The weightlifting contest
By Diana the Valkyrie
Linda fluffs her way to a victory


This story was inspired by a discussion between Scooby and Captain Corc 
in the chatroom 


"Come on, Linda, this film crew is costing two hundred per". Yeah yeah 
yeah. I know. Cameras, lights and no action. Another butterstick to coax 
into a semblance of life, but this poor guy had been up a dozen times 
today already, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite, 
because it was me that was looking bad, I'm supposed to be able to get a 
butterstick to do anything I want. Come on, butterstick, up for Linda, 
up we go little butterstick, come on my lovely. 

After I told him several lies about what I'd do to him afterwards, made 
big eyes at him, and told him a few times about how attracted to him I 
was, he was at least stiff enough for the camera if you didn't focus it 
quite right. "That's the last one?" I said to Ernie, he's the producer. 
Ernie nodded. "Have a hard day, Linda?" he grinned. They all crack that 
one. Yeah yeah yeah. "Yeah, hard as butter, Ernie." Ernie laughed and 
they got on with filming the last take. It didn't actually matter now 
that the butterstick had lasted about ten seconds before deflating, 
they'd got it on camera, and no-one could tell that he didn't have it 
in. My guess was that he wouldn't be able to for a few days at least. I 
know about these things. Experience. 

I'm probably the most experienced fluffer in the trade. There's girls 
who are younger, and girls who are prettier, and girls whose figures are 
only made possible by large amounts of salt water in plastic bags. But 
when the leading man is down, and he ought to be up, it's Linda they 
call for. I may not be chocolate-box material, and there's no plastic 
bags in me. But I know my job, and I'm the best there is. 

You see, making a porn vid isn't as easy as it looks. You might think; 
one male, one woman, one fuck, roll the cameras and your fortune is 
made. Oh no. Have you ever seen a movie being made? You have to get the 
lighting right, then the cameras need to be dollied into the right 
angle, the sound needs to be wired up, the talent needs to be reminded 
of its lines, and by the time you've done all that, he lost it an hour 
ago and doesn't even remember where he left it, and it's butterstick 
droop all the way. Droopy and small, soft and useless; they shrink to 
half size when they're not being used, so you can't even see them on the 
camera, let alone show them firm and hard and glorious like they're 
supposed to be. And all the female talent can think of doing is say 
"Come on Fred, we haven't got all day" which obviously makes Fred worse. 

Well, it's obvious to me. But then, as a professional fluffer, it's my 
job to know these things. I read books; I bet I'm the only one on the 
set who does. Yes, the talent has the looks, but there's no action 
without the fluffer. 

You thought it's easy? You think all you have to do is look at a bloke 
and he gets it up? Well, lucky you. So what are you going to do three 
hours later when you're still shooting and he's as limp as lettuce leaf? 
Call Linda, that's what. Linda and her magic bag full of useful items; 
the sheepskin glove, the little whip, the perfume spray. And more. 

Viagra? Don't make me laugh. They're already Viagra'd up to the eyebrows 
and they still can't make it. All that does is get them excited, and 
that's no good because when they get too excited, it's pop goes the 
weasel and back to square one. Square zero. Square minus one, even. 

Here's the thing. The natural inclination of a man is to get it hard, 
get it in, and get it over, quam celerime. But you can't make much of a 
porno out of ten seconds, even in slow motion. I mean, can you imagine? 
You buy a video called "Ten seconds", you get it home, you shove it in 
the VCR, and ten seconds later, it's all over. You'd be complaining in 
the middle of Trafalgar Square, you would. Well, I would. Enter the 
fluffer. 

Most people think I have just the one task, to get it up. And then up 
again and again and again. Wrong. I'm more like the continuity girl, 
it's my job to not only get it up, but to make sure it stays up. That 
could mean a whole day of filming without him ever getting off, and 
believe me that's not natural. They want to, they have to, they're going 
to ... and then Linda's ice-bucket puts a stop to it. When the director 
yells "Cut", the camera stops rolling; I have to make sure that the 
talent stops rocking. Ice cubes is one of my more gentle methods. I love 
the scream when it hits their back. I also have long fingernails. 

