Nomination (futa/M)

Sifting weight from leg to leg restlessly, the girl at the end of the long line leading to the restroom could endure only few minutes. In the course of a party held for promising new artists in the main ballroom of the best five star hotel in Las Vegas, The Leviathan, she had guzzled way too much of the funny tasting sodas from the drink laden tables.

There being far, far less men than women in the patrons of the gala she was attending with her half-sister, waiting at end the queue she hadn’t spotted anyone visiting the gents, while the line to the ladies was long enough to warrant its own, busy catering service. Bladder ready to burst, sneaking surreptitiously away, she slipped to the queue-less side. Once inside, she stopped for a moment to listen. Nope, no one was raising a fuss. No one had noticed the transgression of a slip of a girl in a catholic girl school’s uniform straying into a wrong restroom.

Checking the booths, the first five doors opening noiselessly when pushed lightly, verified empty, only the last one not opening. Rattling the locked door didn’t get anybody inside to call out or react otherwise. Maybe it was closed for maintenance? An urgent need overruled further investigations. Glad to have the place to herself, the restroom’s door was jammed with a comb. For someone with less than five feet height and gifted with mammoth sized dick and ballsacs, the past had proved the hotel’s toilet seats a quixotic endeavor—there was an unpleasant tendency for parts to splash into the water. The urinals were easier alternative.

Taking a stance in front of a wall, the laborious task of trawling a cock-hose from under the ankle length skirt began. A buzz behind the eyes hampering the hurried efforts, the normally nimble fingers fumbled with the straps. The huge appendage they secured being semi-hard like in the mornings did not help any. In haste, not all of the extra ordinary length got extracted out. Swaying slightly, partly from the heavy, unbalancing weight, leaning slightly back, shifting into an even wider legged posture steadied the stance. Both hands providing support—to prevent outpouring deluge splattering on shoes, or on the soft seashell colored tiles on the ceiling, walls and floor—the aim of the huge drooping piece of masculine anatomy was just in time when the pressure became unbearable and the floodgates burst. Metal thundering under the outpouring torrent drowned out a heavy sigh of relief. The pressure lessening, the hugely hung preteen girl slowly relaxed. The previous night having been full of frustrations, wishfully she mused, ‘Pissing a really heavy load does feel good. Almost like scoring in the Game.’

The invitation to the gala had been to Antonia, but she had wanted Andrea to accompany, while Sister Miriam had been assigned chaperon them. The reception being important chance, the holy minder had concentrated foremost at Antonia on the previous night, assuaging the nervousness and anxieties of a fledging, budding painter. An inexperienced young artist expected to intermingle a party with some of the world’s wealthiest.

Nary a thought to her sibling, waiting impatiently for her turn, Antonia had chattered and plowed at the emphatically grunting Sister Miriam, for ages, until finally shooting her goal. But then, unmindful that there were others waiting for their turn, the twit had started immediately again! Not even waiting to finish filling the quaking womb full, the prattle of inane worries had increased to yammering, thrusts tempo into battering. Totally losing it, the dick-twit had continued ramming, on and on, the whole night while jabbering absurd anxieties. So long that the poor hosanna yelling Sister’s attempts to sooth and lessen the inane anxieties was overwhelmed, in the end just lying supine under the pummeling onslaught. Oblivious to everything, nattering, the jackhammering carrying on, Antonia had persisted in plowing their frazzled, only half-conscious, in incessant orgasms writhing chaperone.

Andrea was sure that Sister Miriam ending insensate had been a reflex to escape the asinine dithering. Certainly not for being tired of playing the Game. It couldn’t be a result from having played with merely one of them—and for one night only. So far Sister had shown remarkable enthusiasm and gift, let alone tolerance for extended and combination plays with the two of them for the past several months. Appearing almost every night for a Game after that first time in the stables, being one of the best playmate, rivaling the Coach and the Mother. Sister being unavailable, attending and laboring the whole night over and under her sibling, ravished senseless with a monumental dick and dick-headedness, meant Andrea had had to take care of herself to the best she could on her own. Irritated, jacking halfhear

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