The Moment of Ruth - Reloaded

"TEN... NINE... EIGHT... SEVEN... "

Summer feels dizzy with nausea. Although most of those spiders have been mangled or maimed in the preparation, it's clear some will still be alive and kicking: she's really not sure she can handle that!

"SIX... FIVE... FOUR..."

But virtually everybody she knows in Greenvale will be watching this. How can she ever show her face in town again if she chickens out now? Besides which, it's probably the only shot she'll ever have at this kind of money. She knows she's got to force her body to do this...

"THREE... TWO... ONE... and GO!!"

It feels as if she's watching another person's actions, not her own shaking hands, as they reach towards the plate. The noise of the audience is like the wash of waves on a distant shore, odd voices breaking through the haze:

"C'mon Summer, you can do it!"

...yells a Greenvale supporter in the front row, keen to move closer to that jackpot. Summer knows she can't possibly let them down. The wrap is right in front of her...

And then her even, white teeth are biting down, crunching through the thin outer crust of the tortilla and plunging into the gastronomic nightmare beyond. The shattered remains of recently-deceased spiders splurge out; Summer flinches as an unbelievable foulness that bursts over her tongue, so bad it almost snaps her out of the protective trance into which she's descended. Her eyes clench shut, brow furrowing. It's a million times worse than she could ever have imagined.

Withdrawing the wrap from her mouth, Summer begins to munch on the repulsive mouthful. She's only taken one dainty bite from end of the wrap - a full nine thick inches still remain -- yet already it's a real battle to keep on chewing. Then she makes the mistake of looking at the open end of the tortilla.

A multitude of dead eyes stare back at her; several intact spider heads protrude from the wreckage, and one jointed leg is still wiggling feebly.

She knows she mustn't stop to think about it. Her second bite is bigger; this time, to her utter dismay, she can definitely feel movement against her tongue. Deeper into the sandwich, some of the critters haven't been properly squashed. One individual is very much alive: scurrying free from its prison, it scampers up the girl's arm to seek refuge down the front of her blouse. Too zombified now to brush it away, Summer's only reaction is a semi-suppressed twitch of horror as it disappears down her cleavage. For this girl, the foundations of a psychologically unsound future are definitely being laid down today!

Soon Summer's cheeks are beginning to fill out with pulverised spider-sludge. One spiny arachnid appendage protrudes from between her pert lips, jet black against the deep rose-pink, twitching in a final gesture of defiance. Then it's crunched up with the rest of its companions.

She knows what's coming next. And there's no sympathy from the eager punters, some of whom are already starting to chant the unofficial 'catchphrase' of this particular game:

"...swal -- LOW, swal -- LOW, swal -- LOW...!"

Summer is totally zoned out now. With her eyes closed in concentration, she's unaware that one camera has moved in close to her face. Everyone can appreciate how her innocent features are increasingly racked with anxiety.

A respectful silence fills the studio, leaving only the amplified sounds from Summer's lapel mike for all to hear. A series of muted noises punctuate her deep breathing, testament to her internal struggle. It's not simply the taste, but the knowledge of what she's being asked to swallow that repels Summer. It's all a question of mental strength now.

"Is she going to puke?" asks a woman's voice from the back of the audience.

Summer's taut neck muscles can be seen working strenuously, trying to down the foul muck by sheer willpower. Eventually, with an anguished grunt, she manages to swallow the first chunk partway. In the production control room, the team are high-fiving each other: this is classic TV!

Finally, against many viewers' expectations, the mike records a strangulated gulp. The crowd burst out cheering: "Yeah babe, you got it!" Summer flops forward, her body heaving with a succession of ragged breaths. The camera follows her, striving to capture the strain and exhaustion on that youthful face, partially hidden by displaced locks of silky blonde hair.

Raising her drawn, tear-stained visage once more, Summer's pale blue eyes flicker open. Only now does she realise how close the studio camera has been all this time. Her own haggard reflection is visible in it's unblinking lens: a media beast, thriving on her torment.

"That's a trouper!" the compère's ecstatic voice snaps her out of it, "But, to coin a phrase, one swallow doesn't make a Summer -- you've got to finish the whole thing!"

