Schmoose the money

You pass through two backstage corridors to the audience pit. The Boat uses a thrust stage surrounded by an extensive standing area, with tiered seating behind that. Today, the stage will be used for the race itself and you expect most of the attendees will want to be as close to the action as possible, so the seats will likely remain unoccupied. It looks like most people are already here, mingling amiably with each other and the representatives of the football team, snacking on finger foods and drinking champagne provided by other student volunteers working as waitresses. From the sheer number involved, you begin to see why they needed extra help from girls like Lorelei who're not directly connected to the team.

Due to the university's gambling licence, the event is ticketed and guests (whether taking part or watching) have already paid a substantial sum just to be here. All ages and backgrounds are represented, although the average age of the men seems substantially higher than that of the women. There's no dress code and you see everything from black tie to shorts and flip-flops, but the players, cheerleaders and waitresses are all wearing uniforms of one sort or another, of course. Your usual smart attire fits in perfectly.

You work your way through the crowd, exchanging greetings and a few words here and there. You didn't think you'd be the best choice to represent the university, since you know so little about the football team, but it turns out most of those you meet are more interested in discussing the upcoming race, rather than the reason it's taking place. To one side is a competition to guess the weight of a cheerleader. Picking her up is not only allowed, but encouraged and since it's her unclad weight that's required, it makes sense that she's naked. The winner gains her services as a **** for twenty-four hours and there's no limit to the number of guesses, as long as the participants pay the fee for each one.

On the other side of the stage, prizes for the raffle are being displayed; mainly items of kit that are no longer being used. The worn underwear is generating particular interest. However, it's the race itself that's expected to raise the lion's share of the funds today and there are already bets being placed, even before the final competitors are announced.

You're chatting to a couple of women in their twenties. One is an attractive blonde wearing a frayed white T-shirt, ripped jeans, scuffed leather boots, oversized sunglasses with a broken hinge, a shapeless brown leather handbag falling apart at the seams and a diamond necklace that would pay for this entire fundraiser twice over. Her brunette friend is unfortunately rather less good looking, wearing a plum puffball dress and ballet flats, but you gather that she's going to compete in the race.

"So, you must know these girls," she says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Is there one in particular I should avoid?"

"I'm afraid you'll be assigned randomly," you reply, eliciting a grimace, "but I assure you that all the university's students are expertly trained in the art of cunnilingus."

"Told you, Flo," the blonde interjects. "It's going to be the Highway wrap party all over again—oh, look, there's Devon!"

She then turns her back on the Polynesian-looking gentleman with his shirt open to reveal a chest of rippling muscle, conspicuously pretending not to have noticed him, whilst her companion waves frantically to catch his attention.

"When you say they're trained," she says to you, "do you mean it's like part of their course, or what? I never got oral sex lessons at my college. I mean, I gave a lot of head, but that's not quite the same."

"It's part of the pastoral care we provide," you explain, "making sure our young ladies have all the skills they'll need to thrive in the wider world after graduation."

Before you can elaborate, the man apparently called Devon comes up behind the blonde and grabs her roughly by the shoulders. She turns, feigns surprise and then gives him a double air kiss, so you take the opportunity to extricate yourself from the conversation and look for somebody more interesting.

You've hardly moved a couple of paces, when the theatre sound system comes to life with the strident tones of a pop instrumental. A procession of women march onto the stage, led by Robyn, the organizer. The university employs a full time professional coach, but he's aided by a number of student volunteers and the athletic bottle-blonde is one of these. She's wearing a tracksuit in the university colours, but the thirty or so girls following her are topless, in a variety of mismatched skirts and shoes. Most are either players or cheerleaders, but you estimate that around a dozen are friends persuaded to join in at the last minute. As the music cuts out, they pair up to strike sexy poses back to back, clearly rehearsed.

"Welcome to the University Football Team's forty-seventh annual orgasm race," Robyn announces, her melodious voice carrying easily in the sudden quiet. You're surprised it's been going that long. When the Rulebook says something's an Old Rule, it's not kidding. "This year, we have a record turnout, so a big thank-you to all our competitors and supporters. We will be having four heats of thirty-two, with two winners from each going through to the final, joined by four lucky losers for a total of twelve. As is traditional, the worst competitor in each heat will be getting her bottom warmed by whoever lost the most money on her…"

At this point, a ripple of laughter passes through the crowd, along with some comments you don't quite catch and the young student coach pauses to let the disturbance die down, then continues.

"…but this year, we are also rewarding the student who brings her riders to climax the quickest on aggregate. She will be allowed a fully satisfying orgasm, with the complete blessing of the university, provided by one of her colleagues."

The gasp from the girls is audible. Most seem happy, even ecstatic, but a few appear worried by the news, including Lorelei, who stiffens, looking even paler than usual. Johanna, who's standing behind her, gives her hand a squeeze and whispers something in her ear, which seems to relax her and she even manages a smile for the spectators.

"Of course, the girl who takes the longest will also have to face consequences of her own!" A cheer greets this implied threat and then it's time for the mounts to get in position. The students lie on their backs, knees bent and legs apart so that their skirts expose the entirety of their juicy cunts to the spectators. Every girl is dripping with arousal, which doesn't go unnoticed amongst those watching.

"They'll be cumming before their riders, if they're not careful" one wag observes.

"They should make them lick up their juices after they finish the race," says a older, female voice.

"They do, in fact," replies a strong male voice just behind you and the authority in his tone makes you turn your head to see a handsome gentleman in his late thirties inspecting the beauties on display with appreciation, but not the lasciviousness exhibited by many of the other attendees, both male and female. He notices your glance and nods in greeting, but then it's time for the first set of competitors to be announced.

Robyn calls out the names in turn and each lady steps up onto the stage (raised only about a foot off the ground) and gives a twirl to a round of applause, slips off her knickers if she's wearing any, then kneels over the face of the next student available, skirt or dress preserving some measure of modesty. For obvious reasons, none of the riders has chosen to wear any other sort of clothing below the waist.

Two of the waitresses then strap her thighs down to cleats in the stage surface, ensuring she can't pull away from the girl soon to be licking her to an unwilling climax, whilst the next name is announced.

It takes nearly ten minutes for all thirty-two to be restrained, ages ranging from barely eighteen to late sixties. They're all smiling, looking forward to the race, which is seen as good fun, if inevitably rather embarrassing. Several are playing with the bare boobs of their mounts or miming the application of a whip to encourage greater enthusiasm, when the call of place your bets causes a flurry of activity among the spectators, eager to back their favourites.

"Who's your money on?" The man you noticed a moment ago has now stepped forward to stand next to you and offers his hand. "Josh."

"Jack," you reply, shaking firmly, "but I couldn't possibly comment on the likely winner."

He nods and you realize he didn't really expect an answer.

"That Naia's getting some hefty bets." He indicates the gorgeous dark-skinned brunette riding the tiny ginger cheerleader who gets thrown in the air in most of the team's routines. "I don't know whether they think she's going to win or they just want to be the one to spank her if she's first out." You could understand that. She's certainly the best looking of the competitors you've seen so far.

"Are you betting?"

"Not on this heat," he replies. "I know some of the girls going on later and I'm giving them my support."

The cry of no more bets tells you the race is about to begin.