The worst day? I think that was back in '91, we were making some in-and-
out vid, "Harem girls from El Qattara" I think it was, the lack of "u" 
adding the necessary touch of class, and the producer had done some 
special deal over the studio. That meant we had to shoot it all in one 
day, and that day was 20 hours if it was a minute. And every moment I 
had to eagle-eye the talent, to make sure that nothing got wasted. As 
usual, his idea was to get it over with, she was as much help as a rice 
pudding, and guess who had to make sure he was looking respectable each 
time we started shooting again, because until I've got the butterstick 
working, you can't begin to shoot. By the time the yogurt-pump was 
brought into action for the last time (yogurt's cheap, and washes off 
easy) everyone was knackered, me included. The talent, I'm told, was in 
bed for the next week solid and he never made another vid. 

Or was it? "Slave girls from Sidi Barani" was pretty dire, as I recall. 
Seven girls, one man. You normally shoot six hours for every hour in the 
final cut, and whoever scripted that one hadn't given the slightest 
thought to human capabilities. I mean, twelve times seven is 84, dammit. 
After the first couple of hours, I informed the producer that it was my 
professional opinion that the male talent was suffering from semi-
permanent impotence brought on by excessive stress. Or to put it simply 
"His dick is broken". The producer's answer was to use stand-ins. 
Unfortunately, no-one had thought to arrange stand-ins, so we had to use 
the camera man, the sound recordist, sparks and even the chippy. By the 
time I'd finished fluffing that lot, you can imagine. I mean, I'm not 
the sort of person who gets into demarcation disputes, but expecting me 
to operate the camera because all the others were out action? 

Anyway, after a hard day like that, I just want to get home and relax. 
Which is why Jeremy hanging about my front door like a limp carrot was 
about as welcome as a condom at a confirmation. I made the obvious 
suggestion to him, but I guess he's heard that lots of times before, and 
it rolled off him like yogurt off a man's belly. 

"Linda, have I got a deal for you." I invited him in. I have this very 
expensive habit I have to pour money into, called living. This means I 
have to work, which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to deal with 
buttersticks like Jeremy. But it's limpwits like Jeremy that get the 
business, so I suppose I'd better humour him. I gave him a glass of very 
fine, dry sherry. He made a face. "Euuueww." I sighed, and gave him the 
bowl of sugar. It hurts just to think about it. 

"Linda, I've got the break of a lifetime for you" "They're never hard 
enough to break" I said. "Linda, this will make you so famous ..." I 
know, I know, this is such a good opportunity, I should do it for 
nothing, right? "Linda, they're even willing to *pay* you for this." I 
perked up. Pay? As in, stuff you use for the rent? This is a very hand-
to-mouth business, you know. You never know where your next pot of 
yogurt is coming from. Thinking of which, made me peckish, so I dived 
into my bag and came out with a whole pint of it. Well, there's no point 
in letting it go to waste, is there. I mean, it hadn't even been opened. 
They always overestimate how much they're going to need; one teaspoonful 
is realistic, half a cupful is about as much as the public is going to 
believe, and more than that and people will just laugh. I offered some 
to Jeremy. "Where'd you get that then?" "Usual place, Jeremy", I said 
round a mouthful. "Yuck" he said. I don't know why people are like that, 
yogurt is yogurt, the reason why they bought it doesn't affect the 
flavour, which was banana in this case. 

"So what's the deal, Jeremy?" I said. "Not so fast" he said, smirking at 
me. I sighed. I knew what he wanted. "Jeremy, you're an idiot." He 
smirked even more. "Jeremy, last time I did you, Sharon found out and 
you couldn't walk straight for a week." Sharon makes kick-boxing videos, 
creaming half a dozen men in a half hour of action, no fluffing needed, 
lucky Sharon. And boxing, weightlifting, and she made a really weird one 
once when she smashed a grand piano into small pieces with her bare 
hands. I don't think anyone actually bought that one, but I have a bunch 
of copies that I give out to people I think might need a helping hand to 
stay honest. 

