The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Spring Breakout (Naughty Magic Volume One)

Lance Descarado

Chapter Eleven: The Big Balloon Bikini Blowout

Livia’s getting the new costumes ready when I meet with her. “Hey, sleepyhead. You seemed a bit zoned out after the teaser last night, so I let you be. We’re still on schedule, and Mimi made eggs and bacon. Come get some before it’s all gone!”

We quickly slide into intensive preparations, though I find myself perhaps a bit more tempted than usual to ogle Livia. I don’t think she notices, which is good — not cause she’d mind, but because I don’t want there to be clues before I make my move. As I’ve noted, the bustier was a write-off, and it is apparently a tricky garment to replace — requiring custom fittings and tailoring. So for our Spring Break show, she has a different custom garment that we were able to prepare with services accessible during our road trip. It’s an interim outfit that’ll be retired when the stretchy dress shirts arrive from Remedial Corporate in Canada, but I still love it.

I can only describe it as a cross between a tuxedo and a leotard. The innermost layer is a stretchy cotton bodystocking, and it’s actually quite enticing — it’s tight and very form-fitting, and if she doesn’t wear underwear people close to her (and our own 35mm cameras) can not only make out breasts and nipples, but pussy lips as well. Not as risqué as the teaser she did in grade twos, but still a subtle, unexpected eyeful. She did wear either underwear or some subtle padding on our road trip shows, but she isn’t planning to at Summers. It will, in that sense, be a big debut for the new costume — and will make sure that people still pay attention to her with all the other flesh on display.

However, this bodystocking is carefully printed and colored to resemble a man’s dress slacks and white formal shirt, and she wears a tie with it. There is also a suit jacket to wear over it, which had some rubber in the interior to make it more form-hugging than a normal male suit jacket without showing that overtly. The end result is both ravishing and naughty. When Livia’s fully dressed, she looks like she’s wearing a normal tuxedo. Add the top hat, cane, showstone and dress shoes and she looks the closest she ever has to that archetypal pulp magician she so admires the image of.

Now, I think she would look absolutely gorgeous in a normal tuxedo — it suits her bombastic and aggressive persona, and her curves are ample enough to be apparent even beneath full formal wear. But this secretly rubberized jacket turns up the heat — the “phwoar factor,” as she calls it — massively. Her curves are visible like she’s wearing a catsuit while the viewer’s mind is telling him that she’s wearing something mundane and decent (if vaguely suggestive by the cross-dressing). The more the gaze lingers on her, however, the more the mind takes in the lascivious elements of the ensemble. When she takes off the jacket, it goes from respectable to “that’s lewd as fuck, and yet damned if I can describe why”.

One important point about this printed bodystocking — it tears easily, and Livia patiently explains to me back in Richmond that there are certain chemicals she can use that will make it tear even easier. I’m sure she’s planning some naughty cinematic moment with that in a future show — but she wants the prop to be consistent from the beginning, so people wouldn’t suspect anything until said naughty moment actually happens. The thing about the old bustier, she said, is that while it was sexy it also simply couldn’t be gotten off in under twenty minutes. It might as well have been a chastity belt, which had the potential to be... inconvenient in moments a suitable mark demonstrated a degree of sexual pliability that would make Livia want to be less clothed in a quick, dramatic and showy way. I took quite careful note of everything she said.

I am not going to be as blessed in the clothing department, but it is essential to our plans and the theme of the show. My first Decan costume is a triple layer of swimwear — a very scandalous Speedo, with form-hugging spandex jogging shorts over that, and then loose-hanging swimming trunks over that. (You’ll understand the layering soon.) For the second Decan, the dirty-talking contest, I need to be a total dork so as not to intimidate or upstage the other guys. Livia chose my attire, leaning heavily into the cheap and sleazy.

I will be going on stage in a tacky white polyester leisure suit, with an underlying purple shirt and a tie in clashing, overly aggressive Hawaiian patterning. It’s a fashion disaster, but that’s necessary. I can’t overtly outperform the guys we have chosen as a pickup artist or alpha male — at least in the second Decan — so there is need for self-deprecation. I accept the logic of that. I have some plans of my own for the third Decan... but I’m not sure if they will come to fruition or not. The script is just that I’ll take off the jacket and keep the rest of the leisure suit.

We’re proud of our plans for the first Summers show — a potential Escalation at that — but we’ve hired an expert camera guy in Lauderdale, and the plans are a lot less technical in general. So Mimi will be more free, and we all thought this is an excellent opportunity to make her (and her specific fetishes), a bigger part of the public face of the Trips overall. Mimi’s new outfit actually outshines both of us put together — but it will debut at our second show at Summers, not this one, so I’ll get into it in due time.

For now, she’s going to wear a workman’s overalls and a cap — likely the most covering clothing worn by anyone in a one mile radius of Summers — to set up continuity and foreshadow her bit in the next show. Even that is a custom outfit — it has concealed mesh “gills” in the back despite looking like a normal maintenance suit, so that Mimi can wear it in the Florida sun and not get broiled alive. We do plan to replace Livia’s bustier and get back to her SexCon look eventually, but Mimi’s costume design is — in theory — going to be her permanent look for the foreseeable future, if the audience responds well to it. At least, when she isn’t being whatever character actor one of our routines needs, from bad cop to valet to snarky assistant.

I have two free hours. That’s when I call Melody. I also make some other preparations, carefully outside of anyone’s sight. The three of us meet up at two-thirty, and hit the stage at Summers at exactly three.

The intro is harsh. It’s actually the hardest opening to any of Livia’s Escalations to date. The crowd wants girls, flesh and naughty contests right away, but our sense of narrative requires us to build up to them. So the comedy patter falls on deaf ears and we start losing the crowd. We do bring out Mimi in her overalls, ponytail and nerd-glasses and introduce her as our techie, and she grins and waves to the crowd awkwardly.

Livia pushes through some stage magic routines very quickly, as it becomes obvious the crowd is uninterested. Livia does get a cute nerdy girl to reach into her hat and win a complementary vibrator, however. She gets quite a razzing from Gloria Sun and Lucy Langtry in the announcer’s booth over it, however.

The main theme of the first Decan is going to be balloons, so Mimi wheels our balloon pump prop out on stage. It’s a needlessly big and gimmicky machine (with a little, mundane motorized pump concealed inside it) with electrodes sticking out, voltmeters on the side and a general mad science aesthetic. I use the machine to inflate balloons and very quickly make a balloon giraffe, tiger and kitty. This bit had patter and was supposed to take about seven minutes, but I glance at Livia, read the crowd and we silently, mutually decide to skip the patter and speed-run it. I get the animals done in under a minute — I’ve done a lot of practice with balloon twisting over the three weeks before we hit Lauderdale, and make record time here.

“I just love a man who’s good with his hands,” Gloria Sun says as I work.

“I’ll bet this isn’t the first time he’s handled something long, hard and erect with those hands,” Lucy Langtry throws back. I’m not sure if it was a masturbation joke or a gay joke, but either way I don’t especially mind. Her tone suggests watching it might also be a fantasy of hers, and given where this routine is going I’m happy to have the announcers hyping me up as a sex symbol rather than tearing me down.

“You know,” I tell the crowd, “a wonderful way to pick up girls is to show them a trick that makes them laugh. With that in mind, I’d like to invite the Asian cutie in the red striped bikini in the third row up on stage for a second.”

Said Asian cutie giggles and makes her way up to the stage. Her name is Brenda, and she’s plump but quite well endowed — especially for an Eastern girl. I admire how confident she is in her body despite weighing twice what most of the girls here do, and her cherubic smile is enticing. The escorting her up part is actually quite important to the act. I will make eye contact and test the waters, and invade each girl’s personal space as much as I feel she’s able to have fun with.

We quickly figure out that the girls in the Summers audience are a lot less concerned with personal space than most — they’d have to be pretty much by definition, to feel comfortable in the tightly-packed mass of horny, often shirtless Spring Break dudes. They still respond, though, when an attractive, bare-chested man gets unusually close to them — but the response is less likely to be negative. We’re going to make good use of that.

I gesture to the folded animals and ask our first volunteer what kind of gift she’d like me to make for her. The scripted gag is that I’m going to make her a balloon animal, and it will have a cock, and this will make her blush, and we’ll use the opening to make jokes about how it’s a Freudian slip, and something must be making me horny (with something, of course, being the volunteer) — leading into Livia’s penis-themed standup bit. Our cherub somewhat demolishes the script, however, when she just up and says, “Make me a big, firm cock.”

The crowd cheers, and I finish the construct in record time. (I make her a balloon penis, though I probably should have been quicker-witted and made her a rooster instead.) Brenda takes her gift, blushes, and starts to act out obscene things with it on stage — licking it, then sliding it between her legs and grunting. The crowd cheers. She’s got guts, I’ll say that — and it does win the crowd over; I give her a full two minutes to perform her improv.

When I sense she’s running out of actions, I lead her off stage and back to her seat as Livia cracks jokes. Brenda sits down, holding the big balloon cock in her lap. She will continue to lick it, and keep trying to make eye contact with me, through the next several volunteers.

“You know,” Gloria Sun says, “that girl has real enthusiasm and passion, and she knows exactly what she wants.”

