SwingLifeStyle.com
Create a Free Swingers Account today!

Free Erotic Stories

SwingLifeStyle Free Erotic Stories are written and submitted by our members Sit back and enjoy "Eyes On The Prize".


Become a Free Member - Submit a Story
  • New : Eyes On The Prize
 

Eyes On The Prize

Eyes on the Prize (Inspired by a scene in an “Emmanuel” movie)

Jeff was my escort. Yes, my hired escort, but it isn’t what you think. His profession: adventure guide. Jeff’s assignment that day was guiding me to the more authentic culture and lifestyles among the local collection of tropical islands.

What an exhausting but exhilarating day it had been. Jeff seemed to know exactly what I wanted to see: the coconut groves, the secluded waterfalls and cliffs, the floating village. Light was beginning to fade but there was one final stop before we boated back to the main island: the village hall. “It’s the meeting place for the local residents,” Jeff explained. “They gather at dusk as a community. Sometimes there is village business to discuss. Sometimes there are celebrations. Sometimes they just discuss their day and socialize. It is surprisingly civil for what some label a ‘primitive’ culture.” I could tell from Jeff’s tone that he had a strong opinion about the appropriateness of such a label. I just wanted to experience it. “It is what it is,” I thought to myself. “Who am I to impose my views or judge people?”

We entered the “hall” which was in design really just an extra large hut. It was already packed with jovial locals and a humidity spawned by perspiration. Maybe fifty or sixty shirtless men and women in native grass skirts were loudly conversing in a language I couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t the sort of place I would feel comfortable in if alone but with Jeff, I felt perfectly safe.

“Hmmm, ... You’re in luck. I think tonight is wrestling night,” Jeff informed me as two particularly large and muscular men appeared out of the crowd. The first was easily more than six feet tall—a giant among his peers—and looked sturdy as an oak tree. He had a gash of a scar under his left eye. The other man was shorter, maybe five feet, if that, but much stockier. The two men approached and briefly spoke to Jeff who explained, “These two are tonight’s wrestlers. Uh, I guess that’s obvious. Let’s see ... they say it would be great prize for them if they could wrestle for you.” I looked at the men: so foreign in appearance yet I could still recognize in their dusty faces culturally transcendent fundamental humanity. I smiled at the thought of them performing for me as the VIP. “Do we have time?” I asked. “I think so. These usually only last a few minutes I’m told, although I’ve never actually seen one. I can get the boat ready while you watch.” “OK, then, tell them that I would be honored to have them wrestle for me,” I said smugly. As Jeff translated my acceptance, the two wrestlers looked a bit surprised, maybe nervous? But smiled broadly.

The wrestling ring was formed by nothing more than a hole in the crowd. At the perimeter was a fancy stool to which I was kindly directed by the stocky competitor. Some sort of officiator emerged from the crowd—an elder, by appearance, dressed in a yellow robe. He motioned to the two men. They simultaneous yanked there grass skirts off and suddenly the wrestling began.

The two naked men violently grabbed and yanked at each other. Their muscles flexed, they groaned, and rivers of sweat poured down their bodies. As they tossed each other to and fro, I was transfixed by their exposed genitals. They were huge! I felt a sudden warmth and wetness forming between my legs. As the wrestlers labored on, my eyes kept capturing snap shots of their wildly flinging appendages for my mind’s amazement.

Finally, the show was over. I’m not sure what particular event marked the victory, but stocky had proven more durable than tall. The crowd went wild with hollers and feet stomping. The vanquished wrestler joined the appreciative crowd and the officiator gave a symbolic nod toward the winner. Again the crowd erupted. The winner turned toward me, bowing low, and sporting the exhausted smile of a champion still reveling in victory. As I smiled politely back I sensed the room’s attention shifting from him toward me.