I thought of doing that sort of thing myself, it sounds more fun than 
fluffing. Trouble is, she's built like a gorilla and I'm not. She's got 
this trick, whenever she comes through a door, she sort of hovers in the 
frame, so you can see that she fills it pretty much exactly, width and 
height. What she sees in a wimp like Jeremy I can't imagine, maybe she 
likes the convenience of a mobile punchbag. "She won't find out this 
time." Oh, such confidence. He'll stagger home looking shattered, she'll 
ask him where he's been, he'll lie, badly, she'll twist his arm till he 
tells the truth, and then she'll twist everything else about twice as 
far as it's supposed to twist. "Jeremy, you're an idiot" I repeated. "I 
told her if she beats me up that bad again, I'm leaving her." "And what 
did she say?" "I don't know, I was rolling on the floor trying to puke 
up my lunch after she gutted me again." Yes, that's Sharon. Let your 
fists do the talking. Jeremy seemed to like to get hurt, she liked to 
hurt him, they were an ideal couple, I suppose. "So do you want this 
deal or don't you, Linda?" 

I sighed. Jeremy was a sort of agent. This meant that he was unemployed, 
sponging off Sharon, and lounging about where he got to hear about new 
vids coming up. And if they needed a fluffer, he'd say "I know the best 
one there is" and he'd get me the job. I paid him commission, sort of. 
Not money. I don't think Sharon allows him to have money anyway, he'd 
probably spend it on something daft, like paying some woman to beat him 
up. Which is daft, because Sharon beats him up most nights anyway. Why 
pay for bananas when you have a gorilla at home? Well, you know what I 
mean. 

Jeremy was a complete dick-head, but he was honest with me. He knew he'd 
better be, or I wouldn't play with him. You only get to screw Linda 
Daventry once; I don't need a second lesson. Nor does the guy who screws 
me; not after Sharon has a little chat with him and explains how the 
world is. It's good to have friends like Sharon. You don't want to meet 
Sharon more than once, not if she's annoyed with you. And you don't ever 
want to suffer through one of Sharon's explanations. Her explanations 
are, like, detailed. Repetitive. She gets her point across very 
forcefully. 

I pulled on my sheepskin mitten and let Jeremy's butterstick see the 
light of day. Poor guy, this is the most fun he ever gets. Sharon just 
brutalises him, the other girls call him a wimp for letting her (letting 
her? like he has a say in the matter?) and the blokes think he must be 
gay for sleeping with a three hundred pound gorilla. I exaggerate, she 
isn't a gorilla, gorillas don't eat meat. 

I teased him a bit, not quite touching him, and when it rose up to meet 
me, raising my hand so I was always just out of reach, which got his 
butterstick so excited it tried to stretch towards me until it was at 
the point that is technically known as half-cocked. He moaned and tried 
to lift his hips out of the chair, but I pushed him down with my other 
hand, and said "Naughty naughty". I let a few hairs of the mitten touch 
the very tip of the top, and he groaned again "Sharon, Sharon". One of 
the sad facts of life, no-one loves a fluffer. I wondered what would 
happen if Sharon walked in the door right now, and I smiled at him, like 
a cat smiles at a mouse. 

I took the goose feather out of my bag, and Jeremy's eyes went big. 
"Noooo, nonono" he said, meaning yes. You have to interpret what they 
say, it's a bit contrary sometimes. Now his eye was weeping slightly, 
and I could hear him panting; about three quarters there, I reckoned. So 
I gently coaxed him up the hill until I had him right at the edge of the 
cliff, then I dropped the feather and took a good grip, down by the 
base, so I could get control over things. 

By this time, Jeremy was over the cliff, but I had him firmly nailed 
down. I've got a good hard grip, that's essential in a fluffer. Even 
Sharon is surprised at how hard I can grip things. Jeremy was making 
"Nng nng mmf" noises, but I had him clamped, and there was no way I was 
going to let the mouse out of the house. 

Cliffhanging is part of the fluffer's standard repertoire, of course, 
but I was especially good at it. We did a vid once - "School for 
Scandal" it was, and it must have been the lowest budget vid of all 
time; they just pointed a camcorder at this butterstick and I made him 
cliffhang for two hours solid. When I finally dropped him off the edge, 
they didn't need the yogurt pump. Although a cylinder of oxygen would 
have come in handy. 

Generally, though, even an hour is too long. If he's got a weak heart, 
you can find yourself with a boatload of paperwork to do. The problem 
is, cliffhanging increases the blood pressure and the longer you keep 
him hanging, the more the pressure goes up. If he's got an artery that's 
going to pop, it'll do so when the blood pressure gets way up high. So, 
although I'm willing to do a one-hour cliffhang, I'd rather it was after 
a proper medical exam, and the only medical exams Jeremy gets are the 
ones where they bandage him up after Sharon got a bit too overexcited. 