“And such skill,” Lucy Langtry adds sardonically. “You can tell she’s had lots and lots of practice.”

That’s harsh, but the plump cutie doesn’t seem to care.

I address the crowd. “Boy, Brenda sure knows what she wants, doesn’t she? I hope she isn’t making any guys in the crowd feel... inadequate.”

Brenda cackles as she slides the balloon cock in between her breasts inside the bikini top, giving it a titjob. Other girls and guys laugh too — but a few guys do look nervous.

Livia rolls her eyes and takes on a sardonic tone. “Riiight. Because lads, we all know what every girl really wants is a dick so huge it will tear her vaginal walls, pulverize her cervix, keep on going right through her intestines, penetrate her stomach, slide up her throat faster than expired Thai food on its way back out and pop right the fuck out of her mouth like the freaky tentacle in one of those banned Japanimation cartoons — and that’s when he only gives her the tip! Am I right?”

The audience is a bit shocked. Livia looks mouth-watering in her figure-hugging pseudo-tux; the guys in the audience want to bang her, and the girls want to be her. But cute girls just don’t say things like that; it creates a dissonance. It’s a wise move in the long run, I think — there’s lots of centerfolds in the world, and even a fair few at Lauderdale for Spring Break. By breaching a few norms and using shock value material, Livia makes herself stand out from even this elite crowd — good or bad, people will certainly remember the hot girl who said things girls aren’t supposed to say.

I take on an exaggerated salesman tone and agree with her unironically. I’m a high-energy, enthusiastic dolt in this routine; I practiced the persona a lot to get it down. “That’s right, Livia! But fortunately, we’ve got a miraculous new product here that might help any of the dudes in our crowd that feel they’re not quite up to snuff!”

“Do we really have to shill this dodgy bollocks, Marcelo?”

“Yes, Livia! Yes we do!”

Livia reaches one foot forward and touches a subtly concealed trigger on the stage. Out of nowhere, a six foot long inflatable pops up, shooting into the air. It looks like a tube of ointment with a screw-on cap. We both reach up our arms to catch it as in floats back down to us, and end up holding it aloft like some kind of championship trophy. The gadget to inflate and release is actually quite clever — Livia repurposed the inflatable air bag from a car to build it. A lot of work went into getting it to trigger just right — Livia bought a dozen air bags from a used car lot to experiment with.

The crowd laughs as we fumble around with the inflatable. Once we get it under control, I flash them a manic grin. “Yikes, that was a wild one — there’s a lot of high-caliber, renegade masculine energy in this here tube! Ladies and gentlemen, this is Exxon-AmTrak brand penis growth gel, now containing less than two percent radiological waste material!”

Livia laughs and shakes her head. “I suppose you’re going to try to convince us that this is the one that really works?”

“I sure am, Livia, and it sure is! I’ve only been using this miraculous product for three weeks now, and I’ve already grown eight new penises!”

Livia rolls her eyes, forcing a Vanna White smile. “Really? Wow, Marcelo, that’s amazing! And for only twenty-nine ninety five, it’s a real... uh... wait, Jesus, what the bright blue Christ did you just say?!”

I just grin madly, keeping up the dim but high-energy salesman persona. “Yeah, no kidding! Pretty incredible, huh? The one on the back of my neck is kinda irritating, though — I can’t even turn my head without getting myself off!”

The crowd is perplexed and horrified, but also giggling in spite of themselves at the nightmarish imagery. I turn my head to look around, scrunching up my face and giving an exaggerated, lewd moan. Livia looks disgusted. “Oi! No! Bad pickup artist! No one wants to see your O-face! It is a truth universally agreed by lesbians, gay men and straights of both sexes that a cute bird’s O-face is amazingly erotic, but a bloke’s O-face is bloody terrifying and needs to be cast down into the same hell we normally reserve for telemarketers, Maggie Thatcher’s used dildos and vuvuzela players at weddings!”

I stop moving my head, and look very chastened. I’m back to my natural persona by this point, dropping the high-energy salesman bit. “Sorry, my dudes. I’m with Livia a hundred percent here. Guys, we’ve all been there, right? Nothing kills a nice hard boner like watching an otherwise hot porno and then the director decides to cut away from Amber Lynn writhing in ecstasy to Randy Spears’ O-face and just hold there for some inexplicable reason. Literally no one wants to see that!”

That gets a blushing laugh from many of the dudes in the crowd, who apparently do in fact relate. Lots of guys own a secret stash of X-rated video tapes, but that doesn’t mean they like to talk about it.

“I wouldn’t know,” Livia says archly. She actually would — Livia’s moderately into porn herself, but we decided during scripting it probably wouldn’t be telegenic to advertise that. Most girls aren’t, and it would make her seem even sketchier to the girls in the audience. “Wait a second — what does the Lord of Seduction need with porno tapes, anyway? I always figured you’d just go for the real deal.”

I shrug. “Some nights you just want to veg and rub one out, not focus on satisfying a partner.”

“Sure, Mister Knight, sure. We all believe you.”

Livia pulls out her ‘sexy scientist’ glasses and puts them on, acting out reading the fine print on the giant inflatable tube. “Warning! Product may cause unintended side effects, though none are as disfiguring or grotesque as the intended behavior. Documented effects include osteoporosis, irreligiosity, pyrokinesis, radioactive bowel movements, outbreaks of lambada street dancing and inexplicable belief in the electoral viability of third party tickets, as well as transformation of cats into dogs, feminists into go-go dancers, Leonard Cohen into a melodic vocalist and Chicago Bulls fans into mentally competent adults with a realistic outlook on the world.”

Livia looks up at the crowd with an absolutely priceless “ick! what the fuck did we just advertise” panicked look. She flair-conjures a pair of scissors and uses it to violently stab the tube, deflating it. I visibly wince and step back a bit as Livia channels her inner Norman Bates. Finally she looks up, a faint gloss of sweat on her face making her seem even sexier.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we do not endorse this product after all! No one should endorse this product! It’s not a sane product! There are worse fates in the world than having a small wee-wee, like being an atheistic penis mutant with radioactive diarrhea and Randy Spears’ O-face — or even worse, a Chicago Bulls fan! Please forget the last ten minutes, and do not associate the Sexy Scandal Spectacular with Exxon-AmTrak brand penis growth gel in any way!”

Livia elbows me lightly in the torso — but I double over, clutching it like I’m in agony. “Oww! Right in the fifth ballsack!”

She turns to me and tries to whisper, but of course it’s ‘accidentally’ caught on a hot mic. “Marc, quickly! We need something exciting to make everyone forget this last bit!”

She’s gesturing wildly with the scissors. I back away, acting intimidated. “Yikes! Crazy girls with scissors are scary.”

She chases after me. “Oh, calm down. You’ve basically got nine lives on that front at this point. You can still hit on me. I don’t know what will happen to my self-esteem if you don’t hit on me. I mean, you hit on everyone.”

“Hey, you can’t become a world-famous pickup artist if you’re not willing to aim for volume.”

“I guess that’s why you picked Brenda. Regardless, there’s worse things on God’s green earth than girls running with scissors.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like girls scissoring with the runs. Take my word on it, that’s the bad kind of memorable date.”

“Eww!”

“Yeah, now we need something to make the audience forget that mental image too!”

“Let’s get a real hot babe up on stage as a volunteer! Guys will instantly forget (and maybe even forgive) any bad comedy filler as soon as some smoke show revs their engines a bit!”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“No, just overdressed.” I turn to the audience. “Okay, folks, we’re looking for one amazingly hot volunteer to step up to the plate and lead our show out of the land of gross-raunchy and back into sexy-raunchy territory! If it makes you feel more comfortable volunteering, I don’t actually have extra penises — you all just thought that sounded credible due to the astonishing number of satiated women I tend to leave strewn in my wake!”

Lots of groans and eyerolls, but also lots of raised hands. The next routine needs a perfect volunteer, though, or the whole first Decan could go off the rails. I scan the crowd carefully, and finally settle on a long-legged brunette bombshell in a navy two-piece. She’s built like a bikini model, and I’ve already guessed that she is a bikini model. She seems to have a very fun, laid-back attitude toward her body, while still having a bit of modesty. That’s really important. We get her up on stage and I butter her up. “Come on up! Wow, you’re absolutely gorgeous. Why don’t you tell us your name and a bit about yourself...”

“Michelle,” she says, “Michelle Morris, and I’m from Puerto Rico with family roots in Cuba, and I’m a Capricorn!”

Yup. Definitely a bikini model, and one who’s heard the standard question roster before. “And your measurements?”

She grins. “36-26-34, baby, and it’s all natural.”

This is where Livia steps in. “So, tell me Michelle, do you believe in the existence of Indigo Children, extraterrestrial mollusks, the Nibiru Ascension, ritual metempsychosis and the Mongolian Death Worm?”

She blinks as her brain derails, not immediately picking up the subtle Ghostbusters reference. “Um... uh, what?”

“Yes or no?”

“No, I guess.”

Livia smiles calmingly. “That’s a good answer. It will probably lead to you living a longer life than many more inquisitive minds. So tell me, possum, what do you find most attractive about a man?”

