The Moment of Ruth - Reloaded

The fair-haired man shoots his bolt soon after, and two more players step forward -- an Asian youth and by a tall, athletic black man who Jerry identifies as the team captain, Andre. Theatrically the Hispanic woman yanks down their shorts; the Asian youth's cock is long and smooth, gently tapering to a narrow crown. But the team captain has a much bigger surprise in store for Ruth as his ebony dick begins to grow... and grow... and Ruth's eyes grow with it!

Luiza, of course, is completely unfazed by this mammoth member: encircling its monstrous girth with her fingers, she's soon stroking away. Ruth, in her naivety , is rather surprised to see his dick's the same colour as the rest of his body; she hadn't imagined such men would be brown all over!

But Andre sparks a minor crisis, playing very hard to get; even after Luiza concludes business with two members on her right, she's still pumping away at the team captain with her left hand. It's time for extreme measures. The audience stare as, silhouetted, the woman draws the huge weapon downwards, turning to face Andre, her mouth wide open. Ruth gasps. Surely she's not going to...?

Ruth's jaw drops as Luiza's broad pout envelops the man's bloated crown -- Ruth's witnessing her first ever blowjob! The older woman's lips soon cover the entire length of his monumental shaft, and she begins moving her entire upper body with the same rhythmic pumping motion, devouring Andre's meat over and over with her eyes half-closed in pleasure - whether real or fake is difficult to tell. Ruth marvels at how such an eye-watering beast could ever fit into any lesser hole.

Now Luiza's gaze wanders over to young Summer. Staring directly at the dumbstruck blonde, the Latino woman's next move is concealed from the audience but her message is quite clear. Luiza is gesturing with her eyes, rolling them in the direction of the Asian lad in her right hand. "Unbelievable!" thinks Ruth. Was this slut seriously suggesting Summer should provide a similar service for the youth? Did she really believe this demur college girl would suck off a complete stranger in front of millions of TV viewers, privacy screens or not?!?

Summer is about to voice her disgust when a strangled yell from Andre is met by a husky grunt deep in Luiza's throat. Both players gaze in awe as the woman's lips seal tight around the great bucking shaft, expertly containing his multiple spurts. Only when the storm has fully subsided does she slide her lips up the smooth length of his member, disengaging from her lover. Once more Luiza locks eyes lock Ruth, positioning herself over the bowl, lips pursed; and then a steady, unbroken stream of cum drools from her open mouth into the dish. She finishes by licking her lips sensually as if savouring the rich taste, arching her brows at the younger girl. Ruth trembles with a mix of outrage and humiliation; she can just imagine those sicko producers up in the control room who'd love to see her perform a similar act.

In fact, the Furfield girl couldn't be further from the truth. As far as the production company are concerned, the real point of this exercise is to end Ruth's challenge right here. They wanted a game no contestant would possibly be willing to play, and they're sure this one's a sure-fire stonewaller. The last thing they want is for anybody to drink that jizz for real -- a stunt like that could get the show pulled!

And so the ludicrous charade continues, Luiza wrapping her wicked fingers around the last two youths' cocks while Ruth checks the clock on the wall: to her surprise she finds it's been only a few minutes since the game began -- it feels like this has been proceeding for ages! But her 'moment of truth' can't be far away now; the last two lads are soon finishing off behind the screens, while across the nation millions of people are glued to their sets, preoccupied with just one question: will Ruth bite the bullet and actually sup on this devil's brew? Of course, the answer should be blindingly obvious. But Ruth sees no harm in stringing everyone along: all the better for maximum impact when she storms out of the studio, head held high!

And suddenly it's over. The screens are wheeled away, the football team shuffle off sheepishly, rearranging their clothing, back to their front-row seats. Behind them, the rest of the audience is shrouded in darkness; but if Ruth could see, she'd be surprised how many men now have their jackets folded over their laps, concealing embarrassing bulges brought on by this unexpected floorshow!

* * * *

The host bounds back on stage: "How about that?" he interjects, "Let's have a big round of applause for the boys of Big Boulders!"

The audience clap enthusiastically, but Jerry knows his job now is to pad things out a bit, ramp up the tension -- basically postpone the inevitable moment of disappointment!