Summer is appalled to realise she's only halfway through. The nightmare continues unabated; ignoring the sickening lump already in her stomach, she's forced to take yet another bite, munching deeper into the repellent repast. More crippled arachnids breathe their last between her mechanically chomping jaws, acting out their death throes atop her trembling tongue. It doesn't get any easier: she's just chewing mechanically now, trying to get through this, trying to ignore the tiny, bristly pieces of leg and carapace that spike her soft gums and jam in the gaps between her teeth...

The roasting studio lights are making her Summer light-headed. She thinks she might faint any moment; nervous sweat beads on her forehead, streaks of mascara decorating her cheeks. Every time she tries to swallow her body says "no", until finally she can postpone no longer. With a Herculean effort, somehow the Greenvale girl gets the rest down.

The timer gives a 'bing' tone as it stops running. The applause is tremendous, especially from the waiting room where Summer's five team-mates are already planning how to spend that prize money! With a raised hand and a choking cough, the girl weakly acknowledges the crowd; she's still struggling not to throw up.

The compère makes no allowances, however -- things are running behind schedule! Even before the applause has subsided he's scurrying forward.

"Ok now, Summer," he snaps, "Look at me, open your mouth, lift your tongue up..."

In a daze, Summer obliges while the nearest two cameras inspect her sullied mouth. Her shivering tongue is stained black with spider blood. It's obvious, though, that she's completed her task.

And Jerry's clearly satisfied: "You're good -- well played Summer! I gotta ask, how bad was that, on a scale of 1 to 10?"

The blonde girl glares at him. "Oh my God!" she groans, "That was like, the grossest thing I've ever imagined doing... please, I don't even wanna think about it...!"

"Well, the good news is, your team is definitely through to the final! But will Furfield be joining you? We'll find out in just a second, as Ruth faces her very own... Moment of Truth!"

* * * *

"But first let's take a quick peek at how young Amber's getting on with her forfeit, 'painted lady'. As I said before, we've spared no expense to fly in Mexico City's legendary tattooist, 'El Diablo', who's going to transform Amber into a piece of living art!". Hopefully there'll be something worth seeing by now?"

Indeed there is. On-screen a close-up of Amber's face appears, fraught with worry. All anyone can see at first is that she's lying supine on a workbench in the artist's 'studio', wincing occasionally as the sound of the tattooist's buzzing tool hums in the background.

Then the camera pulls back. A collective intake of breath rises from the audience, and it quickly becomes clear that Amber's concerns are fully justified. Her wrists and ankles are restrained by heavy leather straps that fix her to the trolley; but these restraints are far more substantial than the micro-bikini that's supposed to preserve Amber's modesty. The artist slaves tirelessly on his creation, working closely round the minute chip thong that just about covers Amber's sex lips and no more. It's now public knowledge that this girl is a natural redhead -- though El Diablo has casually shaved off most of her annoying fuzz to grant himself better access.

He's already made good use of her lower torso to create a truly shocking scene. Just above Amber's crotch, a stone carving announces "Welcome to Hell", while across her belly a pitchfork-wielding devil stands guard, his hoofed feet planted on either thigh, straddling her sex. Now El Diablo is putting the finishing touches to the fierce flames licking either side of Amber's sex. His buzzing needle traverses the slopes of her pubic mound, dancing perilously along the edge of her very pudenda; Amber winces as the tattooist's pitiless needle jabs at this most intimate, sensitive of areas, fearful of moving too much lest she should jog his hand.

The only person who can't appreciate the finished work is of course Amber herself. Tethered in a far-from-ideal position in the box room that serves as 'El Diablo's' studio, she strives in vain to catch sight of a monitor screen, desperate to know her fate, while at the same time fearful of what she might see. The only clue she has is the audience reaction -- and their gasps of astonishment do not fill her with confidence.

Jerry chuckles: "Whoa, quite some makeover already! I should explain that El Diablo always works from his own original designs, so normally this would be a very pricy job. I just hope Amber realises how lucky she is to be getting this transformation for free!"

* * * *

Jerry continues: "But right now it's time for Furfield's challenge, and I promise you, this one's a classic."

All attention returns to Ruth, sole surviving Furfield player and reluctant standard-bearer for her town. Despite the pressure, her resolve is firmer than ever -- in no small part due to her Greenvale opponent's feeble attempt to buy her off. Even witnessing Summer's gruelling ordeal has done little to mollify Ruth's anger; in fact, she's quietly satisfied to see her rival struggle so badly. Now she'll show everybody how a winner does it.