If you’re wondering, O Perplexed Reader, what the point of this is, well, it’s threefold. First of all, throwing her off balance initially will make her more likely to go along with the routine. Secondly, we just got every conspiracy theorist that watches this to do some grassroots marketing for our show. Thirdly and most obviously, Michelle’s cute when she’s flummoxed and it’s just funny.

I’m standing behind Michelle. I wrap my arms around her belly playfully as she and Livia banter and see how she responds. She doesn’t seem at all bothered by the closeness. There’s some desire in her Aura, but also pride. I think she’s actually a smart girl, and figured out that our show is a bigger deal than it looks, and is thinking about exposure. Well, she’s about to get some, in both senses of the word. “So tell me, Michelle from Puerto Rico, are you by any chance involved in modeling?”

“How did you know?!” she gasps, either genuinely amazed or at least decent with a stage persona.

I place my open palms on her hips and slide my hands up her body gradually and sensually. She flinches slightly at the contact, but permits it. When I reach her underarms I guide her arms into the air until she’s holding them out in a Y-shape above her, like she’s at the apex of a stretch. “Tell me, you guys,” I ask the audience, “is this not obviously the body of one blazing hot bikini model? I mean, can’t you tell just by looking at her? I bet everyone here wishes they could see her O-face!”

This pleases the crowd, and they roar. It pleases Michelle Morris as well. She’s a bit turned on, but moreso she’s exuberantly happy. I get that vanity is probably a bigger motive to her than lust — and, I should say clearly, I respect that. The lady clearly works hard on her body; there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a chance to show it off. One cannot condemn vanity as a vice while living shamelessly immersed in lust as a virtue, after all. They’re symbiotic to each other.

“You know,” I say to Michelle (and the crowd), “I bet I know the perfect gift to melt your heart.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she throws back playfully.

“Hold that pose for just a minute,” I tell her.

Livia and I work very quickly to make a balloon bikini that Michelle can actually wear. We practiced this a lot, playing with different designs and looks. We choose, quite intentionally, light powder blue and soft pink balloons for the design; Livia does the bottoms and I do the top. Michelle, posing in front of us, can’t see what we’re making until Livia walks up and hands her the bikini. “We’ve made you a balloon bikini! What do you think of it?”

The bikini top is three balloons in a kind of grid, knotted at the center. It’s fairly covering and chaste, actually, though the balloons might be slightly translucent. “It’s pretty,” she says back, not quite sure how to answer that. “I like it.”

“You said you do modeling,” Livia says. “Would you be willing to model this lovely bikini we’ve made?”

Michelle bites her lip and glances at Livia, then me, then back to Livia. She’s a smart girl. I’m pretty certain she at least suspects how this routine could end up going for her already. But after a moment of thought, she gives us a cheerful nod. “Sure!”

Livia holds the balloon bikini bottoms at knee height in front of Michelle. “Now, step into these, yes, one foot at a time, and be careful of the balloons with your stilettos. Good, good. Stand with your legs a bit apart.”

I hold Michelle’s shoulders as she steps into the balloon bottoms. Livia pulls them up, wiggling them slightly to get them around her hips. It’s actually a fairly snug fit. Michelle giggles as we work. She has to stand with her thighs slightly but appealingly separated, though, in order to fit the inch-wide balloon between them. It’s a subtle but saucy visual touch. We’re professional; there’s no groping or teasing... yet. I get Michelle to hold her hands straight in the air and slide the bikini top down over her. It needs to be stretched a bit to get there, but fits fairly tightly over her breasts. Michelle grins excitedly and claps her hands when we finish, squeaking slightly. She seems to be enjoying this a lot. “Now,” I say, “why don’t you show us some poses?”

There is clearly nothing this girl wants to be asked to do more, and she breaks out some fairly sexy poses on stage. There’s a level of absurdism to this — I think her modeling repertoire tends to the sultry and smoldering rather than girlish and playful; her most natural props are probably a vintage Rolls Royce and a thick fur coat (with nothing on underneath, of course). When you mix that particular style of moves with a balloon bikini, you get some good (if subtle) comedy. But it’s sexy comedy. I doubt the audience gets the humor of this consciously, but the dissonance adds to the playful undercurrent and they like Michelle posing sexy and cheer anyway. Which is good — she really seems to like getting a rise out of the audience.

Meanwhile, Livia pulls out an expensive camera. She takes a pair of spectacles out of her jacket pocket and puts them on, along with a French beret artist’s cap that makes her look comically pretentious. She scrutinizes Michelle as she poses with a coldly critical look. With just a few props and body language, Livia pulls an instant change, and both the audience and Michelle are now viewing her as a high-end fashion photographer.

Livia cuts off the posing quickly. “Stop, stop,” she says. “This is no good. I mean, look at yourself!”

Michelle looks down at herself. Now, in our script, the girl chosen is supposed to be confused, and we explain what’s wrong, and what will have to be done to fix it. But, as I said, Michelle’s a model, and smart. She gets what’s wrong nearly instantly, although I’m not sure if she just walks into our setup blindly or plays along knowingly for the sake of our show and being a good sport. Either way, she sets herself up perfectly. “The color composition’s all wrong!”, she says. “It clashes.”

Livia nods thoughtfully. “Yup. Marcelo, can you fix that?”

If Michelle didn’t intend to play along with our setup, she at least realizes what she walked in to just then. She bites her lip in sudden hesitation. “Oh, my,” she says.

I reach up and unhook the clasp of her bikini top — the real navy bikini, not the balloons over it. I don’t ask permission, but I do give her a few seconds to object, get angry, freeze or do anything else that shows me she’s really not up for this. She doesn’t, though — she purrs softly, as if my initiative pleases her. I put my hand over the balloon top to hold it in place and slide her real bikini top off. The crowd cheers, excited. I untie her real bottoms, too, and pull them out of the balloon ones playfully. She expected that less, and shivers faintly.

“Well,” Lucy Langtry says from the announcer’s booth, “this is certainly getting interesting.”

She’s leaning forward to ogle Michelle, and flashing some of her own nipple as her suit jacket falls open in the process.

“That lady’s a real trooper,” Gloria Sun agrees.

“Wonderful,” Livia announces imperiously. “That looks perfectly delish! Now, Michelle, run your fingers through your hair.”

It dawns fully on Michelle at this point that she’s allowed herself to be smooth-talked into getting buck naked on our stage save for some strategic balloons. She suddenly looks nervous and demure is a way I find unspeakably erotic, without being truly harmed or violated. It’s the perfect intersection of vulnerability and excitement, a beautiful new ingenue being pushed out of her comfort zone. She’s blushing furiously, but the familiar poses give her confidence and she looks great doing it. Her new attire squeaks as she moves, which adds a perfect frisson of embarrassing ridiculousness to the predicament we’ve maneuvered her into.

“Brill!” Livia gushes. “Now, possum, give me your saucy poses. We want sexy, we want raw, we want the bedroom eyes. I mean, just look at these blokes in the audience. Look em right in the eye. You’re already their dream girl — now show them that their dream girl is feelin’ just a wee bit randy!”

This is improv — the script has Livia telling the girl to act a bit nervous but playful, and to flirt with the audience — but Livia has apparently figured out Michelle’s modeling aptitudes the same way I did.

Michelle obeys. It’s actually pretty hot. I can’t see nipples or vag though the balloons, but I can make out the faint shadow of a brunette landing strip. She squeaks when she moves, and that always gets a nervous giggle out of her, but otherwise she’s incredibly sultry. Now, this isn’t very risqué by the standards of Summers, but the audience gradually catches on to the basic appeal of the routine: a balloon bikini is innately dangerous. It’s a lady wearing something that could pop unexpectedly at any minute. Everyone watches Michelle intently, wondering if there’s going to be an accident. There isn’t — not yet, anyway. Finally she finishes with a brazen, aggressive, hands-on-hips pose. The camera flashes throughout — Livia’s photog props are mostly a joke, but she’s taking pictures for real.

Finally, Livia signals that the improv shoot is done — but she doesn’t let Michelle sit back down. “Wasn’t that amazing, guys? This girl is as stylish as Fidel Castro’s mustache, as expensive as Fidel Castro’s cigars and way more honest than Fidel Castro’s elections! Give Michelle Morris a big hand! And isn’t the bikini just to die for? I think this might be the next big sensation on the beach!”

The crowd cheers. The Castro joke apparently fires Michelle up, however and she grabs the mike from Livia. “Fuck communism!” she shouts passionately, jumping up and down, her modesty forgotten. The crowd loves that for multiple reasons.

“I’d rather not,” Livia improvs dryly. “They’ve got small dicks, they don’t shower enough, they always smell like cigars and cabbage and their idea of pillow talk could turn a girl frigid! Guys, seriously, never try to use your political science textbooks to woo girls. It just doesn’t work.”

This gets a laugh, and seems to please Michelle greatly. “You know,” Livia continues thoughtfully, as if the idea were just forming naturally in her head, “I’ve heard Summers is known for its sexy contests, but I don’t think they’ve ever had a balloon swimsuit contest yet. I’m just curious... are there any other ladies out there in the audience interested in getting competitive, and getting an opportunity to try out this fashion trend on Day Zero?”

