Fluff on
By Diana the Valkyrie
Linda tours round America


Another emergency call-out today. Intimate Videos (Timmie to his 
friends) was making "Lethal Lips" and at a crucial stage in the shoot, 
they had lollipop failure. Obviously the leading scrubber couldn't cope, 
so as usual they sent for Linda Daventry. I picked up my bag in a hurry 
and jumped into my mini (they're so much easier to park, very practical, 
and the fact that they're very cheap to run is a bonus) and dashed out. 
In a situation like that, every minute counts, because the limp lollipop 
is holding up the whole shoot. Or rather it isn't holding up. But 
there's an entire video crew lying about idle at several hundred per 
hour, and nothing worth shooting. 

"I can't understand it", said Timmie, "We poured half a pint of Viagra 
down him." I raised one eyebrow, you have to practive that in front of a 
mirror. They never learn. Viagra adds an extra round or so to the 
magazine, but once you've popped those off, that's it. A good fluffer, 
on the other hand, can make a butterstick perform for hours. 

The scrubber, of course, was taking this personally. "Don't you find me 
attractive?" she said, pushing her assets out into mid-air. Why they 
think baby-feeders the size of footballs make them attractive I can't 
imagine, plus she had too much makeup on, and an utterly appalling 
skirt. I felt a bit sorry for her, five years in this business and she'd 
be finished; no-one loves a scrubber when she's thirty. And drooping. "I 
tried *everything*," she wailed to me. "He must be gay or something." 

I felt less sympathy for the butterstick. It was Gervaise Lincoln, 
otherwise known as Limp Linc. He had the usual problem, and he had it 
bad. 

The trouble is, in taking all the 'rone that they take to get their size 
up to a level that lets them compete in IFGD-sanctioned contests, they 
have to balance it up with Estrogen. Getting the balance isn't easy, 
most of them have no concept of doing the arithmetic then sticking to 
the doses. The just tank up on testosterone for two weeks, one week off, 
then estrogen till their blood pressure gets down to a safe level, then 
another week off, then back to the 'rone. It's like trying to steer a 
bicycle while looking over your shoulder at where you've been, not where 
you're going. As a consequence, they get the big butterstick they're 
after, and do well at genital development contests, and even the related 
weightlifting contests, but the side effects can be dire. 

Limp Linc had the size and mass, but he also had all the side effects. 
That thing was at least eighteen inches when limp if it was a foot, and 
it certainly wasn't a foot. And limp was the whole problem, his soprano 
voice wasn't an issue, because they'd be dubbing the tape with someone 
who sounded basso profundo. It's the estrogen does that to them. They 
think they can avoid the effects by some complicated timetable of taking 
it, or by taking extract of turnip leaf, or whatever the latest fashion 
is. But you can always tell. Well, I can. 

First off, I sent the scrubber away, she was only making him nervous 
with her suggestive pout, leer and wiggle. Then I told the camera crew 
to have a ten minute break; getting them out of sight would help. Then I 
sat down next to Linc, and talked to him. Right. Talked. 

You see, sex is 95% in the head. You thought all a fluffer does is with 
her hands? Not this fluffer. Sure I can use my hands, but most of the 
work is with the mind. And don't take any notice of what you've heard, 
buttersticks do have a mind. 

"It's these 'rones" he squeaked. Actually it was the estrogens, but 
that's just a detail. "I know, sweetie. It isn't your fault." "I have to 
take them, otherwise I can't compete against the big boys in the GD 
contests." GD isn't just a hobby, it's a lifestyle. Once they get into 
it, it takes over their entire lives, and all they want is to be an IFGD 
Professional, which means that the International Federation of Genital 
Development gives you a piece of paper that says you can call yourself 
an IFGD Professional. Wow. Great. And they "invite" you to compete at 
their contests, and you get to win prizes that can be four figure sums. 
Which means you get to be in the shows and you get paid peanuts even if 
you win. 

A four figure sum to ruin your body, it doesn't sound much to me. And it 
certainly isn't a living, which is why they have to make it up doing 
"sessions" and performing in these vids. They maybe last five, maybe ten 
years in the sport, and they they have to retire and become has-beens. 
But while they're active, it's a vicious circle. Get big, or you won't 
win contests. If you don't win contests, you won't get money from doing 
sessions and vids. The IFGD turns a blind eye to this side of the sport; 
they know it goes on, but they don't want to know about it. 

