Bull Riding

Walter looked at the list of available events, his eyes scanning the options with a competitive glint. Surfing? A bit too much water involved for his current mood. Beach Volleyball? Could be fun, but maybe too much running. Then, his eyes landed on Bull Riding.

In his mind, he pictured a rugged, high-octane event—perhaps something involving mechanical bulls or some sort of strength-based obstacle course designed to test balance and grip. It sounded exactly like the kind of challenge an athlete would want to tackle to prove their mettle.

"That looks like it'll test my core strength," Walter said with a confident nod toward Steve, gesturing at the sign for the Bull Riding event. "I’ll go with that one."

Steve let out a low, hearty chuckle, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he glanced back at the massive, muscular men lounging near the staging area. "Bull Riding, huh? You've got guts, Walter. It’s a pretty… hands-on sport. You sure you’re ready for that kind of contact?"

"I can handle myself," Walter replied, perhaps a bit too assertively. He didn't realize the warning was meant more as a heads-up about the sheer physical intensity—and the intimacy—of the task at hand.

Steve led him toward the registration booth, where a tanned, smiling woman with a headset looked up as they approached. "Name and event?" she asked, her eyes sweeping over Walter’s fit, feminine frame with an appreciative wink.

"Valerie, Valerie Alotta Choksondik," Walter used his chosen name for this new life and showed her his fake id, "and I'm signing up for Bull Riding."

The clerk’s grin widened. She tapped a few buttons on her tablet. "Alright, Val. You're all set. We’ll see you at the mounting station in twenty minutes. Here is your starter kit."

She handed him a small, pink bag. It was surprisingly light, almost empty-feeling.

"Good luck," the clerk added with a playful giggle. "You're going to need it once the Bulls get a hold of you."

Walter took the bag, feeling a slight blush creep up his neck at her comment, but he brushed it off as typical competitive banter. He turned toward the changing area—a series of private white tents lined up along the sand—and headed inside to prepare for his first official competition.

Once inside the privacy of the tent, Walter sat down on a small bench and unzipped the pink bag. "Let's see what kind of 'gear' they expect us to wear," he muttered to himself.

As he pulled the contents out, his breath hitched.

The fabric was a vibrant, shimmering hot pink—a micro-bikini so minimal it looked like it was barely there at all. The top consisted of two tiny triangles held together by thin, delicate strings meant to tie around the neck and back. But it was the bottom that made him stare in stunned silence.

The bikini bottoms were an ultra-thin G-string, but they featured a wide, teardeck-shaped open gusset. The fabric didn't cover anything; instead, it framed the pelvic area with nothing but thin strips of string to hold the sides together, leaving the entire center completely exposed.

"What in the...?" Walter whispered, his face heating up to a shade that almost matched the pink fabric. This wasn't athletic wear. This was… something else entirely. Was this supposed to be a joke? A specialized design for aerodynamics?

He looked at the sheer lack of coverage. If he wore this, there would be almost nothing between him and whatever he was supposed to be riding.

"Whatever I am was supposed to be riding... Wait a minute!" he mumbled. Next he stood up, looking out through the mesh opening of the tent toward the main arena. His eyes drifted toward the men assigned to the event. They were massive, towering specimens of pure muscle, their dark skin glistening in the sun as they joked and stretched. They looked less like athletes and more like forces of nature, built for power and endurance.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave, making his knees feel weak. There were no mechanical bulls here. The "Bulls" were the men. And his job wasn't to stay on a machine; it was to mount them.

He looked back down at the tiny, skimpy pink scrap in his hands. He wasn't just signing up for a test of balance; he was signing up to be physically taken by the most powerful men at the festival.

Walter swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs—not just with competitive adrenaline, but with a mounting sense of scandalous realization. He had to decide: was he going to step out of this tent and face the ride, or would the embarrassment be too much to handle?

The silence in the small, sun-drenched tent was thick with Walter’s mounting panic. He stood there, staring at the tiny scrap of hot pink fabric—the 'gear' meant to facilitate a physical encounter that he was only just beginning to truly grasp. His heart was thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird. He felt a strange mix of sheer embarrassment and an involuntary, primal thrill.

Before he could even process how he would possibly step out into the public eye wearing something so… minimal, a booming, authoritative voice cut through the sound of the crashing waves outside.

“Valerie! You’re up! Let's move it, girl!”

The voice was loud, energetic, and carried no hint of hesitation. Before Walter could even gasp or scramble to pull his discarded clothing around him, the heavy canvas flap of the tent didn't just unzip—it was yanked wide with a sharp zip-snap sound.

The sudden influx of bright, blinding seaside sunlight flooded the tent, momentarily stunning Walter. He froze, standing in the center of the small space. He had only managed to slip the tiny bikini top on, the thin strings pressing against his skin, but he was still completely bare from the waist down, holding the skimpy G-string bottoms in his hands.

Standing in the entrance was a tall, athletic woman with a headset around her neck and a clipboard tucked under one arm. She looked like she lived for the chaos of high-stakes events. Her eyes swept over him—from his flushed face to his fit, feminine torso, down to his bare hips—with the casual, professional gaze of someone who saw much more scandalous things every single day.

"Oh! You're... you're already in gear!" she said with a bright, knowing grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she looked at his half-dressed state. "Or, well, almost!"

Walter’s face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. He instinctively tried to crouch or cover himself with the pink bag, but there was no hiding. "I—it's just... the sizing is a bit..." he stammered, his voice sounding higher and more breathy than he was used to.

The official laughed, stepping into the tent to usher him toward the exit. "Don't be shy, Val! The Bulls are already lined up at the mounting station, and they don't like to keep their riders waiting. They're getting restless!"

As if on cue, a low, rhythmic sound drifted in from the arena—the sound of deep, masculine laughter and the heavy, synchronized footsteps of men who knew they were the main attraction.

The official gripped his arm gently but firmly, guiding him toward the opening. "Let’s get you suited up and out there. You've got a lot of 'riding' to do!"

As Walter was ushered toward the light, he looked past the official and caught a glimpse of the men waiting in the distance. They were massive, their dark skin glistening with sweat under the sun, their eyes fixed on the tent with hungry, competitive anticipation. He realized then that there would be no hiding. To participate, he had to own exactly how little he was wearing.

He took a deep breath, clutching the pink fabric, and prepared to step out of the shadows and into the heat of the competition.