There are a ton of volunteers. That’s not surprising; lots of girls likely came here to enter a wet t-shirt contest or dirty dance-off. “Now, everyone that wants to get in the contest, you need to swear the standard oath for the Sexy Scandal Spectacular. Hold up your right hand — yeah, just like you’re swearing for citizenship — and repeat the words after me: ‘I’m game for a giggle. I will probably lose my dignity. I may lose my modesty. But I’m going to have a wonderful time, and leave with a story to tell!’”

I’m not sure if every volunteer says the words, but they all hear them and raise their hands. They have officially been warned, and still seem enthusiastic.

We bring other girls on stage, one by one, and get them kitted out in balloon bikinis. I have lots to pick from, the girls are horny and I’m horny — so I perhaps skew the selection a bit too much to my favorites: glamourous, brazen bikini models with tight, fit bodies and a generous D-cup up top. About halfway through selection, though, I remember Livia’s directive about appealing to normal-looking girls, and we grab several of those as well. I joke back and forth with the audience as Livia quietly quizzes each volunteer — she’s got jokes planned based on their profiles and origins.

Brenda gets in as fourth girl, because she seems to want it so very desperately, and because she’s being so absolutely obscene with that balloon cock in the audience that I worry she’ll either distract one of us or steal the spotlight if we don’t bring her back in the show. Ultimately, as I get the real bikinis off and the balloon bikinis on, I come to feel everyone on stage is deeply sexy, albeit in very different ways. Let that be a lesson to any ladies among my readership — even if your body has some flaws, or you’re a bit plump, you can get past any of that on your ability to exude raw lust alone. If you’re having fun — the really naughty kind of fun — guys will pick that up, consciously or otherwise, and pick you over a prettier girl with no erotic tension backing up her looks.

Livia and I gradually get a little touchier with the girls as we work through them. This is very intentional, and critical to the routine. As balloon tops are fastened, I get to incidentally stroke the volunteers’ necks — the one female erogenous zone so few seem to know is an erogenous zone. As I said earlier, I’ve been tutoring Livia on somatic flirting — there’s a ton of ways to subtly touch girls that they find non-threatening and subconsciously erotic rather than demeaning or invasive. I’ve coached her on reading their limits in their body language, and she proves herself an apt pupil here.

We’ve ordered the contestants very carefully and crank it up gradually, and we watch both whomever we have our hands on at the moment and the next few girls in line, looking for any signs that we’re crossing lines. Each girl watches the volunteers that come before her, and since they seem to be having fun she subconsciously picks up the vibe that this is all sexy and sensual rather than creepy or predatory.

It’s a veritable symphony of subliminal somatic seduction — no one seems uncomfortable, several are at least turned on and two need very careful guidance not to get too raunchy and unsettle the others around them (or just rush us to the first Decan climax ahead of schedule). Comfort zones stretch and expand liberally as the girls giggle and meet each others’ glances. By the end, everyone just seems to accept it as a normal and everyday thing that I need to cup the final girl’s breasts with my hands as Livia slips off her real bikini top and slides down the balloon one. I’m chivalrously protecting her modesty, after all, and if she wasn’t good with it her nipples wouldn’t be so hard and she wouldn’t sigh softly like that.

We never actually ask the girls for permission to touch them or take off their real bikinis, but they also never seem perturbed. Vulnerable, yes; nervous, sure... but never offended. We just slide it in as a part of the rules for playing, and everyone goes along with it.

Our third volunteer seems like she’s about to flash as soon as we get her into our bikini. “Now, ladies,” Livia says, “let’s try and keep this bit PG for now. This is still a bikini contest; you want to turn up the heat and win, not get disqualified!”

It’s clever, how she works in the clear suggestion that it’s not going to stay PG, but she’s subtle enough that nobody seems to catch it.

Our fifth pick is actually our ringer, Molly Mischief. We introduce her as Molly from Idaho, and at this point we don’t know much more about her ourselves. She’s a cute, petite, young-looking redhead with curly red hair, an oval face with an elongated chin, pert little B-cups and a taut, well-defined musculature that’s almost a bit anachronistic when compared to her youth and ingenue bearing.

She’s going to be quite important to our narrative later, however, so let me give you a few spoilers about her. She’s older than she looks by several years. She’s a professional mud wrestler who normally works at the Hollywood Tropicana in Los Angeles but is touring Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break, and has an oil wrestling gig at Summers (that we sadly never get to see).

Molly Mischief is her stage name, and her wrestling persona is a ‘tweener’ (in age and morals!) with a valley girl gimmick based on exploiting her passing similarity to the pop-cultural sweetheart of our era, Molly Ringwald. She actually bears only a vague resemblance to Ms. Ringwald when looking at the face objectively, but she’s copied the hairstyle and a few famous mannerisms — and that’s apparently enough for her to be really successful. Also, she’s genuinely mischievous, both in a playful and a sexual sense, and a much more sexual person than her ingenue persona lets most people recognize. While I’m not sure if she herself knows it at this point, she’s also bisexual, and I am pretty certain of this the first time she lays eyes on Livia.

Livia banters as I escort Molly on stage. “You know why valley girls are so odd, Marc?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“They can’t even!”

Ba-dum-tish! “Ow, cheesy! That one sure didn’t land. I thought you weren’t due to begin bombing for another five minutes.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Mondale will be around shortly to tell you that your joke wasn’t funny either.”

“Does he still have time to do that, being President and all?”

“He’ll make time. Guys like him always have time to be offended.”

Molly giggles but doesn’t acknowledge our banter. I quickly get her into a bright red balloon one-piece to match her hair and personality. I don’t feel her up too much — we hired her as a ringer, after all, so it wouldn’t be quite right — but she shows no such restraint in reverse and quite overtly grabs my cock twice through my trunks during her fitting. That isn’t scripted and it isn’t the one exact thing she was hired to do — but it still fits the narrative pretty well, and I would say it’s good improv.

A few of the other girls are returners from the wet t-shirt contest we saw yesterday. We obviously grab Claire, the up-for-anything runner-up who threw the contest in exchange for some tongue action from the formal winner. “Trying to get in our next volunteer’s panties,” Livia assures the audience, “is like taking on the Kobayashi Maru on Opposite Day! Trust me, I know! It’s Claire, from the People’s Democratic Republic of You Betchastan...”

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to catch the Trek reference. We also get Amanda, the amazonian beauty that stands a foot taller than me, Wendy the toned surfer chick and Jeanne — the red-headed likely stripper with the bowl-cut. “And from right here in Florida, the State of Oranges and Escaped Mental Patients, we’ve got Amanda — and I think you can all agree, she had the kind of body that can really send a guy or girl to the asylum!”

Amanda blinks, holds up her hands and gives the audience her best uhh-wow-thank-you-but-am-I-being-punked confused smile. The patter is intentionally distracting, to keep the girls from thinking too much about the logistics of putting on a swimsuit made of balloons, and to prevent them from noticing the somatic flirting. Livia isn’t wrong about her body, though. “And here’s Wendy, our surfing superstar Sheila with the sexy sculpted stomach! She surely makes you salivate salaciously, doesn’t she?”

When asked where she’s headed, Jeanne mentions she’s from Wyoming and is working on a journalism degree. “Oi! Wyoming, the bullshit tiny state that exists only to skew the electoral college?”

That’s a joke I contributed, obviously — Livia wouldn’t know an electoral college from an embedded controller.

“Yeah,” Jeanne sighs. “That’s the one.”

“Possum, I’m so sorry. Did you hear why the Cowboys crossed the street?”

“Yes,” Jeanne says dryly, clearly having heard the joke before.

Livia’s momentum doesn’t break, though. “They thought it was easier than trying to cross the goal line!”

The crowd laughs. Jeanne groans. “Isn’t Jeanne a lovely reporter-in-training? I hear she likes pumping sources as much as she like getting pumped herself!”

The crowd laughs. “Getting interviewed, I mean. Geez, you bunch of lousy perverts! What did you think I meant?”

The final notable girl tells us her name is Roach — not her birth name, obviously, but the only one we ever get from her. She’s quite obviously a lesbian, sitting in the front row and openly ogling the other girls. She’s also among the most dressed girls in the entire venue — she’s clearly a biker chick, but without the worn-down looks one normally associates with that crowd. She wears a black leather jacket over a very tight black Metallica top, and has sunglasses. She feels like a legit badass: predatory, sexually dominant and full of swagger. She’s not an initial volunteer, but she makes a lot of eye contact with Livia and eventually gets pulled up on stage. “So, Roach, tell us a bit about yourself.”

“You know the type of girl that says ‘my soul has wings’? Well, my soul has an anti-aircraft battery specifically to deal with girls whose souls have wings!”

Nice line. She doesn’t deliver it tremendously smoothly, though, not being a stage performer by trade like we are, and comes off affected as a result. I do not try to feel her up — I have a pretty good handle on her sexuality right from the beginning — but Livia does, and she gropes right back freely and aggressively.

The tenth volunteer I pick is Beckie from the inner tube race. I mean, how could I not? She’s wearing neon pink lip gloss and neon pink bitch boots, and she can’t walk a foot without her all-natural C-cups jiggling excessively. She doesn’t even seem to be trying — it’s just a thing her body does, and I like it a lot. “Folks, it’s Beckie-From-Montana — a girl with more grey hairs than brain cells, whose career is probably not as upwardly mobile as her bikini top! Shake those sweater puppies for the blokes, Miss From-Montana!”