And drugs? Sure, they test for drugs, but how do you test for rones and 
gens when the human body has this stuff naturally, in small amounts? A 
couple of weeks before a tested contest, they taper off, and by contest 
day, their blood is clean. And their voice is soprano. And their chins 
are silky smooth. 

And does anyone feel sorry for them? Oh no, it's "Wow, isn't he big" and 
"Look at that development" and no-one cares that he's wrecking his body 
to look that way. Not to mention his sex life. And who gets rich out of 
it? Well, Timmie would if I did my job now. 

I fluttered my eyelashes at him and sat down on the bed. "Linc, just 
looking at your thing is making me go all soggy between the legs." 
"Really?" "Oh, Linc." I said, licking my lips slowly. "You have no idea 
about the number of times I've thought about you when I'm in bed." 
"Really?" "And I watch your videos, and it's like something goes through 
me, and then I have these dreams." He grinned. "And it's so big, you've 
got to be the biggest in the world, Linc, when GD is an Olympic sport, 
you'll be a gold medal winner for sure." I could see it twitching 
slightly, things were working out. "Linc, could I, could I just, well, 
just touch it?" "Sure", he said. I gave him the softest butterfly-touch, 
and it bobbed a bit. "Ooh, Linc, it moved, Linc that's so scary." "Don't 
be scared, Linda." "But it's so, so big, so huge" and it was getting 
bigger as we spoke. "I've never seen one so big, you must really work on 
it." He grinned. "Can I hold it, Linc? Please?" He moaned slightly. I 
opened ny bag of things; I'd never worked on Linc before, so I let him 
see what was there. I took the items out one at a time like I was 
searching for something; the rubber ring, the condom, the sisal string, 
and when I got to the silk glove, I got the response I was waiting for, 
it fairly leaped into the air. So I put on the glove, and got hold of 
his butterstick. "Oo, Linc, it's so thick, I can't get my hand round 
it." Twelve inches circumference, was my estimate, maybe thirteen. I put 
both hands together, and Linc closed his eyes in ecstacy. I fluffed it 
slightly, then beckoned Timmie over. "Good enough Timmie?" 

"You're a marvel, Linda, I don't know how you do it. Five minutes and 
he's a new man." "Years of practice, Timmie, years and years. One night 
with me is worth a year with all the women you've ever screwed. One 
night with me and you'll never want to screw another woman ever again. 
One night with me and you'll realise that you never really had sex 
before, just foreplay." Timmie started getting a bulge in his trousers, 
I don't know why I do this sort of thing, I guess it's automatic. "I'll 
just sit in the corner over there in case you need a fluffer again, OK?" 
"Nnnghh." 

Great. Which meant I could read my book and get paid for it, life 
doesn't get any better than that. I have no trouble ignoring the 
grunting and screams that come from the set, half of them are faked 
anyway. After a while, I felt peckish, so I fished out my sandwiches 
(egg and sardine), and borrowed some yogurt from the props guy to wash 
it down with. They always order in more yogurt than they need for these 
things, and as far as I can tell, I'm the only one who doesn't think 
"yeuchh" about eating yogurt that was intended for the yogurt pump. I 
wouldn't touch used yogurt, of course. Except to take home for the cat. 
And I don't have a cat. 

Afterwards, I took Timmie home. He's been disqualified from driving for 
a year now, and he cadges lifts off everyone he can. I reckoned that I 
could add that to the invoice, so I didn't mind. Five hours at twenty-
five per hour, that's one twenty five, it wouldn't make me rich, but it 
would feed my habit. 

Habit? Yes, I have this deep dark secret addiction. Once each week, I 
get into Matilda and drive down to Charing Cross Road. That's where 
Foyles is. I love Foyles, I can get lost in there. I'd spend my whole 
life there if I could. I wonder if they need a fluffer? And any money 
that didn't go on food, and rent, and keeping Matilda running, goes on 
books. And if you dare tell anyone, I'll get Sharon to have a chat with 
you, and it can take weeks before you recover physically from a chat 
with Sharon. Some people never recover mentally, they go around 
permanently smiling at people and never disagreeing. 

Sharon's my best friend. I don't know why, we don't have anything in 
common. Maybe that's why? She's big and brutal, her favourite thing is 
getting hold of a man and not letting go until he's screamed himself 
hoarse, cried a bucketfull and passed out. I think she takes the sadism 
thing too far, myself. I mean, there's nothing wrong with a bit of 
rough, but she shouldn't be cracking ribs the way she does. 