The preparations for Ruth's challenge take longer: first, a pair of stagehands begin swiftly wheeling some lighting screens into the studio, manoeuvring them around Ruth's bench. It's all rather alarming - what could be so awful they have to screen it from this hardened audience? Luiza is casually drumming her long, red fingernails on the rim of the glass bowl, looking quietly content; she knows this delicate little flower with her cropped hair and snub nose has no idea what's about to hit her.

"All ready, Luiza?" Jerry asks the female 'chef'; she nods back to him. "Ok Ruth, let's get your dish ready. Everybody, please welcome the boys of the Big Boulders football team!"

Eleven young guys march out on stage, all attired in similar outfits: football shorts and boots, plus casual shirts bearing their club name and motif. There's a rumbling from the audience, while Ruth looks confused -- what the hell is going on?

Jerry tries to quieten the audience; "If you'll just bear with us, viewers," he addresses the camera, "I'm afraid we can't show you all the preparations for this one, but I think you'll get the general idea. Luiza, they're all yours!"

The host steps back out of the spotlight, handing over to his Latino assistant; she grins at the young woman.

"Oh my God, what on earth do they want me to do!?" thinks Ruth, in a near panic now.

* * * *

The truth is, Ruth's eleventh-hour substitution has created a headache for the program-makers. Normally selection wasn't a problem: from thousands of applicants, a handful with phobias could always be found. The fact that they'd always fail their given tasks, thus saving a fortune in prize money, was just lucky.

But now, a week before transmission, they'd been landed with this confident young madam -- just the kind of spirited kid the selection process was designed to weed out. With no time to spare, a dubious agency was employed to trawl through Ruth's social media accounts, hack into her personal emails, anything to find a weakness. But everything drew a blank. Ruth, it seemed, was afraid of nothing! One hope remained: there was no mention of a boyfriend -- in fact, might Ruth even be a virgin? Could her secret hang-up be... men? It was worth a try.

* * * *

So now Ruth sits at her table while a row of athletically-built young guys shuffle into position. Everyone looks slightly embarrassed. Finally Luiza is satisfied and, turning to face the Furfield girl, she draws herself up to her full height and grips the lapels of her chef's whites with both hands.

Ruth nearly jumps out of her seat as Luiza rips off the outfit and flings it across the studio floor. Suddenly, the hostess is standing in the middle of the studio in just a pair of royal blue panties, tastefully-matched stilettos and a wry smile! Her perfect, gravity-defying bosoms draw gasps of admiration from male and female audience members alike, while Ruth turns red as a beetroot as the half-naked strumpet kneels down right in front of her. Luiza is a tall lady, her huge rack easily clearing the top of the low workbench. For a moment, Ruth seriously wonders if her 'meal' might be human breast milk?!

But then Luiza beckons two of the footballers forward, to stand either side of her. From the audience's viewpoint, only their upper bodies are visible over the screens, along with the top of Luiza's head. Everything else is in silhouette only. Luiza looks left, then right, then returns her gaze to Ruth. Her expression transforms into a wolfish grin as her hands travel upwards behind the guys' bums, fingers curling around the waistbands of their shorts. With a lusty snarl, she tugs hard.

The Furfield girl's hand flies to her mouth, a noiseless gasp stuck in her throat as both lads are suddenly presented naked from the waist down. Barely two feet away from Ruth's face, their twin tools are already semi-erect, growing and stiffening even before the Hispanic floozy's red-nailed fingers wrap tightly around them. And both their members are pointing towards the bowl -- Ruth can scarcely bring herself to believe it, yet there can be no doubt now: her challenge is to drink the -- the SPUNK from eleven boys' cocks!!

The commotion from the audience suggests they're equally astonished by this turn of events, but Jerry does his best to settle them down:

"Ok folk, this shouldn't take long!" he smirks, a sly reference to Luiza's obvious charms; "And then you'll witness our greatest Spit or Swallow challenge yet!!"

Ruth is outraged; to think she spent all afternoon prettying herself up, getting her makeup just right for her big TV appearance, and all for -- this! It was unspeakable -- surely they didn't expect a girl like her to do something so gratuitous on TV? How badly did they think she needed the money??

