Lily vs Brad
By Valis, feedback to: valisdick@hotmail.comS
Pro armwrestler Lily faces male challenger in a beach event.

The date was at Coral beach, 30 min before sun set. Bizarre Events had won the bid for 
the broadcasting rights and they picked the place 15 miles off-road from the holiday 
resort. The Bizarre crew had been delighted with the mandarin sky fading into an 
electric purple flame-wall, pierced by occasional shutting stars. They wanted the sunset 
scenario not for the match itself, which would take place overnight in an outdoors set 
under cannon lights, but for the pre-event picture session, excited by the arty 
possibilities the orange light would offer over the trimmed, cultivated bodies of my 
male opponent and myself. I signed for a full report clad to three different 
Extravaganza's microswimsuits, all three together briefer than a baby's culottes, a video 
recorded match, and a copyright declaration in behalf of the promoters of the event. 
Brad, the block I was going to test my strength against, was also posing in swimming 
outfit, which I sincerely appreciated as a rare sex-equality fact. I guess, but here my 
wickedness may be blamed, he had also signed the tête-à-tête chat clause that gave the 
first-row old gentlemen full access to the dressing rooms, enjoy our fluent conviviality, 
and sting our bodies with their portable digital cams. Jimmy couldn't get much on Brad 
from internet or otherwise. He held the local middleweight title, but arm sports 
remained fully amateur in the island, bouts were not even video-recorded, and no 
reliable facts about his actual strength could be found in the net. He had 10 pounds on 
me, the limit I accepted for my showdowns, and made little apart from pounding 
himself to exhaustion at the local gym during daylight and club-hunting loaded foreign 
ladies over forty who volunteered to pay his drinks all night long. I expected a self-
conscious pumping rat who shaved his armpits and depilated his nostrils. And that I got, 
better looking than average, I must confess. Yet Brad came up with a plus. The tightest 
fitting Brazilian G-string in genuinely faked jaguar skin. It's not so massive, said Jimmy 
snatching the print-out off my frozen hand. It's just an optical effect because the slip is 
so bloody tiny, a children size.
When we were confronted by Chuck Manning, the senior executive manager of Bizarre 
Events, the guy checked my tits, and I tried to absent my mind from the internet pic and 
into his thick, trimmed eyebrows. But when he let the robe slip over his shoulders down 
to the golden sand there it was, massive, stiff, roaring like the jaguar it pretended to be. 
It was like blasting a high voltage old fashion lever-switch on. The electrons run under 
my skin down to my crotch. You think I could burst his slip, ear-whispered Jimmy, who 
read my mind so accurately that could speak up my wishes more precisely than myself. 
They had set twin tents on the sand for us to change. Fortunately the very professional 
assistant that clad the tiny fabric pieces out my skin inside the tent patted my thighs 
with a warm, understanding grin. You're gorgeous darling. She made me gorgeous. Her 
witty nails spread the pieces of spandex the size of a coin so skilfully I felt I could 
dance foxtrot and remain safely unexposed in the most intimate parts. 
For the intro posing, Brad and I were assumed to take a romantic stroll hand in hand 
before the mandarin set, the warm, foamy, gentle waves massaging our bare feet. Yet 
we couldn't come to an agreement about who finally carried who in arms, so we 
decided both scenes were shot, and alternative editions of the full tape would be 
released to fit any possible appetite. Brad, waiting for me outside the tent, his 
formidable provision tense and tidy like a perfect soldier ready for duty, squeezed my 
hand, as large as his, and led me to the shore. The flashes stung all over my almond-
oiled skin. I felt tempted to squeeze back, but decided I managed to wait. He wasn't a 
pro model, but he acted so professionally I nearly felt a stupid doll trawled back and 
forth. By the end of the session he requested to carry me fireman style, as negotiated, 
and I readily agreed. Eye-fixing me like a hypnotic snake, he slipped his right hand 
underneath my buttocks and made me fly over the shore. The tame waves licked his 
bony ankles, adding a salty taste to the vigorous scent coming off his pounding chest. 
Chuck Manning prompted an applause, kissed our cheeks, and drove a palm towards the 
pro-armwrestling set installed in the middle of a sort of beach-volley pit with cannon 
flood-lights and scaffolding benches to fit the crowd.
The match was dreadfully intense. Our fists chewed one another and pulled furiously 
apart as two linked steaming locomotives. Our chests pounded wildly to the verge of 
collapse. Jimmy's eartips getting purple is the signature of yet another Lily's mighty test 
of toughness. When he witnesses my muscular machine in fierce struggle at full power, 
his boyish face gets all milky except for the greyish pits his eyeballs drop into, and that 
flame burns at the very top of his ears. He watches my performance shrinking deep in 
his sit and nervously rattle his knees. Brad and I delivered to full power at the jump and 
after 2 min he bent me clean halfway down. With no rush I strained back to even and 
past, sinking his fist to just the reverse, showing off my knuckles on top. We have 
proved we were muscularly strong enough to defeat one another, now the real war 
begun. We looked forward to test how tough our wills actually were. Who wanted to 
overpower the other the most. Who would be the first to break the lock and take the 
eyes down. Twelve minutes into the match I stroke a monster power-hook which made 
my right breast jolt and completely fried his remaining will. I roared proudly at Jimmy. 
My might display had forced his thighs together and rolled his eyeballs blank. I realized 
the match intensity had overcome his self-control. I had demolished both of them, arm-
warrior Brad and peep-watcher Jimmy, cooked both at once in their own macho juices. 
To his credit, Brad kept the eye lock whilst I thumped his knuckles into the pad with a 
neat, single, final thrust. You're very strong, he acknowledged jerking his reddish face, 
springing some sweat drops all over the armwrestling stand. I grabbed his neck and 
pulled hard. He expected a peck on his cheek and closed his eyes but it was his ear what 
my lips aimed at. To him I wishpered, I want your pants. 
He opened his metal green eyes and pointed with his sweat glimpsing jaw to my tent. I 
scooped his warm tanned bulk up in my arms and carried him inside the tent, as he 
leaned his face on the warm cushion of my left breast.