Wow, Livia doesn’t seem to like Beckie any more. I’m not sure why. She doesn’t care, though. Honestly, I suspect she thrives on annoying other women. She’s chewing bubblegum throughout the whole show, and blows a big pink bubble as I feel up her tits while getting her balloon top on. She winks at Livia, who glares back. I get a look at full blonde bush downstairs as Livia fits her bottoms, and I spot a heart-shaped clit ring. Yeah, definitely working the bimbo angle intentionally. “This is, like, almost the most nifty contest I’ve been in so far!”

There are about twenty girls in total, and of these I would say at least half respond not just positively but extremely positively to me getting a bit handsy with them. This gets noticed.

“It certainly seems like Mister Knight is getting very closely acquainted with all the different contestants,” Lucy Langtry quips.

I wonder for a second if calling that out is going to spoil the mood, but then Gloria Sun — whose persona, I would remind you, is normally the professional, scandalized one — sets everything up perfectly.

“I really wish he’d get to know me like that,” she replies. It isn’t all breathy, flirty and fake — it’s just some words that slip out of her mouth, because she really is a bit turned on by my confidence and all the heavy petting on stage.

So yes, we pull off something rather impressive here. We get not one or three or five, but a full twenty girls up on stage, strip them of any real clothing spontaneously and get them all wearing nothing but balloons. And the real miracle is that we’ve subtly herded them into a kind of collective headspace where being felt up on stage is fun, erotic and playful — not scary or violating.

That alone is a massive trick to pull off — Livia talks about the show appealing to women, but as far as I’m concerned this is pretty much the platonic ideal of teenage male fantasies made manifest in reality. It definitely matches up to mine — let’s just say that by the time I’m finished getting all twenty girls kitted out, I’m glad to be wearing three layers of swimsuits or my “enthusiasm” would be attracting jokes from the announcers. But having twenty disinhibited girls on stage is not an opportunity that Livia and I plan to waste — we’re going to go a fair bit farther than just heavy petting and the tease inherent in balloon-based swimwear.

“Okay, ladies,” Livia says in her best ringleader voice. “This is round one of our sexy contest. Here’s how its going to work. You’ve got two minutes to pose. Everyone will do it at the same time. Just follow the example that Michelle Morris gave at the beginning. I’ll be taking pictures.”

Mimi fires up Robert Palmer’s Simply Irresistible and the girls start posing. It’s an incredibly sexy show, but it also passes fast. Lucy and Gloria make some rather salacious comments about the contestants’ anatomy. They can say things that men never could without making women feel uncomfortable. Whether skilled and sultry or awkward and bashful, the girls are all sexy. A few moments in particular stand out, however.

Roach quite unsubtly and intentionally reaches a hand out, squeezes and pops one side of Amanda’s balloon bikini. I know Amanda’s a professional model and isn’t up for much more — a brief look at one of her big, firm tits is the best we’re going to get. She covers herself and scurries off the stage. I think most of the professional models are figuring out this isn’t a very legit contest at this point, but at least some of them are either horny or just swept up in the moment.

Jeanne and Claire dance with each other, miming grinding and almost-kissing as they take a long, deep stare into each other’s eyes and swivel their hips seductively. Molly acts a bit haughty with the other girls, and brings in some sluttier poses with spread legs — her suit doesn’t show much in those, but some of the girls whose competitive instincts she manages to poke end up showing a whole lot more than they likely want to trying to keep up with her.

Claire accidentally pops one of Molly’s balloon-straps, and the cute red-haired impersonator yelps as if being spanked. I note how she blushes beautifully — for such a compulsive and devious troublemaker, she (or at least her stage persona) sure blushes like a sweet ingenue. She looks adorable and vulnerable for the next section of the contest, constantly holding her top up with one hand while trying to pose or do sexy things with the other. Beckie’s kneeling poses in her pink, V-shaped balloon bottoms flash more of her curly blonde bush to the audience than she seems to be aware of.

Now, the timing of this routine is odd, but it actually makes sense if you think about it — it takes around forty minutes to get all twenty girls into balloon swimsuits, and it’s one long, extended tease sequence. Round one lasts two minutes, round two six and round three was originally supposed to be six as well, but will stretch out into fifteen. Livia acts like a little martinet, rushing the girls from one round to the next. In practice, we get our volunteers into a kind of sexual high, fully caught up in the moment, and don’t want to slow the momentum and have them start losing the mood or having doubts about what they’re doing. So as soon as Robert Palmer fades out, Livia aggressively pushes on.

“Okay, ladies! Well played! That was, not to mince words, some blazing hot dancing. We’re going right into round two, and I need to warn you all that it only gets hotter and wilder from here — so if you’re not up for that, get the hell off our stage! We’ve got Sexy Scandal Spectacular bathrobes on the stand over there for anyone that wants to bail. Round two is a oil application contest. Every contestant needs to get every part of her body, excluding her face and feet, covered in baby oil. Make no mistake, girls, you will be graded on your thoroughness!

“But this contest has a caveat designed to really turn up the temperature — you can’t touch your own body! That means, ladies, no rubbing oil on yourselves! You’re going to have to work together, or get other people on stage to help you out! Furthermore, you’re going to need to dance, and keep dancing all the time. Do not stop for any reason whatsoever or you’ll be disqualified! You’ll have exactly four and a half minutes! On your marks! Get set! Get into your naughtiest mental places, and go!”

As Livia says this, I quickly walk down the line of girls, putting a bottle of oil on a rope around the neck of each girl. Two of the more aloof bikini models edge past me as I do so, grabbing bathrobes and absconding the contest. I’m shocked it’s only them. I scan the crowd, looking for girls who look disturbed, frightened, sad or indecisive in a way that could be attributed to peer pressure or genuine boundaries to nudge off stage. I’m surprised and pleased not to find any — most of the girls are riding a sexual high or just embracing the party spirit and feeling of euphoria, and several are eyeing me hungrily.

Now, there’s a very nasty prank here, and I’m sure you can figure it out if you stop and think for a minute. If you don’t get the link between baby oil and balloon-based swimwear, think about the warning you might have heard about condoms and oil-based lubricants.

“If you think about it,” Livia rationalized to me back when we were planning out the routine, “it’s actually got a socially redemptive message behind it. It will be memorable as hell to the audience, and they’ll learn a valuable lesson about safe sex from it. After all, what’s really worse for girls — having a sexy bikini oopsie to prove a point, or getting knocked up after a condom breaks? And lets be honest, there are tons of guys — and girls — in that crowd who would never remember or care about the warning when it’s just said normally, but are sure are fuck going to remember it with crystal clarity when we illustrate it by having balloon swimsuits spontaneously pop off the glistening bodies of a gaggle of well-endowed bikini babes!”

I’m not sure about the moral validity of her rather utilitarian rationale here, but, well, we gave them a disclaimer and I specifically used the Sieve to look for exhibitionists, whether latent or actualized. So when Mimi cues up Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, my conscience isn’t overly active and I’m ready to see some intimate rubbing, exploding bikinis, blushing models and scandalous exposure.

It starts slow. A few of the girls — the ones I’ve pegged as smarter, more sexually experienced, or both — look at the bottles of baby oil, then at their swimsuits, and give their partners a “really? we need to fall for this?” look. But spirits are high, and none of the savvy girls seem to really want to get out of the routine, let alone derail it — and some are horny enough to look eager rather than just exasperated when they figure it out. Girls savvy and naïve alike pour oil on their hands, rub them together and look around for a partner to help out.

They touch only tentatively at first, with the majority of girls not being used to touching other girls in an intimate way. (Roach is the obvious exception, being very overtly sexual and shameless in her squeezing and massaging of the girls around her.) But there is a viral lust, a kind of crowd euphoria at work here, aided by some very deeply horny girls like Brenda and Claire, as well as natural exhibitionists and performers like Michelle, Molly and Jeanne — and the tentative probing soon becomes shameless, uninhibited rubbing, squeezing and massaging.

Several girls obviously solicit my aid in applying oil, seeking my touch over their peers. A big cheer from the crowd goes up when my hands first trace a lady’s curves, leaving glistening oiled streaks in their wake. It’s the ladies as much as the men cheering — I made sure to look good for this, and my confidence and our volunteers’ enthusiasm sells my rubdowns to them as steamy rather than exploitative. Looking out at the crowd, I can spot a number of college girls that really, really wish they were in the volunteers’ shoes right now.

I focus on the more normal-looking girls — a scripted part of Livia’s feminine wish-fulfillment angle, but something that turns out to be very rewarding; these girls are horny and eager, and their sheer lust gives them an overwhelming sex appeal wholly detached from any faults of base flesh. I don’t pick favorites, dividing my focus among the cute amateurs (as scripted) — but I do spare a bit for one more modelesque girl who seems aggressively straight and not comfortable with the other girls touching her.

I do lose my professionalism a bit here — I am a very visual person (and, to be more blunt, a voyeur), and this is such an overwhelming feast of gleaming flesh before my eyes. You can catch me perving out in a rather humiliating way at times on our videos if you look for it. Lucy Langtry does as well, and delivers a snarky rebuke about hungry eyes and desperate men. I’m a little more professional after that — but only a little.

