We made it to the final four. The semis are tonight. I'm going over stats, looking for an edge. Christina is resting. At 30 she's one of the older competitors, but it's like that old saw: Age and treachery beats youth and skill every time. Still, it's been a hell of a month. One contest a week. Afterwards it typically takes her 48 hours to return to any sort of normalcy.
It's an open competition, meaning that anyone who can qualify can participate. We had a few new faces this year, but most of them were familiar, old friends we'd competed against before.
As with any competition psychology is the key issue. No matter how well trained physically, at some point the brain is just going to shut down. It's all about the will to win. Of course having the right body in the best condition goes a long way. We had a scare with Donna. 19 years old (she looked 15 and there were serious questions there, but they verified her age), a fit little animal if there ever was one, but, like I said, a little experience goes a long way. She'd start out strong, hoping to keep her lead. And she managed through the first couple of rounds. But then she ran into team Rawlsen - us - Christina and me. It was like a sprinter going up against a marathoner. It may take a while, but you're gonna lose.
As with many things, inventions find unplanned applications. Dr. Jack Foster invented the stim as part of his Ph.D. project. The goal was to implant microscopic electrodes in the muscles of paraplegics to give them some form of normal mobility. Due to the hundreds of implants required, the device was computer controlled.
It was his, Dr. Jack's, girlfriend who came up with the idea of a clitoral implant. As with Viagra, she felt nature had been unfair in some ways and there needed to be a way to level the playing field, as it were. Same with women. Why is it some women can enjoy multiple, effortless orgasms and others have never experienced even one? Hence the stim, short for stimulator.
They fought over the issue. Dr. Jack was all about helping people. Frances saw the economic potential. Eventually they split, Frances started C-Stim, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Implanting the device is straight forward. The woman is given an epidural, an incision is made in her public mound and a little cavity is created for the receiver & battery. It's about the size of a US quarter. The electrodes, microscopic hair-like things, are fed into the clitoral bundle. Given the incredibly low voltage required to stimulate the nerves, the battery lasts a surprisingly long time. Charging is done via radio waves. A small remote, kind of like a car remote, controls intensity and duration of the stimulating pulses. This is what we use in competition. We monitor performance with the computer, but during competition all control is manual. Christina is the car; I'm the driver.
Alternatively, there is a programmed device with several dozen options. Many liken it to an iPod, but instead of music it's loaded with electrical patterns. Some of the patterns can be very creative, so, in a way, it is like music. When you see that girl on the bus who's smiling, it's probably not the result of the music in her ears. Just saying.
It's six o'clock, the semi is at seven. We head downstairs to the ballroom. The place is filling up nicely. Over the course of the next several hours folks will drift in and out. Some are just voyeurs who get their kicks and leave. Some bet and hang on every orgasm, checking the odds. There are groupies who have their own cheering squad.
We're up against team Patel, Ernie and Mary Beth. They're very big on planning and use a prepared script. They've been studying our stats just as we've studied theirs. They have a plan; we wing it. We did the planning thing at first, but Christina's body didn't always want to get with the program.
We head into the back room. The Patels are there. The women do the cheek bump, air kiss thing. The guys shake hands. Best of luck and all that. We go behind our respective curtains, the women strip and emerge a few minutes later in their rhinestone robes. Okay, there are no rhinestones, they're pretty gaudy, kind of like you'd see on a drag queen.
There's a quiet knock on the door, the four of us head out into the ballroom. The lights are dimmed, flashes sparkle off the mirrored ball, two spotlights illuminate the lounge chairs.
The crowd goes CRAZY!
The introductions are made. I remove Christina's robe and she settles into the chair, raises her legs into the stirrups. I use wide leather straps to secure them in place. I, likewise, secure her wrists to the arm rests. I press the plugs into her ears and pull the padded leather hood down over her head, lace it up.
No outside stimulation is allowed. Legs wide, unable to touch herself, blind and deaf, Christina's world focuses on her clit.
A technician attaches the monitors, leaves the stage. The lights go dim save the spots over the two women. There are two tables slightly separated by the front of the stage. I'm sitting with one umpire, our faces illuminated by the computer monitor. As the competition progresses I'll pace a bit. I don't know how the umpires do it, just sit there for hours. But sit they must, verifying and recording each orgasm.
The record in our division is 257. That was in a loss to team Keele last year in the semis. Yes, it was a fluke, but Christina hung in there, close to nine hours. We've bettered that during off-season practice, but in the midst of competition, week after week, well, it takes its toll. This late in the season, you're lucky to see 200.
The umpires share a glance, they press their respective buttons, the green light flashes.
Let the games begin!
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26.02.13