His assistant is busy scooping up misfires and adding them to the bowl's contents. "Let me know as soon as everything's ready, Luiza," he appeals.

Presently the Latino girl finishes, wiping her fingers clean on the rim of the bowl, and gives him the nod.

"OK then, RUTH," the host pauses for breath, while all the spotlights converge on where the young girl is sitting, "Your countdown starts now!"

The automated countdown runs on the plasma screen, but Ruth doesn't seem to register it. She's just staring into that bowl.

"It's your Moment of Truth!" Jerry proclaims, "The choice is entirely yours, Ruth. Will you eat this dish -- or not?"

It's a complete no-brainer. Everyone knows this just isn't going to happen. The producers know it, Ruth's team-mates know it, their Greenvale opponents know it. And perhaps most importantly, Ruth herself knows it. Even Jerry's emphasis on the word "not" is intended to steer her towards the obvious, sensible decision.

Only problem is, nobody's told the studio audience.

"Go on Ruth, swallow it!"

...yells a strident voice from somewhere in the middle of the assembly. The tarty-looking redhead to whom it belongs happens to be seated directly behind one of Ruth's supporters, who quickly turns to remonstrate with the woman. But Ruth is confused; she can't tell where the sounds are coming from - everything beyond the brightly illuminated stage is shrouded in blackness -- but it sounds as if the Furfield supporters are arguing among themselves. What's going on?

The gobby redhead isn't the only one who wants to see Ruth accept her challenge. From all around, random voices, both male and female, begin urging Ruth to seize the opportunity before her -- only to be quickly and indignantly countered by members of Ruth's entourage, who've suddenly become very protective. Ironically, Ruth's own supporters are the ones now urging her to quit!

But it soon becomes apparent that the 'yes' lobby are in the ascendancy. And they're gaining more supporters by the second: as the noise level rises, a party of slightly boozed-up lads at the back begin chanting the game's crude 'catchphrase':

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

The racket in the enclosed studio is dizzying now as Ruth is bombarded by a multitude of conflicting voices. The barracking from the crowd begins to wear her down, making her head swim; she tries her breathing exercises in an effort to clear her thoughts, staring down into the bowl, at the warm puddle of slimy, glistening jizz. It was such a small thing to be standing between her team and half a million dollars...

"C'mon Ruth, you can do it!" someone hollers from the back of the crowd.

"It's entirely your decision Ruth, don't feel under any pressure," Jerry counters; the genial host is sweating heavily, sensing events spiralling out of his control. Surely this daft girl isn't actually going to drink it? But there's no way Jerry can simply halt the show. The mood in the TV studio is close to uproar, and the audience's expectations are only going to increase the longer the player postpones her decision.

As for Ruth, the thought of quitting still burns at her, especially with that conniving Greenvale bitch encouraging her to raise the white flag. Everyone else in her team had completed their task, and now here was Ruth, first time out, all set to bail! Half a million... would everyone think she was crazy for giving up just like that? Would her team want her to go for it?

That thought would be instantly dismissed if Ruth could see her team-mates right now. A brief cutaway to the 'waiting room' reveals that they're no longer just staring in disbelief: they are screaming at the monitors, hammering on the sound-proof walls, appalled that their friend could ever consider doing something so wanton and depraved. Surely she'd never do it... would she?

But Ruth has made her choice. Taking a deep breath, she stands up as if to leave... and places both hands on either the side of the glass bowl.

A huge cheer rises from the main part of the audience, gasps of disbelief from others. The Furfield girl, however, ignores both rejoinders - she doesn't need distractions right now. Feeling strangely detached, as if watching events from afar, Ruth raises the bowl level with her head. The contents slop around as she carefully adjusts her stance. Just a few doors away her team-mates watch horrified, hardly able to believe what they're seeing. As Ruth's cute lips make contact with the smooth rim, somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice is screaming.

In the production control room everyone's going nuts, yelling into the stage manager's ear mike, yelling at each other. At the last moment the director calls the master control room to cut the broadcast, but it's too late: she's tilting the bowl up! As the pool of milky jizm glides stickily down to meet the girl's waiting lips, they're still beaming nice, brightly-lit close-ups into the nation's living rooms.