Livia gets to rub down Claire and Wendy. I don’t have a solid read on Wendy’s sexuality beyond “crazy open-minded”, but Claire is definitely very into it, and Livia gets fairly naughty — I think some risky fingering might be going on, but it’s subtle enough that the audience doesn’t catch on at the time. Roach steals Claire, though, pulling her away from Livia reluctantly and proceeding to get quite intimate. That’s some foreshadowing, given what will happen later.

Nothing pops right away. Oil takes time to work its magic on rubber, and we get a good minute and a half of highly oversexed dancing and pawing before we hear the first pop. Wendy is clutching her now flapping bottoms, showing off glistening, marbled surfer ass cheeks. She seems totally unconcerned, though — devoid of modesty. Twenty seconds later comes a moment that eclipses that, however — Beckie’s whole, one-balloon top bursts, and it’s glorious. She yelps, and jumps, and covers herself, and blushes, and the camera catches it all perfectly — we have a wonderful slow-motion replay to show you the goodies on our tapes.

The best bit is that the balloons sting slightly and shock their wearer when they pop — it’s not really painful, but the girls always jump slightly and make a shocked noise. It’s very naughty on two levels — the body language and facial expression often look like the young lady just received a really good, really unexpected goosing, and it can cause some fantastic jiggle effects at the exact instant the mark’s breasts are revealed to all. Beckie demonstrates both of these aspects perfectly and simultaneously.

For a while, many of the girls think the balloons popping are just accidents and ignore them — or turn to stare and take the kind of mischievous, voyeuristic schadenfreude naughty young girls often take at their peers’ humiliations. Roach intentionally popping suits around her adds credibility to this. The savvy girls who got the prank from the beginning and played along, conversely, have no motive to stop playing along now.

Jeanne’s performance of mock-innocent embarrassment mixed with club moves and professional tease causes me to mentally upgrade her from “probably a stripper” to “definitely in the top twenty strippers I’ve seen in my whole life”. The best bit for me, though, is Brenda. She has already lost her top, and is cupping her fat, dangly tits with their stiff nipples in one hand while eliciting me to rub oil on her. “I need some down below,” she whispers in my ear, facing me. The microphone catches and broadcasts it, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “Especially right between my legs. It’s all dry there.”

I spin her around to face the audience and put my hand down her balloon-panties. I haven’t done that with any other girl, but I really like Brenda. More than that, I admire her. It’s easy and fun to be brazenly exhibitionistic when you’re built like me or Livia. When you’re built like Brenda is, it’s a much bigger thing to live brazenly, with a higher psychological cost. I know that I’m symbolically the “prize” in this show, just like Bradley was in Savannah, and I want all the girls in the audience to watch Brenda compete with professional models and “win the prize”. (Yes, I know how narcissistic that sounds on my part, but I think it holds here. Just go with it.) This isn’t some kind of pity, either — in this moment, I see her lust around her, and I am genuinely attracted to her.

I rub oil over her torso and wonderfully imperfect, pendulous breasts, then slide my hand down her balloon panties again — and let me just say she’s such a shameless, bald-faced little liar, saying it was ‘dry’ down there, just because there isn’t any baby oil in the mix yet. Her clit is large and prominent, and in her current state easy to mistake for a sharp-edged stone. I briefly stick a finger in her, which she seems immensely grateful for. I’m not sure how much farther it’s appropriate to go, though — Livia has clearly said not to fuck the contestants, as that would be racing across the comfort lines of the vicarious female audience.

As it turns out, though, I don’t need to do anything. The oil finishes its work on Brenda’s balloon bottoms and they snap with a loud twang. Brenda yelps and squirms as if she just got a sharp spanking, but then she tenses every muscle and her body language starts to change in a way very familiar to me. I quickly spin her around to face me, wrap both my arms around her waist in a somewhat classy ‘ballroom dancing’ pose and let her decide what she wants to do next, in the seconds remaining before it hits. Her face is an inch from mine, and her breath feels hot on my lips.

She grabs the back of my head and slams her lips into mine in a passionate French kiss, exploring my mouth vigorously with her tongue. Her lip balm tastes oddly satisfying to me, and I do not resist her in any way. Her orgasm wracks her whole body powerfully, and she grinds up against me as we kiss. We must be locked together for twenty seconds. She finally slides out of my arms — quite literally, as her naked body is covered with baby oil. Her legs buckle, and I help ease her to the ground on the wooden stage of Summers.

Some boys in the crowd cheer for her, but more laugh or jeer. They’re totally drowned out after a second, however, by the overwhelming, delighted roaring of the female audience. It’s like Brenda has somehow magically become the collective avatar of every insecure but hedonistic girl who dropped big cash to go do Spring Break in the hopes of something erotic happening to them, only to be thwarted by their own doubts and neuroses. This is some kind of primal, Freudian moment of triumph for them, and I would not be surprised if the volume of their collective scream equals or exceeds that of the frat boys at the Noodle. Unlike many of the devoted and experienced hedonists that populate this story, however, Brenda isn’t multi-orgasmic. She just settles down and lays there on the ground for the rest of the first Decan, basking in her afterglow.

My moment with Brenda actually causes me to miss some of the most exciting bits of our wicked prank. Fortunately, however, our cameras allow me to relive the climax any time I desire. Tell me, O Modern Reader, have you ever put a bag of instant popcorn in a microwave? First, for a while, there’s silence. Then one kernel pops. Then, fifteen seconds later, another. It seems to be gradually picking up speed — and then suddenly there’s an avalanche.

This is very much like that, only with balloon swimsuits and busty, well-oiled Spring Break babes jumping about and trying to cover themselves. About half of the girls try to keep dancing to the jaunty song as they cover their exposed breasts and bush. The others lose the rhythm and focus solely on modesty. The most appealing to me are those modest but naughty girls that slyly try to hide behind their fellow competitors, while also sabotaging said competitors’ efforts to protect their own intimate regions.

A few lovely wantons are exceptions. Jeanne has effectively seduced Molly, and the two are dancing naked playfully, touching and almost kissing. Roach has her hands all over Claire, who seems to be enjoying this a great deal. I’m pretty sure Claire is getting outright fingered on stage for a second time, and seems to be a quite willing participant.

It’s only when the majority of the contestants have popped down to full frontal and are trying to dance and cover themselves at the same time that Livia decides to add some commentary. “You know, I can’t help but notice that a few of our birdies have had some incredibly tragic problems with their swimwear. I can see the blokes in the audience have definitely noticed. Well, that’s the Sexy Scandal Spectacular for you — our games always end up getting a bit naughtier than they initially seem to be when the volunteers join up!

“But folks, we’re not being pervy here — okay, that may not be believable; we’re not just being pervy here. We have your best interests at heart, and we put together this show as a very important PSA, to teach all you horny lads and horny lasses a valuable life lesson. Do you see what happened to the balloons these scrumptious little treats were wearing when the oil got on them? Well, that is also exactly what happens to a condom when oil gets on it. So, don’t use oil-based lubes anywhere near a condom, or you’ll be paying child support for the rest of your lives!

“I mean, I’m not saying baby oil can’t be a fun part of a really memorable evening with a few hot members of the opposite sex — it certainly has been for me — but you, regardless of gender, need to be really careful to keep it away from the condoms. Okay? Are you going to remember that? If our little stunt here has been memorable enough to get you all to remember the lesson, give me a ‘fuck yeah’!”

“Fuck yeah!”, the crowd howls back, but I suspect that’s more directed at the nubile, oiled bodies than Livia’s socially redemptive message.

The contestants, conversely, respond nicely to the PSA. The girls I pegged as professional models seem more comfortable with being unexpectedly stripped as soon as a wholesome rationale (no matter how flimsy) is attached to the whole business, and the girls I had mentally marked as smart and promiscuous seem to give Livia and the show more respect — they already knew the message, but respect the effort to get it out to the younger, dumber crowd. So, miraculously, in spite of our lewd prank the general mood among the contestants is still one of carefree revelry.

Folks, it’s absolutely scandalous what you can get away with when you wrap it in the words “it’s for a good cause” — scandalous, and fucking awesome. The PSA is sincere, but it also has a more insidious purpose — it’s a subtle signal to girls who might potentially end up losing clothing at the Trips that we give a damn about them, that we aren’t as sociopathic as our superficial branding might suggest. It’s all just in fun, ladies! Are you game for a giggle?

The song winds down, and Livia races on to avoid losing any of the sexual momentum. “Okay, ladies! Round three! Do you see what I’m holding here? These are three custom gold coins worth four hundred dollars each on weight alone!”

This part at least is true. We had a limited edition set of gold coins made as prizes for this event, branded with the Scandal Spectacular logo on one side and Summers’ logo on the other. In case you haven’t figured this out yet, this isn’t really a contest — anyone who goes through all the rounds and is a good sport (and Brenda, at my demand) will get a coin. We have twenty-five of these coins minted, and end up giving out twelve today. Including the custom engraving, they cost us about 500$ a pop.

Near the end of our run, several Escalations in the future when the Sexy Scandal Spectacular is a lot more famous and, well, scandalous, we sell some of the remaining coins in a prestige auction. They pull six-figure sums. So the contestants — at least, the ones who didn’t lose their coins or sell them within a few weeks — turn a quite tidy profit from their association with us. I’m not sure why that pleases me so much, but it does.

