Race III

Just sprint. Sprints are all that matter, you repeat to yourself as the next race is about to start. Just as before, there are forty-two contenders. None of you actually want to participate in the damned thing. But you are adamant on getting your orgasms.

With a series of mechanic beeps, the start of the race is signaled. The red line switching to green. You begin to sprint forward, thinking of your glorious orgasm. And you run. Run. Run. And run. Receiving a bunch of kicks on your thighs, lower legs and even your waist.

You are adamant to get through the pain corridor that is formed by the other ponies. But the torment proves to be too much for you, and you collapse on the ground like a log. You want to get up, but another pony stumbles into you the next moment, your side painfully kicked by her before she falls onto you. Then a second pony does the same. And a third. A pile of bound women racking up on your helpless form.

It takes about three minutes for you to get out of the human pile. That alone is enough for victory to escape from you.