Ruth takes a dainty sip from the bowl... and her face screws up as the full taste hits home. Searing aromas billow up her nasal passages: in an instant she's forgotten all about the audience, the cameras, even the prize money as the rancid flavour attacks her taste buds. The production team stare at the monitor wall in awed silence, knowing they're witnessing one of those raw, matchless moments in broadcasting when something really special has been captured -- even though they're probably all going to be sacked tomorrow!

Composing herself, Ruth tilts the receptacle again to take a more convincing sup of the boys' broth. She gets a good mouthful this time, her neat little tongue swirling through a kaleidoscope of masculine flavours, exotic and repulsive all at once. Facing front again, she breathes deeply. A creamy moustache decorates her upper lip; there are tears in the corners of her eyes. What will she do next? The viewers at home won't get to find out, because at that moment the master control room finally pulls transmission and a million TV screens across the nation go blank.

* * * *

Then, without explanation the broadcast suddenly changes. Viewers find themselves looking at the makeshift tattooist's parlour where Ruth's predecessor is still paying the penalty of her earlier failure. Amber's situation has not improved; having found the Furfield girl's bikini top an obstacle to his ease of movement, El Diablo has summarily removed the troublesome garment, putting her proud tits brazenly on display to the world. But now they're covered in garish nightmare designs stretching from shoulder to shoulder; everyone can appreciate the three-dimensional visual feast into which Amber's bust has been transformed, a landscape that grants a deep insight into the dark and lurid corners of the artist's mind.

And he's not finished yet. Proud of his skill, this artist is loath to leave any inch of skin undecorated; at this particular moment he's applying the finishing touches around the girl's nipples, which are stiffened from the chill in the room. He works incredibly close to her tender buds, tracing a pattern over the dark areola, and Amber flinches at the prick of his restless needle as it injects her most tender parts with indelible ink.

One thing's for sure: this girl won't ever wear a bikini again after tonight.

* * * *

Back in the studio, the invited audience are still watching Ruth's continuing ordeal. Her next action proves she's made of tougher stuff than anyone thought: lifting the bowl right up, she takes most of the remaining jizz in one hearty swig before banging the empty receptacle defiantly back onto the work surface. Yet she still hasn't swallowed! All eyes are fixed on the girl's cute face, her delicately blushing cheeks full to bursting with the lads' combined payload. Almost inevitably, a dribble of cockslime escapes her pout, making its way slowly down her chin. In the waiting room her team-mates are beside themselves, holding their heads in their hands, unable to avert their eyes from the unfolding drama.

Ruth places her palms flat on the bench. Head lowered, eyes shut, she's summoning all of her willpower for the challenge ahead. Her body trembles ever so slightly as she prepares to do battle with eleven men's churning spunk. The Furfield girl knows there's only one way out of this: she's going to have to beat these guys before they beat her; she's going to have to drink this whole damn team dry!

In the absolute quiet that has descended over the studio, only the noise of the power links can be heard humming in the background. It's now or never: with a deep breath, Ruth raises her head, tenses her body, sets her jaw. The muscles in her smooth neck strain and flex -- and the first thick wad slides down her throat.

She grimaces as she does it, unable to stop herself imagining all those millions of sperms frantically wriggling en route to their unintended destination. But at least the pressure inside her mouth is lessened; as Ruth faces the crowd once more, a grim determination is stamped on her face. Somehow she seems older, the playful innocence gone from her eyes forever. Her attention turns to the footballers who did this to her, and they blanche as her hate-filled gaze sweeps across each of them in turn - if looks could kill! Having made her point, Ruth takes another deep breath and chugs once more on their mingled seed; this time it's more audible, and the sensitive clip-on mike on her collar captures the un-ladylike gulping and amplifies it over the speakers. She polishes off the last of the lads' load with a third discrete swallow followed by a stifled cough. Then her bust heaves, Ruth breathing deeply once more, relief washing over her; she's done it.

But at what price? Only six hours ago she'd arrived at these studios a serious-minded, sophisticated young woman: now she's a cum-swallowing slut! There is no point in denying it -- the entire nation has just watched it on TV! Where does she go from here? Is there any chance she can somehow atone for her awful behaviour and return to the decent, respectable girl she'd once been?