“Now,” Livia continues, “there will be no scratching, biting, choking, hair pulling or submission holds in the third round of our contest! You will have exactly four minutes! Anyone we see doing such a thing will be disqualified immediately! Beyond that, when the music starts, you can try to claim a coin. If you have it in your hand when the music stops, you get to keep it — but only one coin per player! Not only are the coins worth money, but they entitle you to lifetime free admission and free drinks at Summers and over twenty other locally and nationally participating nightspots! Finally, each coin allows its possessor to claim one free, professional boudoir photography shoot with Kensington Modeling! Ladies, this is a really spectacular prize we have for you tonight!”

Now, a few girls — including Beckie — seem really enthused by this, but most look a bit more skeptical. But the coins themselves aren’t the point — they’re just one of the many excuses we’ve grown so good at manufacturing: paper-thin rationales for women to act the wanton for a night and have fun doing it.

“Marc,” Livia shouts out, “get over here!”

As scripted, I put on a careful show of befuddlement but walk to the exact position she indicates, directly in front of a large blue tarp. “Er, what am I doing in all this?”

Livia waves the three coins in the air, and they glinted in the hot Florida sun. Then she turns to me with a wicked smirk. “Hold the coins!” she says. And then she grabs the front of my trunks, pulls them outwards and sticks her hand in there. To all appearances, she’s dropped the coins inside my swimming trunks! In reality, however, she palms them and slides them into her own pocket. Then she places a hand on my back and gives me a firm shove. I pinwheel my arms melodramatically and faceplant into the tarp. At the exact moment I’m pinwheeling, Mimi starts the music — the third round will apparently be set to Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger. “All right, ladies! Go get a coin! Time starts now! Go, go, go!”

Pickup artists talk about social proof — the idea that people watch the social cues around them to see when it’s okay to do something they want to do or are prompted to do. No girl wants to be the first one to do something blatantly slutty in public, but there’s lots of very horny girls willing to be second or third in line! Fortunately we have Molly, our paid ringer, here to take the plunge first and give the other girls the social proof they need that this is, in fact, okay to do and they won’t be the only (or first) ones doing it.

I’m not sure all the above social theorizing is actually necessary, however. Molly tackles me, but three other girls — Beckie, Wendy and Jeanne — follow almost instantly afterward. They’re not the last, either — we only expect two or three girls to actually get really intimate with a scantily-clad man but by the time the tangle is sorted out there will be a full twelve girls in the pile and another five on their hands and knees looking to get in.

I fall backward onto a springy tarp, but under the tarp we’ve piled a bunch of loose, woolly blankets in a depression about three feet deep. The tarp gets immediately slick from the girls’ bodies, and the spot where I land sinks down instantly. As such, I and the first four girls are suddenly at the bottom of a two foot deep concave pit that wasn’t there a second ago. Another four girls follow within twenty seconds, and because of the slick, sloping pit everyone naturally ends up in a slippery tangle together at the bottom.

Yes, O Excitable Reader, this is the part where your erstwhile protagonist gets buried in a pile of naked, giggling, well-oiled bikini models. I hope you enjoy reading it, as I sure enjoyed experiencing it!

The next fifteen minutes may be the most titillating thing I’ve ever done that doesn’t qualify as either a direct sex act or overt fetish play. It’s also very hard to narrate in any linear fashion, despite being the source of some of my most lurid sensory experiences and vivid memories. So I’m going to relate a few of the most intense moments etched into my mind. To be honest, though, I’m not even sure I have them in the right order, and I certainly can’t give you a play-by-play, even with the ability to go over our footage from the cameras.

There’s a generous dose of kinky wrestling in Volume Two of my memoir (anticipation!), and while both that and this are very erotic, I should also stress how different they are. These girls (with the one obvious exception, who is holding back for obvious reasons) are not athletes, and most of them have no idea how to wrestle. There’s a great deal of slipping, sliding, squelching, squirming, giggling, groping, gasping and grinding — eight wonderful words that just get better the more of them you can manage to get together in the same place — but nothing like a wrestling hold or even real clenches.

Rather than anyone trying to pin anyone else, the girls are all trying to get their hands in my bottoms, rip my trunks off or push their peers out of the way, mostly with bodies rather than hands. Those that can’t get at the perceived prize are instead trying to get an edge (or just indulge their inner pervert) by groping, spanking or tickling their peers. I’m pretty sure Claire’s doing this subtly, and when Roach finally deigns to enter the mass near the end she isn’t at all subtle in her motives.

Beckie shouts “woohoo, strip fight!” enthusiastically at the very beginning, then follows it up with a disappointed “oh wait, we don’t have anything left to strip.”

From there she seems to settle on just sliding her naked body over the other girls as her primary tactic. Molly, conversely, settles on tickling her competitors — and that makes the whole tangle even more squirmy and grindy than it naturally is.

Oil-slicked flesh presses against my body on every side. It’s hot, in terms of literal temperature, with so much exertion and body heat (and arousal) in a tiny area. I feel the breath of several girls on my body in odd places, hot and moist. The closer Livia hooked me with the first night I met her — the promise to “drown me in nubile young college pussy” — comes back to me in this moment: I never would have imagined she meant it this literally!

One girl (I never do figure out who) seems to be licking both me and the other girls — not necessarily even in our erogenous zones, just whatever she could get a hold of; I feel my ankles and neck specifically getting licked, and I hear Wendy’s voice ask “hey, who’s licking my nipple?” in a calm, curious tone at one point. All I can say is I admire this young lady’s commitment to her own oral fixation, since everything she’s licking is covered in a combination of sweat, baby oil and spermicide. There are frequently some quite wonderful, glistening titties either jiggling violently an inch or two from my face, or forcefully crammed into my face. It never lasts long enough for me to appreciate it, though.

Breasts aren’t the only visual. Untrained naked girls oil wrestling is one of the lewdest things you will ever see. Professional oil wrestlers have some idea, at least once they get experience, how their bodies appear when doing so. Newbies, however, can be totally oblivious, and simply by the nature of the activity you’re going to get some positions and angles that are absolutely obscene. Mostly I can’t see anything, with my field of vision dominated by the floor, a rapidly spinning perspective or an ultra-closeup of an oily back, torso or foot. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I get looks between the legs of college students or bikini models with otherwise fairly tame portfolios that can only be described as “way too explicit, even for Clubhouse”. Our cameras get much better looks — and our camera dudes aren’t afraid to zoom in. We’re not going for tasteful, after all.

I remember getting a gloriously detailed look at Michelle Morris, and meeting her gaze a second later. She gives me a sultry smirk, and I blush fiercely. Then she rips off my trunks while I’m distracted and swings them about victoriously before seeing the spandex shorts in disappointment. Her and Claire begin a tussle over the trunks, presumptively in case one the coins is in them, but likely in reality an excuse for Claire to feel up the picture-perfect Puerto Rican model.

I remember Brenda making her way into the big pile. She doesn’t really wrestle or compete, though. She just lays down beside me and halfway smiles at me, and eventually tousles my hair with her hand a bit. She has already had her big moment, after all, and just seems playful and oddly mellow in her afterglow.

Really, though, it’s about the hands. I have to keep mine on my trunks to keep them from being torn off for at least the first half of the tangle. After that, well... I can crack jokes about how I manage to “accidentally” grab a naughty thing, but really I’m not trying and some very erotic accidents are quite genuine. It seems like it’s very hard to move one’s hands around for simple leverage or defense without grasping, slapping or touching something naughty, yielding and appealingly warm. This isn’t limited to me, either — it’s all but impossible for the girls to avoid touching each other.

One particular moment stands out as memorably shocking — Wendy is on top of me and her face is fairly close to mine. She’s giving me a flirty and playful but also determined look — and then like a thunderbolt her expression suddenly changes into abject shock, her mouth shoots into a wide O and her cheeks blush an absolutely brilliant crimson. And then another girl pushes her away and I lose sight of her. I never see it happen, and I have no evidence it did... but I suspect one of the other girls may have been groping around with her hands, feeling about for my shorts, and one of her fingers may have accidentally ended up entering a place that the bronzed surfer babe would never let her boyfriends put their cocks — even when going steady. But, who knows? I may just have a dirty imagination.

At one point, I feel a sharp, searing pain down my back — one of the girls just scratched me, either accidentally with a piercing or intentionally with nails. My whole body tenses, and the girls tense in response to me — it really hurts — but after the shock I learn to appreciate the sting as kinky rather than disturbing, and after a few seconds far more pleasant sensations banish it entirely from my mind.

I have no plan to penetrate any of these girls — willingly or “by accident”. It would be way too far for the routine. Nor do I want to come. We do plan for the eventuality that it might happen — as I mentioned, the “lotion” is both spermicidal and antibacterial — and even if I don’t try myself, once my cock is out one of the girls could just give in to her own impulses and decide to “accidentally” sit on it. A cute, slender brunette might intend exactly that at one point near the end, but I roll over on my back in time. Beyond concerns about the bounds and tone of the routine, there’s another reason I don’t want to fuck or get off right there — I have a scheme involving Livia directly, and an opening in the third Decan.