The official gestured in my direction, but I didn’t understand. He finally came over, stood me up, and led me to the center of the ring. Icy anxiety poured over me. It was obvious that the “guest of honor” was supposed to do something but my trusty translator, Jeff, was nowhere in site. I looked at the officiator with questioning eyes. He uttered something in recognition of my confusion, then nodding and smiling politely, he put his hands on my shoulders and gently guided me to my knees. It suddenly hit me: I had agreed through Jeff’s imprecise translation to let the two men wrestle “for me”— not “for me” as the audience, but “for me” as the victory prize!

Blood ignited in my veins, the anxious chill of social faux pas replaced in a flash with the heat of imminent carnal conquest. I shot a panicked look toward the official who simply motioned that I should bend forward onto me hands. He paused a moment, then gently but firmly pushed me onto all fours. Lifting my head, I confronted the thickest cock I had ever seen just inches from my face. It was bathed in sweat, as was every inch of Mr. Stocky. His two kiwi-sized balls hung extra low from the heat of battle, soaked in the same salty froth.

Mesmerized by the conqueror’s endowment, I hardly noticed my skirt being lifted and secured by some unseen hands. The naked wrestler strode around behind me, freeing my eyes to focus further off were my gaze was returned by dozens of eager faces. I was too shocked to move, seemingly held fixed by the crowd’s stare. Inanimate on the outside, a moist hot wetness was actively churning within me as my predicament sunk in.

I felt Stocky’s large nubby fingers grab the trim of my white cotton underwear. With a steady and unapologetic tug, he rode my panties down my thighs and dragged them off my bent legs. He flung them over my head and into the crowd to an explosion of cheers, like a debauched vision of a wedding garter toss.

His thick calloused thumb pressed in against the outer lips of my cunt. Its coarse and bulbous pressure easily overcame the meager resistance of my matted mound of hair. It plunged into my drenched interior. The flood of my juices betrayed any hope I might have had at hiding the truth of my reflexive desires.

He kneeled into position behind me, his thick knees prying my legs apart as he settled in. Rough muscular hands separated my thighs still further until I was wide open—fully exposed. The crowd hushed to murmur. Stocky’s thick solid shaft pressed up against my cunt, the beaded sweat at the tip of his gland mixed and mingled with the pooled moisture of my slick hole. He paused for an instant, as if to commemorate the moment—pressing in against me, still, but pulsing, filled potential energy. His hands clamped onto my hips and I knew that this sublime moment of motionless physical and spiritual connection was about to burst.

I would never have thought I could take him, but with a sudden tremor and an irresistible thrust, he was in me. The sensation was too intense to be composed of any single feeling. It hurt, yes, but that was just a part of it. It was pleasurable, true, but that only captures a single dimension of it. There were so many different dimensions beyond how wide and deep I felt my universe become. And yet my universe was suddenly so singular: his endless cock. The universe was fucking me. I was experiencing some perverse version of quantum mechanics.
I was living in a reality in which even observation itself affects the outcome, a reality in which everyone around me— watching and cheering—was inside me, sucked into the singular infinite-cock moment like a black hole swallows.

The universe fucked me with long, solid thrusts—almost out, then all the way back in—each time so deep that even space for breath seemingly could not be spared, leaving me gasping between strokes. Faster and faster. The rhythm of it shook my slim frame, his burly thighs percussively smacking against my ass. My universe was fucking me. I wanted to fuck it back.

I realized I was moaning from outrageous feelings of lust and desire. My hips moved to meet his thrusts, to amplify them—certainly spiritually, if not possible physically. My moans escalated to cries of passion. An inescapable wave swelled within me like a tsunami. Then—the big bang—my universe suddenly exploded into billions of tiny sparks, blinding me, blinding everything. I came.

The next I remember, I was lying flat on my stomach with the depleted wrestler collapsed full-weight on top of me, his penis still spasming inside me like the giant twitching leg of a freshly killed spider. I could hardly breath. Just as the twinge of panic approached, I heard him make the longest and most satisfied sigh, his exhale cooling the sweaty back of my neck. He shifted his body to the side. As his flaccid penis pulled free of my cunt, I could feel the hot aftermath drain onto the dirt beneath me. Somehow, seeing his exhausted body, motionless on the ground, I imagined that I, perhaps, was the winning wrestler in this round?

End of Story