So I popped Jeremy after about 20 minutes. From his point of view, that 
was an eternity in heaven, of course. I took the rather soggy cotton 
wool off him, gave him a few minutes to get his breath back, and then I 
asked him. "OK, Jeremy, so what have you got for me?" 
 
"A weightlifing contest." 

"A what?" Jeremy means well, but sometimes his head isn't straight, I 
think Sharon punches him too much. "Jeremy, sweetkin, it's Sharon does 
those. I'm a fluffer, remember?" I watched Sharon in a weightlifting 
contest once (they were making a vid of it). I was there because the 
needed me for the final scene, where Sharon lifts some huge mass of iron 
to win the contest, and the guys that come second, third and fourth show 
their admiration in the usual way. Except the problem was, they weren't 
admiring her at all, and that's why they called in the fluffer. And 
that's my only experience of weightlifting. 

"No, not that sort of weightlifting" and Jeremy put on his "I'm talking 
about sex" smirk. Oh. One of those. "I thought they didn't allow 
fluffers in those?" "They changed the rules, Linda, it'll be more 
exciting that way." Exciting. You bet. At a do like that, accidents 
happen all the time, you have to watch in front of you, behind you and 
both sides, otherwise you can get in the way of an unintentional 
distance record attempt. 

"So who's my butterstick?" "Horse." "Horse Pangborne?" "The same". 
"You're kidding. he wouldn't have a hope in hell." "Linda, you don't 
know the rules yet." Sigh. I suppose if they've changed the sport to 
allow fluffers, they've probably screwed the rules up totally. 

The governing body of the sport is the IFGW, the International 
Federation of Genital Weightlifting. They're trying to get it recognised 
as an Olympic sport; there's talk of this happening in time for the 2008 
games. Don't laugh, you think synchronised swimming is a sport? The fact 
is, it's an excuse for a bunch of testosterone-enhanced sides of beef to 
display their proudest possession to the general public, and for the 
general public it's an opportunity to say "Yuechh". 

Testosterone? Oh yes. You thought there isn't extensive drug use in GW? 
You thought they just have great genetics enhanced by daily exercise? Oh 
no they don't. To lift the really heavy weights, you need thickness, and 
since the score is weight times distance lifted, you need length. And 
because you're at the wrong end of the leverage, you need even more 
thickness, and you simply don't grow anything the size of my arm by 
eating your cereal. 

Oh, sure they test for drugs, Sometimes. And the tests aren't very good. 
I mean, so you find there's enough 'rone to sink the Titanic, what does 
that prove? Men have 'rone naturally, and different men have different 
amounts. And they lay off the juice for a couple of weeks before a 
contest, so how can you tell? Sure they have deep voices and heavy 
beards, but so do lots of men. 

So they get away with it. But I can tell. I'm a fluffer, and I know my 
way around these things. I've seen more buttersticks than you've had hot 
dinners, and I know a 'rone job when I see one. And Horse Pangborne was 
the most obvious case of 'rone abuse I've ever seen. Why? Well, I'll 
explain. 

If you take 'rone by the bucketful, as Horse was wont to do, you have to 
balance it out, otherwise your body just rejects most of it, metabolises 
it through the kidneys and you're pissing blue most days. Not to mention 
balls so swollen you can't walk, which is an inconvenience, to say the 
least. So they take Estrogen, which does occur naturally in males, but 
only in small amounts, of course. To counter the 'rone, they take 
Estrogen injections, and there's some complicated scheme they use, don't 
ask me, I don't know. I doubt if most of them could get it right even if 
it did work, most of them can barely count. 

And Horse is a good example of what happens when you get it totally 
wrong. He's been called Horse as long as I've known him, on account he's 
got a face like a horse. His real name is Horace. Well, if your name was 
Horace, wouldn't you prefer to be called Horse? And Horse had nothing 
upstairs, I mean if you shouted in his ear you could hear the echo. 
People like that don't ever think about tomorrow, so when Oily Ollie 
became his manager, he didn't have the sense to find out for himself 
what the 'rone would do to him. 