The naughtiest bit, though, I definitely don’t imagine. Beckie straddles my torso early on in reverse cowgirl and starts grabbing at my shorts. Another woman who’s straddling my legs and facing Beckie puts her hands on Beckie’s shoulders and shoves her forcefully. Beckie’s oil-slicked body slides down my torso with surprising speed, and her pussy slides directly into my face. My eyes are full of curly blonde pubic hair, her heart-shaped clit ring scratching the bridge of my nose and I feel the juices of a decidedly aroused woman run down my neck. I really want to lick her, to enjoy that glorious feast, but I restrain myself — that would be outside the bounds of what is acceptable conduct in this situation.

Beckie slides off my face, being pushed further back, and for a few seconds I get very closely acquainted with her taut tummy and navel — a view pretty erotic in its own way. The groping, grabbing and squirming goes on after that for minutes and I lose track of Beckie in the tangle of flesh. And then, suddenly, her pussy is jammed directly in my face again! I taste her juices, I long for that wonderful meal, but somehow I manage to keep my discipline.

I have a free hand and push her off me. I clearly see her lean down, meet my gaze and wave at me in a playfully flirtatious manner. Try that again, sweetie, I quietly promise her in my mind, and I’m going to grab that cute little bubble butt of yours, stuff your pussy into my face and have a grand feast — and I won’t let you go until you’ve had another screaming orgasm in front of everyone and emptied a huge load of girly-cum all over my face!

The wrestling and squirming goes on. I think I see Wendy’s accidentally-penetrated expression at this point, and that’s enough to erase Beckie from my mind entirely and seriously distract me. I lose my trunks, being down to a Speedo. Slick girls with amazing bodies slide them all over mine. It’s like an amazing, full-body lap dance. I am actually getting very, very aroused at this point; I close my eyes and focus on the blood-circulation technique I’ve described earlier for prolonging sex. And then suddenly, there’s pussy grinding in my face again. I admit I just lose it. I don’t cum, but I let go of my Speedo. All right, Beckie, you wanted it — well, you’re about to get it with interest!

I keep my earlier promise. My hands lash up, grabbing a firm ass and forcing a wonderfully slick pussy into my face. My tongue seeks clit like an unerring viper, flicking it back and forth aggressively, and the deep, nearly primal moan that my act causes brings me intense satisfaction. Since I let go, of course other girls have ripped off the Speedo. My cock is wild, free and very hard — and warm, slick, sensuous female flesh, likely belonging to multiple giggling girls, is sliding all over it chaotically. I bury my face in the pussy. I suckle it gleefully for a good fifteen seconds of raw animalistic arousal before I realize something’s wrong. I can’t feel that distinctive heart-shaped clit ring! I wonder if it’s gotten torn off. Is there blood? No, I can’t taste any. I open my eyes, looking into a full curly bush, and my heart skips a beat.

It’s a curly red bush. I’ve eaten one of the other girls, a stranger, not Beckie who was all but inviting it! Given the situation, the pussy ending up in my face could be entirely accidental. Panicking, I try to force my way up and the pussy slides off my face. My gaze follows it to a navel, past some absolutely bangin’ B-cups and to a cute, heart-shaped face surrounded by slicked red hair. Hi, Molly Mischief. My panic fades slightly when I realize her expression isn’t either angry, traumatized or violated — she’s flushed and aroused, but her eyes flash with delight and she winks playfully at me. I will be very relieved, later, when I see that the brief but intense cunnilingus is hard to make out on our footage (not impossible, and indeed some people have spotted it and commented on it in the years after the Trips, but also not blatant) and thus likely went unnoticed by the live audience.

Now, I should explain something. At this time, there is very little cock involved in Spring Break. While you can’t walk a block in Fort Lauderdale without blundering into a pair of bodacious bare boobies, shirtless muscle-guys are equally ubiquitous and there’s even a fair bit of bush on parade... big, erect cock is different. That’s a gay venue thing, not a “for the girls” thing. At best you get Bluto cock — you know, the fat drunk frat dude who feels compelled to show off his helicopter dick.

So, for the horny ladies in the audience, even with such a total male-fantasy setup (which went even more in the direction of male fantasy when the planned-for two or three combatants turned into motherfucking twelve), seeing erect cock attached to an actually attractive guy is a bit of an exotic thrill. We knew it would be, and we planned it that way.

Now, I can’t proudly flaunt cock. Straight guys don’t do that, at least at the time and place of this show, and will get quite hostile to anyone who tries. Women flaunt it, guys cover immediately if they’re near showing anything. So I can’t just be casual about it. And that’s where Molly, our ringer, the only trained wrestler in the pile, comes in. She has two and only two jobs she’s specifically being paid for — being the first one to ‘bite’ as social proof to the others, and preventing me from covering up long enough for the ladies in the audience to get an eyeful. And she does it easily, making it seem natural and even not seeming that skilled herself.

After the... er, misunderstanding we had earlier, it’s a bit weird being physically dominated by her. Not bad, but certainly weird. She very adeptly makes sure I can’t cover my cock as naked, oiled hardbodies slide around over it like a slip-and-slide. The guys in the audience laugh at my expense, but the women roar with delight. I have absolutely no problem with the laughter. Let me tell you, my friends, if as a pickup artist you ever have a choice between winning the respect of men and amusing or arousing women, well... when has the respect of men ever made you feel as good as entering a tight new pussy?

Livia decides it’s time to wrap up the carnival. The third round is scripted to last four minutes, and has actually gone on for about fifteen. Mimi looped Eye of the Tiger four times, and then finally just lets the music run out. “Ladies. Ladies. Okay, you can stop now.”

No one stops. Livia holds up the three coins, revealing that she kept possession of them after all. “Girls, didn’t anyone tell you never to trust a magician?”

A few girls look up and see the coins. I remember Wendy shrugging indifferently and just going back to wrestling playfully with Jeanne and Beckie. The coins are clearly not the primary motive for most of the women in the pit — if I have to guess, I’d divide it up as a third wanting to get their hands on me, a third wanting to get their hands on each other and the final third just being showoffs and exhibitionists. The Sieve, man — combine in with the girls of Spring Break and you get a thing of absolute wonder!

We finally get the girls separated and off me. It takes two Summers staff members, Molly and Roach to separate everyone. (Roach clearly knows a bit about fighting, and seems... disdainful of the girls desperately clinging to me.) As soon as Molly lets me go, I cover reflexively — I’m doing sheepish teen comedy lead nudity body language, not exhibitionist nudity. I think girls will like that — it makes it fun and less threatening. Finally we get everyone standing back up in a line. Everyone, myself included, is covering their nudity. I’m standing right beside Molly. She’s looking around urgently, as if to pick something up. I glance around at the ground, wondering what she lost.

As I’m distracted, she reaches around and gives me a hard, loud smack on the ass! This is not scripted, and I’m genuinely shocked, and I do let go of my genitals and wave my hands around a bit before covering again. The girls roar with delight, and the guys with laughter, again. I blush. Molly Mischief meets my gaze and winks at me. I guess she, just like Livia, thinks that if someone is going to put an adjective beside their name they ought to earn it. After the spanking, Molly keeps the most perfect “naughty girl acting innocent, nothing to see here” look going, while also ogling me. I’m impressed — I really like Molly, not just in the usual “want to fuck” sense but in a “this person would be really fun to just hang out with sometime” sense.

I wonder if she would have done this normally, or if it was just a little more-than-deserved payback for the moment of oral intimacy I forced on her in the pit. If so, it’s trivial in comparison — I would have let her punch me in the nose, stood there and asked for another after what I did to her. In as much as I can read her, though, she isn’t offended. She’s horny, but mostly she’s just having fun.

Livia gives every girl who got in the pit a gold coin and a branded Sexy Scandal Spectacular bathrobe. There’s mild annoyance that the game wasn’t really a contest from a few more competitive girls. Finally all the girls have bathrobes and are covered up except me. “You know,” Livia says, “there’s something I should probably give you.”

She turns, as if to get me a bathrobe. Then, she blatantly rips off Molly’s trick from earlier, smacking me hard on the ass. And, I will admit, I totally fall for it again, exposing myself to cheers and laughter. As you know, I’m deeply jonesing for Livia at this point, and an unexpected spanking from her really turns my crank. May I have another, please! But of course I don’t say that. As erotic as Molly, Brenda and all the random bikini models are, there is no doubt in my mind that it’s Livia I want above all others at this point.

The girls are gradually filing off stage. Livia says that Summers staff will escort them to an employee shower and they can be back for the second Decan — there will be a half-hour intermission. Vendetta, the live band for the night, is getting ready to play sets on stage in the hour-long intermission. I still have no bathrobe.

Because threefold recurrence is the golden rule of comedy, however, Livia goes over and whispers to Brenda, the last girl — who then walks up to me and playfully swats me on the ass. Now, Brenda can’t act for shit, and this third one I do see coming a mile away. But it’s Brenda, and I’m in a great mood, so I playfully throw up my hands a third time to audience cheers and laughter. Then she hugs me, and I just naturally give up caring about my cock and hug her back, feeling her warmth and enjoying a moment of simple intimacy with a nice girl before my stage persona comes back and I hide my shame. So I guess in a way she “got me” too, just like Molly and Livia did.