She brought her own waterproof mascara, a rookie mistake they told her. “Let it run, drip, and marr your face. Show the world what a depraved cock sucker you are.”
Her approach was far more subtle. Let talent be proof, not sludge of dimestore whore paint. She was not disposable cock meat. She was a cock sucking succubus of the highest order. And the Devil must always look good.
All-day, nude foundation blended her face to neck. Rosey pink pampered and poofed her cheeks to innocent blush.
Her eyeshadow, a pale lavender base, lapped at her brows and contrasted against youthful, bright green eyes. A little brush dipped in the finest animal tested chemicals painted and lengthened her full eyelashes. Thin, black waterlines finished her glassy emeralds.
She brushed the makeup aside and leaned into the mirror. Nothing but Carmex coated her full, luscious lips. Lips which would win her the title, and enough money to get back home.
“Ten minutes,” a voice squawked over the intercom.
She stood up, pulling at the hem of a vintage blue and white farmgirl dress, gave her bra a final, quick adjustment, and walked to the dressing room door, her patent heels clacking on filthy tile. “You’re going to win this,” she told herself. “You’re the best.”
She walked out into hallway. “Ready,” she told the assistant producer.
He nodded without taking his eyes of his tablet. “You’re on in five. Let’s get you to your mark.”
“Do you know the challenge?” she asked, following the young man.
“Four cocks. Eight minutes.”
Her quick gait briefly faltered. “That’s not enough time.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, waving her on. “They’ve been in the ready room jerking it to some fucked up lolita crap for almost an hour. They’re ready to burst.”
She bit her lip and the young man held out his hand and ushered her to the edge of the hallway, stopping them both against the wall. A sobbing woman, covered in orange vomit, spit, snot and cum staggered past them. Her clothes were torn and she was missing a shoe, causing her to limp.
“Good job with the Nazis, Anne,” the young man said, not bothering to look up from his screen. “The numbers are great. Now get to colonics and flush out that ass, you got the Anal Blitzkrieg round in fifteen minutes.”
They continued down the hall, past illuminated wallscreens of dancing corporate logos. The noise Onwin from the live studio audience crashed into them as two large doors swung open. From behind the stage the sound reminded her of the ocean at midnight. Blinking lights of disembodied headsets and soft glows of tablets punctured the pitchblack.
She looked down to the green glow of the track lights and tried to keep up with the assistant producer.
“Follow the green and stop at the red,” he told her, before disappearing into a sea of backstage equipment and technicians.
At her feet a wide band of glowing red soon appeared and she took her mark.
“Two mintues,” a girl’s voice whispered from the darkness.
“OK.”
“Sixty seconds.”
She didn’t respond. She felt queasy. “Slow breaths. Deep breaths.”
The audience roared at some unseen queue and within moments the show’s host was screaming into the void, “Welcome back to true latenight entertainment! The red line of all which is wholesome! The absolute pit of depravity! The greatest fucking show on Earth! Welcome back to the Redbull Slutcon Championships!”
“Deep breaths,” she whispered under the roar of the crowd. “You can do this.”
“Up next is the Kansas sweetheart! Very easy on the eyes!” the show host bellowed, then spoke quickly, “and probably easy in the sack…” A rimshot sounded over the sound system and the audience laughed. “You know when she’s near by the sounds of a mighty blow, Little Miss Dorothy Gale!”
The red line at her feet started to flash green and the sound of a storm filled the stage.
“Go!” a voice said over her shoulder. “That’s your queue!”
She stepped past the line and out from the curtains. Studio lights blinded her and the crowd’s roar deafened. She was lost, unable to see or know where to go.
“It’s OK,” the host said, taking her by the arm. “Don’t be shy, Ms. Gale! We know you can blow us away!”
The crowd laughted and she forced a smile. She then nodded and followed his lead, walking along the stage, the backdrop a digital blend of tornados and corporate sponors.
“Your challenge will be to convince your friends to follow the yellow brick road,” the host said. He pointed his hand to the floor and brick by brick the floor glowed a golden yellow, leading to four spotlights at the far end of the stage.
Four men waited at the end of the yellow brick Onwin Giriş road in the spotlights, reclining in black vinyl chairs and wearing Redbull towels over their groins. Each wore a unique mask, the Scarecrow, the Lion, the Tinman, and the Wizard.