The first time I met Horse, he was supposed to be playing a Eunuch in 
"Harem Houris from Harwich". I kid you not, Horse Pangborne as a Eunuch. 
It was supposed to be a comedy touch in the vid, when the male talent 
twits the poor eunuch about his loss, and Horse pulls out half a yard of 
pork. Trouble is, he yanked the zipper too hard, it got stuck, and then 
when he finally managed to get it free, he got it caught in a bad way, 
and we had to shoot the whole scene over again, without Horse, who was 
looking like he'd need stitches. I offered to bandage it up for him, but 
he skedaddled sharpish and we made the vid without him. But it was 
definitely half a yard, and that was unfluffed. 

Sure, Horse had the size, and the thickness. But the other thing I 
noticed at the time was a pair of grapefruit making him walk 
bandylegged. And that would be a major handicap in a GW contest, 
because my experience is, when you're looking at balls that size, 
they're about as touchy as Nitrogen Tri-iodide; one touch and it 
explodes. Which is useless in a GW contest, or for anything else, for 
that matter. "Horse is in the category look-but-don't-touch" I told 
Jeremy. Not being able to count up to two is a big disadvantage when 
you're counting out the 'rone dose, and I seriously doubted if Horse 
could count up to one. 

He smirked again. I began to see the advantages of having a good strong 
gut-punch available at times of need. "The idea is, Linda, with your 
skills, you'll be able to stop a premature detonation." I looked at 
Jeremy. Hadn't I just done exactly that with him just now? Maybe this 
could work. There's no way Horse could win an event on his own, but if 
they were allowing mixed doubles, maybe I could pull him to victory. 

Next day, I went to talk to Oily. There's no point talking to Horse, 
there's no-one there. Oily told me that all the promoters had gotten 
together, and made a big purse. They were calling it the Mr 
International Olympia, which I suppose anyone can do if they want to, it 
was sanctioned by the IFGW, and it was going to be the first ever mixed 
GW contest. Which meant they could rewrite the rulebook. Hmm. If they 
really can get this sport recognised by the Olympic Committee, this 
could be rather good. 

I discussed business details with Oily. "I don't want to pay you cash, 
Linda." Now I wonder why I'd already guessed that. "You can have a piece 
of the action." Yeah, great. Meaning I don't get paid unless we're in 
the prize money. "If I do that, it'll have to be a good slice." 

Oily offered me 25%, I asked for sixty, and we shook hands on forty. 
"How much does Horse get?" I asked. Oily gave me a don't-be-silly look. 
Oh, right. Horse does it because he loves the sport, loves to show off, 
loves to be the centre of attention, and it's all so *healthy*. Guys 
like Horse don't get money, they get their bodies wrecked by drugs, then 
at the age of thirty when they're past it, they go get a job digging 
holes in the road. "If he wins, all the mags will want to do features on 
both of you. GW magazine, Hup!, Rone User, I can see it. All wanting to 
do twelve page spreads of Horse and his fluffer. Trouble is, they don't 
pay for it, they tell you "It's good exposure". Oh, is it? How come? 
What's it supposed to lead to? Remember this appalling habit I've got, 
breathing, with all the concomitant costs? What do I tell the bank when 
they want the rent, "Here, have some exposure." 

Oily explained the mixed doubles rules. "It's weight times distance, as 
usual. But you're not allowed to get underneath, you have to do it all 
from above. That's to stop you helping him lift." That made sense. "You 
attach the weight, anywhere along the shaft, and then you fluff him. He 
lifts, they use a laser to measure the distance lifted, and you see the 
score at once." 

This is the best thing about GW, it's objective. Much better than the 
posing end of the sport, where they have a panel of judges that award 
points for mass, hardness, shape and symmetry. What the hell is 
symmetry? What shape is the ideal shape? As a result, the judges choice 
seems very idiosyncratic sometimes, and there's often accusations of GP 
events being rigged. With GW, you know exactly where you stand (or don't 
stand, as the case may be). 

So how does Horse pay the rent? Don't worry, Oily's thought of that one. 
He's got this deal, see. Women can pay $300 and meet Horse in some 
motel, and for the first time in their lives they can see something that 
doesn't need a microscope and tweezers. They aren't allowed to touch, 
and they aren't allowed to undress him, but he shows it off to them and 
they get to fantasise what it would feel like if. Except, what they 
don't get told, is it feels just like the guy they already sleep with, 
except it's got this one-touch feature. One touch, instant yogurt. 

