’s head craned back in the big comfortable sable covered chair, hands clenching the arms in a vice grip.
“TWO”
Morgan jerked the ultra soft chinchilla mitt down Drake’s cock slightly before second 2. There was no requirement the strokes be in time with the count, it was purely up to the discretion of the stroker. Brandy, rather experienced at it herself, knew Morgan’s beats were near perfection.
So, it seemed, did Drake, who gasped as the audience shouted “THREE”
The sensors in the studio stopped the clock in near perfect unison with the first white jet of spunk that erupted from the tip of the nine inch dick and squirted furiously into the chinchilla fur mitt. Morgan smiled triumphantly, popping Drake on the down-stroke just as his flared head slid through the palm of the silky smooth mitt.
The strategically placed studio cameras caught the ensuing cum-storm from all angles, throwing them up on a big bank of screens at the back of the stage beside the various oversized digital counters. The “shot clock” started up, incrementing once each time Drake’s dick squeezed out a huge string of buttery thick, white dickslime.
“ONE – TWO – THREE -”
It was difficult to separate the first few spurts, they arrived one after another with virtually no pause between them. Those first few jets sprayed thick white load into the fur in what was virtually one uninterrupted spurt.
“FOUR – FIVE -”
Drake’s next shots were more powerful, the first only build-up to the heavy spray of nut that suddenly splashed up the wet, sloppy palm, over the wrist of the mitt, and across the broad leading edge of the blue fox cuff above.
“SIX – SEVEN -”
The major spurts past, the next ones only added to the huge jelly like puddle that had formed in the palm of the chinchilla mitt. Drake gasped and moaned continuously throughout the “ordeal”, his hips having thrust upwards against Morgan’s hand trying to fuck the mitt harder during the body-shaking orgasm.
“EIGHT – NINE!”
Morgan skillfully tilted Drake’s cock forward to keep the last weaker spurts from just rolling down his shaft. This assured the rest would merge completely into soggy wad at the middle of the chinchilla fur mitt.
Spent, Drake panted like an exhausted dog, sweat beading his brow.
The crowd roared in approval. Brandy’s practiced eye reasoned that Drake may have a good shot at 2nd prize, but it was a little early to make that bet. Morgan held the splattered mitt aloft triumphantly, the screens showing various closeups of the steaming clusters of cocksnot that plastered the palm and caked the cuff of the mitt, as well as the stark white streaks on the edge of the tall blonde superstar’s blue fox coat cuff.
The “basket” lowered from the top of the stage and Morgan gingerly dropped it in. Behind them, the “shot clock” snapped off and was replaced by a single large figure: 11.54OZ.
The crowd cheered. Brandy nodded, an impressive load, to be sure. She turned to the camera again. “Well folks, another contender doesn’t go the distance, but ole Drake there put an impressive load on the board, can our other contestants spunk even bigger? Find out after these commercial messages!”
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