Their towels lurched at the sight of her, throbbing meat dancing underneath. Angry, hulking tornadoes ready to throatfuck the air out of Little Miss Dorothy Gale.
“Any last words, Miss Gale?”
She said her lines in the squeakiest, most innocent voice she could, “Gosh, mister…” She put her hand to her mouth then looked at the audience. “I hope I can convince them all to be my friend! I really do need to get back home to Kansas!”
“We wish you the best of luck, Miss Gale.” The host nodded and led her to the start of the yellow brick road. “You’ve got eight minutes, Dorothy, before the gates to the Emerald City close and your chance to make it into the final round is over.
“Golly,” she squeaked, “I need to hurry!”
A massive ten second counter flickered over the stormy digital backdrop.
Ten, the crowd chanted.
She shook out her fear with a wiggle and an awkward, stuttering laugh.
Seven, the crowd chanted.
She closed her eyes. ‘You can do this, bitch,’ she thought. ‘You’re a fucking goddess. You can do this.’
Three, the crowd chanted.
‘What the fuck happened to six?’
One, the crowd chanted.
“Go!”
She raced across the floor and slid on her knees into the lap of the Scarecrow, landing face-first into his Redbull towel. She wretched it from his lap, “Come on!” she blurted, tossing the towel aside. Her lips instantly, without hesitation, slid completely down his shaft like she was swallowing a grape, and not throating a nine inch monster. Her fingers worked his balls and ass.
“Holy shit!” the Scarecrow blurted, squirming in his chair.
She slid the meat out of her throat and coughed up a mixture of saltwater and phlegm, coating the twitching cock in a slippery glaze.
“Wow!” the host said. “Dorothy really knows how to make friends!”
She gave the Scarecrow a wink and smile before diving throat-first down to his nuts, back up for air with a flick of her tongue, and back down the shaft balls-deep in effortless rhythm. A dozen quick throat plunges later and he was ready.
“I’m done!” the Scarcrow grunted, tapping Onwin Güncel Giriş her on the head.
She slid the cock out of her throat and with a tight grip jerked it off onto the stage.
“Next!” she grunted in a deep voice. She scrambled on her hands and knees over to the Lion . “Gimme that dick, muthafucka.”
The lion flung off his towel.
‘No fucking problem,’ she thought. She buried her nose into his pubes, shaking her head from side to side in order to choke down the monster slab of meat. Her eyes started to water.
She kept it deep, choking throat spasms constricting – milking – the cock into her gullet.
“Fuck!” the Lion roared, pushing her off his dick. “I fucking came!” He looked over to the host and put his hands up in confusion. “Down her goddamn throat!”
The crowd moaned in frustration.
“You know the rules, Dorothy,” the host said in a grave tone. “No proof, no pay. I’m sorry but-“
She stuffed three fingers down her throat and puked up nearly a pint of stomach juices and cum all over the stage. “There’s your fucking proof!” she said, scrambling to the Tinman.
The crowd went wild.
“My goodness!” the host blurted, waving his hand over the pool of sticky fluids. “Miss Gale really wants to go back to Kansas!”
Tinman was ready to pop even before she got the head past her lips. He tapped her forehead in rapid succession and pulled out quick enough to spray a half dozen thick squirts across her lips.
Laughter erupted at the sudden orgasm, some calling out, “minute man” to mock him. The host gave a rehearsed chuckle and commented on Tinman’s endurance.
She looked up to the giant clock counting down. It read four minutes and fifteen seconds.
“That’s OK,” she said to the audience, wiping her face and licking her fingers. “At least it doesn’t taste like oil.”
Everyone laughed, and as she crawled to the Wizard an off-camera technician gave her a thumbs up.
She tongued the Wizard’s balls and mumbled, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”
The crowd cheered as she finished off the Wizard of Oz with a twisting hand job and nut lick combo, spraying the cock into the air.
One minute and twelve seconds remained on the clock when the buzzer sounded. She got up from her bruised knees, curtsied through the applause, and exited stage left.
She met the production assistant in the hallway. “Good job out there, Dorothy,” the young man said, not bothering to look up from his screen. “The numbers are great. Now get to colonics and flush out that ass, you got the Anal Lollipop round in fifteen minutes.”