"Linda ... " said Oily, using a tone of voice I know well. Why does 
everyone think that fluffers want to fluff every man they meet. Trouble 
is, if I don't fluff Oily, he's going to be difficult later, and if I 
do, I have a hold over him. So I opened my bag and took out a few items, 
and I heard his intake of breath when I got to the silk scarf, people 
wonder how I know what to do, it's easy, the butterstick tells you if 
you listen carefully. 

I gave him ten minutes of cliffhanger, I thought there was no need to 
give him more. And I was right, he was a fluff-virgin, or at least if he 
had ever been fluffed, whoever did it wasn't much good. 

I left him sitting in the restaurant looking dazed, with all the other 
diners staring at him. 

So, I made a few phone calls, and next stop, Horse. Time to start his 
training. 

"Hello, Horse". "Hi, Linda". It speaks! "Sit down, Horse, here's what 
you've got to do." 

I explained to him. From now until the contest, he was going to be 
celibate. Then I explained what celibate meant. Then I explained that it 
included any form of ejaculation whatsoever. Horse looked horrified. "I 
can't" he said. "You can", I said, "and will." "You can't stop me." he 
said smugly. "Horse, we're going to win this thing, but you have to do 
what I tell you." "Shan't" he said. "Make me." And at that exact moment, 
the door opened and something filled the doorway. 

I say filled; doorways are six foot six high and thirty inches wide. 
Sharon is six foot eight high, and slightly wider. You could see her 
duck slightly to get through, and you could see her squeezing through, 
the door not being quite wide enough. 

"Shall" I said. Horse stopped arguing. "Any problems?" said Sharon. I 
looked at Horse. "None whatsoever." Sharon looked disappointed. Horse 
looked scared. "So let's see what we've got here." she said, and pulled 
down his trousers. "My word" .

There was a silence, as we both gazed at Horse, or rather at part of 
Horse. Rather a large part. "That's got to be half a yard if it's an 
inch." she said. I got a tape measure out of my bag, and tried to 
measure it, but it kept changing. In the end, we had to settle for a 
rough estimate. "That's never twenty, I don't believe it. It's nearly as 
big as my biceps." I looked at Sharon's biceps, they didn't look that 
big to me. "When I flex them, they get up to twenty two." So she flexed, 
and I measured, and she was wrong, Horse was longer than her biceps were 
around. Although I had to check with Horse again, and as I measured, he 
started going "Ngh ngh mmf" so I grabbed him quick to stop an accident, 
and Sharon said "Here, let me," and she took it in her hand and just 
squeezed, and Horse looked like his eyes were going to pop out, but 
disaster was averted, and Sharon let go of a very relaxed butterstick. 
"Pain does that, Linda". Yes, thank you, now would you like to explain 
about eggs to your granny? 

For the next three weeks, Horse was never alone, because I knew what 
would happen if I gave him any privacy. I was with him or Sharon was, and 
after a couple of days, Sharon brought Jeremy in, and after Horse 
watched what she did to him, he was noticeably docile. Even with me, 
because I carefully explained to him that even though Sharon wasn't 
there right now, I was, and Sharon would be back, and if I told Sharon 
that he needed some pain, Sharon's only question would be "How much?" 

Over the next four weeks, I trained Horse. The first issue was to find 
out how far from the root to do the attachment. If you do it a couple of 
feet away, then you get a long travel, but the mechanical disadvantage 
means he can lift less weight. If you do it close by, he can lift heavy, 
but it doesn't rise very far. I experimented both ways, and found out 
his maximum lifts all the way from the root to the tip, then I drew up a 
chart, and worked out where the maximum score would be. It isn't as simple as 
it sounds; it's made more complex by the need to fluff him up, and if 
the weight were attached at the best place, on the tip, that also 
desensitised the best fluffing spot. But if you approach this sort of 
problem systematically, experiment will soon show the way. 

The promoters had hired a big theatre for the event, which was full of 
eager women. I noticed a few men in the audience too, maybe they'd come 
to see the fluffers, many of who were quite spectacular. One of them in 
particular made me wonder who'd engineered her bra, and what construction 
material they'd used. 

There were seventeen contestants numbered one to seventeen. Horse and I 
were number nine. I was wearing my best evening frock for the event, 
Horse was wearing a sort of thong, except that the front was missing. 
Some of the contestants were wearing supports of one kind or another; 
Horse had a support for his testicles, because I didn't want them to get 
trapped anywhere; that sort of pain is a real downer. 