Luiza meanwhile carries on as if it were the most normal thing in the world, gently tugging on the two dicks in synchrony, urging them to greater hardness. Notwithstanding her earlier resolve, Ruth is close to fleeing the studio in sheer embarrassment. Just one thing keeps her in her seat; the fear that her naivety will be obvious if she runs away now.

The din in the studio has now decreased to a background murmur. Ruth looks up into the eyes of the fair-haired youth to her right: he's about her age, and looks almost as shocked as she does. Ruth can tell he's trying not to let his arousal show, yet clearly this lad is realising (as is his buddy) that getting his rocks off in front of an audience is not the easiest thing in the world!

Luckily, Luiza has a few tricks up her sleeve. After twenty seconds or so she sits a little higher, encouraging both lads to bring their organs closer in to her body. Pretty soon their oh-so-sensitive cockheads hover just over the tops of her boobs; then both guys let out a combined gasp as their shiny knobs make contact with the warm breastflesh. Drawing them down, she begins to flick their rubbery bulbs against her rock-hard nipples; as a means of overcoming the boys' shyness, it certainly does the trick. The fair-haired youth is soon leaning forwards, breathing raggedly, clutching at Luiza's right shoulder. She steers him towards the bowl just in time: a strangled cry heralds an explosion of creamy-white jets from his cockhead, spattering into the receptacle, treating Ruth to her first ever view of an ejaculating penis. The Furfield girl's mouth flies open. Equally quickly she closes it again, anxious that no one should guess her inexperience. Over in the waiting room, Ruth's gobsmacked team-mates are watching proceedings unfold, appalled by the situation but powerless to do anything about it. The second lad soon makes his own contribution. Suddenly Ruth's nostrils are assaulted by the potent stink of fresh spunk and her face screws up, prompting giggles from the audience. She'll be smelling a lot more of the same before the night's out - that's just the first two taken care of!

No sooner have the lads stumbled back, hurriedly pulling up their shorts, than another pair take their place. Luiza happily sets to work on the newcomers; she seems to be genuinely enjoying her task, though her unwavering gaze remains fixed on the younger girl. Ruth wonders if this evil bitch is trying to psych her out, goad her until she runs screaming from the building. A newfound determination begins to burn inside her: if that's their game, she won't give them the satisfaction - she'll stay in this seat until the whole sickening overture is played out, then simply refuse to participate -- that will show them. Luckily, Ruth knows she can count on her little gang of hometown supporters in the audience. She's confident that they'll be just as outraged as she is, and when her 'moment of truth' arrives, their angry voices will lead the protest, allowing her to walk away with her dignity intact. The organisers will look like chumps, and rightly so; how dare they do this to her!

Apart from Ruth and Luiza, only one other person has a clear view of proceedings. A short distance away, Summer sits with one hand clapped over her mouth, stunned by the recent turn of events. Despite her deep embarrassment, she can't help but be fascinated by the wonderful willy parade passing in front of her inexperienced young eyes; she's also beginning to realise she got off very lightly this round!

All too soon the second pair of 'volunteers' are approaching the point of no return, faces twisting as Luiza works her magic. Their climaxes arrive simultaneously, the spurts almost hitting each other in mid-air as they add to the growing puddle beneath. Ruth is surprised by how quickly their erections start to shrivel after the act; but then her gaze is drawn to the next two footballers, whose straining cocks are even bigger than their predecessors. One is a skinny, thuggish-looking lad, the other a squat, muscular fair-haired chap whose broad, veiny dick exhibits a distinct curve to the left. The effect is that even as its proud owner stands square on to the bowl, his eye-hole is pointing more-or-less directly towards Ruth. The Furfield girl can't help feeling slightly concerned by this massive, bobbing erection aimed straight at her face.

And so she should be. After only a few tugs, the muscular man's cock twitches and explodes, his violent grunt echoing in Ruth's ears as a spray of white fills her vision; instinctively she raises her hands and feels stray flecks of jizm hitting her arms and face, like spray from a unexpectedly powerful wave. Looking again, she realises that most of his squirt has overshot the bowl, depositing a messy trail in her direction. Random globs of errant ejaculate are stuck to everything; while Luiza scoops it from the table, Ruth desperately wipes the spots of milky cum from her skin and clothing, trying to make herself respectable. She's unaware of one glistening bead still attached to her neat fringe.