But when Ruth looks down into the bowl, it's still smeared with a residue of opaque liquid. No, there is no way back for her - and no spoon. With a sigh of resignation, she wipes her fingers through the sticky mess and, one by one, sucks the dripping come off each digit in a final act of lewdness. As her lips devour the last dribble of jizz from her middle finger, it's as if Ruth's making an obscene gesture to the world in general. But by this stage she's too weary even to realise what she's just done; or to register the dozens of strained grunts from the audience, as one man after another finally admits defeat in the face of this sweet little girl's finger-sucking extravaganza.

Everyone expects Jerry to jump in at this point. Unusually though, he's lost for words, and the silence is broken only by the 'bing' of the countdown and the noise of the computerised scoreboard springing into life. It's bad news: Ruth's time has been narrowly beaten by Summer's, so while an extra $50,000 prize money is automatically added to Greenvale's score, Furfield are automatically eliminated from the competition.

Ruth is horrified: she's going to be famous -- the first woman in TV history to suck off an entire football team -- and she's got absolutely nothing to show for it! Come Monday, she'll just have to return to her studies with all her fellow students as if nothing happened.

Tears well in her eyes; in a final act of defiance, she bares her clean tongue to the footballers as if to say "That good enough for you?" before turning on her heel and storming off stage. As Ruth marches up the aisle between the audience sections, she barely acknowledges the ripple of applause slowly building; frankly, she's not interested in anything they have to say. As far as she's concerned, they threw her to the wolves and now they can all go to hell. The fire exit slams behind her and she's out of the studio and gone before Jerry, the crew or even her supporters can comprehend what's happening. Grabbing her bag from the attendant, with the taste of defeat still fresh in her mouth, Ruth storms off into the still night air.

* * * *

Not for the first time, the production control room is in pandemonium.

"What the hell was that?" asks Mike, the director, "Did she just leave the building?"

"Yeah, security says she's out in the car park," his assistant Barry replies.

"You mean throwing up?" Mike asks expectantly.

"Ahh -- no actually, she just walked out the main gate," comes the answer.

Suddenly the crackly voice of Karen, the stage manager, interrupts over the speakers:

"Hey, er, boss, I'm hearing that we've lost transmission? What's the plan, do we keep going or not?"

"Of course we do!" Mike splutters; "Listen, Furfield are out, so we go to plan B, just like we talked about. We'll be back on the air soon, just have everybody ready."

"Right... but you ought to know, I've got a load of Furfield supporters going nuts down here. You don't want to reschedule for next week?" Karen asks.

"No, no, we might be PULLED tomorrow, for Chrissakes!! Gimme a second here, I'll get back to you,"

He sinks into his swivel chair, dropping his head in his hands, fingers running through bedraggled hair: "That stupid fucking cow, what was she thinking? Why the hell did she have to drink it? Not just a lick, but the whole fucking bowlful, all the way down! I thought she was supposed to be a nice, straight-laced college girl?"

"Yeah, they can be the craziest," observes the slobby guy manning the PTZ cameras, "Those bookworm babes don't know where the line is, don't know when to stop!"

Mike jumps up, eyes refocused; "Well, screw her -- at least Furfield won't be prancing off with half a million bucks. Now, if we can just stop those Greenvale bimbos from winning the final, maybe this evening won't be a total disaster. We need a game Greenvale are gonna lose, no question. Barry, what were their phobias -- wasn't one of them afraid of rats?"

"Er, yeah, that'll be... Summer," the assistant producer punches a few keys on his laptop. "Rats, and claustrophobia -- but boss, Summer's already done three games, an' she's looking kinda rough..."

"WELL SHE CAN FUCKING WELL DO ANOTHER ONE!" the producer yells, throwing his notes on the floor, "She signed the release form, we can do what we like with her!" He takes a deep breath, his voice dropping: "Ok... so, Mitch, you reckon you've found us a good candidate to beat her?"

"You betcha," the slobby guy replies, "Take a look at this little lady here."

He flicks a switch and the image of a strikingly attractive brunette pops up on his screen, sitting in the audience chatting with her friends, totally unaware she's under scrutiny.

"Oh yeah, she'll do nicely!" Mike purrs, "Row G, seat 21... right then, just make damn sure the randomizer finishes on her. As long as we can get her face all over the papers tomorrow with a cheque for a hundred grand, everyone will forget about poor, sad little Ruth!"