The first part of the event was just the men, they didn't need the 
fluffers, because it was basically a posing session. The judges called 
out groups of two or three so they could make direct comparisons, 
looking for symmetry, whatever that is. Horse got called out a few 
times, which apparently is a good sign. When he stood up against the 
other men, I couldn't really see much difference between them, I mean 
half a yard is half a yard, when all is said and done. 

The second part of the event was the judging of hardness, and for that 
the fluffers were involved. It was basically the same as the first part, 
except the sizes were a bit bigger. Inevitably there were a couple of 
accidents as the fluffers lost control of things, and it got away, which 
is going to give the guy a major handicap in the last part, so much so 
that I don't think there's any point in them even trying. Horse tried to 
get away too, of course, but I murmured "Sharon" to him, and he steadied 
and didn't run away with himself. 

And then we came to the third part, the GW itself, the part that the 
audience had been waiting for. One at a time, the men came on with their 
fluffers, weights were attached using the rubberised straps with a hook 
that are approved by the IFGW, and the lifts were attempted. Sure 
enough, the two that had accidents in the previous round were only able 
to make a pathetic showing, and were soon asked to stand down. Then it 
was Horse's turn. 

I led him forward, and carefully attached the strap about three inches 
from the tip. I noticed that all the others had been attaching at the 
tip itself, or at least at the waist. But the problem with that, is that 
it covers up the most sensitive spot, the fluff-spot I've always called 
it, the place where you can get the maximum effect. As I was attaching 
the strap I was fighting with Horse, it was trying to rise before I was 
ready, so I sank one fingernail into his scrotum, just hard enough to 
hurt, and it subsided obediently. Then when I was ready, I stood up, got 
the green light from the judges, and fluffed gently until the weight was 
lifted as far as it would be. 

A lot of people do this the wrong way round. You should go for the 
biggest weight first, because the first lift is going to be the best. 
Many people start low and work their way up, which makes sense if you 
don't know how heavy you can go, but I knew exactly what Horse was 
capable of with my fluffing, because we'd spent the last few weeks 
finding out. "Come on, Horsey baby" I crooned, "Just a little bit more, 
and Sharon and I will give you the fuck of a lifetime tonight." His eyes 
went wide, and he lifted further than he'd ever managed in practice. I 
fluffed and coaxed, trying to get an extra fraction of an inch of 
height, until Horse peaked and then sagged, and I knew he was done. 

"Four pounds and six ounces, twenty-one point four inches." Wow. That's 
half an inch better than we'd done in training. I gave myself a little 
pat on the back. "1498 inch-ounces". That put Horse in the lead. I 
grinned at him, and he grinned back. "Both of you?" he said. But then 
some guy lifted 1532, and then another one did 1594, and we were in 
third place. 

I thought carefully about this. My whole strategy was based on that 
first lift, and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be able to get any 
more out of Horse. But that wasn't going to stop me trying. And since 
we'd already maxed out, I decided to put four-twelve on him for the 
second round. On went the weight, and then I fluffed it up. I was right, 
the weight was too much, he wasn't getting it up properly. So then I 
threw the curve ball at him. "Unless you get this up, I'm going to ask 
Sharon to tear it off with her bare hands." You'd think that would have 
caused instant sag, but no! New life surged into Horse, and the weight 
bobbed up perkily and rose to the maximum. 

"Four pounds twelve ounces, twenty-one point seven inches. Wow! 1649 
inch-ounces! I thought maybe Horse had set a new world record, but 
apparently not. 

And then the guy who'd beaten him last time lifted 1680, and we were in 
second place. 

So, for the third lift, I tried the same thing again. "Sharon can 
castrate you with one hand while she pounds you into pulp with the 
other" I offered. But it didn't work, he was all lifted out. A man can 
only go so far, and he didn't even get into the 1400s. But then the 
other guy did his last lift, and he and his fluffer were going for the 
full five pounds, and a world record for sure. 

That was silly. He had the contest won, why be greedy? And he got his 
come-uppance, too. His fluffer worked just a little bit too hard to get 
that massive weight up, and she didn't notice the symptoms. I noticed, 
and I caught his eye and licked my lips. That was enough to push him 
over, and one of the judges caught it all over his suit. Which, of 
course, was an automatic disqualification. 

Which is how I won the first ever IFGW competition.