I dropped him off at his flat. "Linda, how about a date tonight?" 
"Timmie, you're married" I reminded him, in case he'd forgotten. "This 
is business, Linda. I have a proposition for you." "What is it?" "Tell 
you tonight. Pick me up at eight." Well, I didn't have anything planned. 
"You're paying?" Timmie nodded. Well, in that case, I suppose a free 
meal isn't to be sneered at. "Do I have to fluff you afterwards?" He 
looked embarrassed. "Well, I wouldn't say no." Yeah yeah yeah. 

I have this reputation, you see. I got it when we made "Spanking the 
monkey", a pretty daring title for a vid, you'd expect that the RSPCA 
would get interested, they're very hot on cruelty to animals. Anyway, 
"Spanking the Monkey" starred Little Willy, and if you can't work out 
why he's called that, you haven't seen the vid. Little Willy won the 
Worcestershire Championships of the IFGD a couple of years ago, and is 
arguably the first GD to touch the floor while still standing. Voice 
like a Kings College choirboy, of course, and when we made that vid, I 
swear he hadn't shaved for a month, nor did he need to. But what a 
development! Anyway, it was only the people who are interested in such 
things that knew who'd fluffed the three-hour marathon vid, kept it full 
and rigid all that time against the natural impulse of the butterstick 
to get it over with as fast as possible. And what hardly anyone knew, 
was that this was only possible because I'd paid him a little visit a 
few days earlier, me and my best friend, and Sharon had shown him a few 
things he hadn't known, things to do with how flexible his limbs were, 
and how you can crush the air out of someone to stop them screaming, 
that sort of thing. Which meant that when we made the vid, he was a nice 
obedient little butterstick, no trouble at all. It's good to have 
friends. 

Anyway, no-one ever got a butterstick hard for three straight hours 
before, so everyone thought I was magic, a concept that I encouraged as 
hard as I could. And it was after that, that I put up my rates to 25 per 
hour. When you're hot, you're hot. 

I picked up Timmie, saying hello to Margo as we left. Margo is your 
typical ex-scrubber, fair, fat and forty. Hair out of a bottle, forty 
with the light behind her and what she calls "big and beautiful" and 
what everyone else calls fat. I remember Margo when she was scrubbing, 
she really was quite pretty then, in an overblown sort of way. It's a 
pity it doesn't last. Fluffing will keep me going till I'm sixty at 
least. I *always* wash in Fairy. 

"I'm organising an American tour" he told me. "If we're to get Olympic 
status for the sport, we've got to get the Yanks involved." Yes, I could 
see that made sense. And everyone in the sport wants it to be recognised 
by the Olympic committee, there'll be oodles more boodle if it is. "I'll 
pay all your expenses" he said, generously, over the vindaloo. Yeah yeah 
yeah. What he means is, he wants me to works for two weeks for nothing. 
"That's terribly kind of you, Timmie, does that include paying my rent 
while I'm not earning?" So we negotiated a bit, and I asked him who was 
his butterstick. 

"Rudi." I giggled. It isn't very well known, but Rudolph isn't his real 
name. We call him that after Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, because I 
swear it's absolutely crimson, practically glows in the dark. And I'm 
not referring to his nose, either. The thought of Rudi giving the Herns 
their first taste of GD was hilarious. "Timmie, you can't, they'll 
laugh." "No they won't, Linda. When you pull Rudi's trouser snake into 
view, they won't laugh. Because they've never seen a GD'er before, 
remember. Not one of the really big ones" True. Rudi would be quite 
impressive to someone new to the sport. "Forget about this expenses only 
lark, Timmie, you pay my daily rate or I don't go." "And how much is 
that?" he asked. I did some quick sums. "Two fifty per day" "One fifty" 
and we agreed on two hundred. "It'll have to come out of Rudi's 
earnings." Earnings? 

Timmie explained to me. As well as doing the publicity stuff with the 
magazines (there were some good yank mags, like "Rod and pole", "Men's 
Development" and "Genital Times" who'd be doing interviews) we also had 
some guest posing lined up, and also some "private sessions". "So, do 
you think you can handle it?" he asked. I flicked some raita at his 
face, that's the Indian equivalent of yogurt, except they put salt in 
it. Salty yogurt, maybe I should suggest it for the next vid I'm helping 
with. Extra realism. 

"Timmie, the butterstick I can't handle hasn't been born. And not just 
handle, I can make them jump up and dance." "Yes, I know, Linda. You are 
seriously good at what you do, there's no-one even close." Which isn't 
quite true, there's Yasheem, but she's Devdasi-trained, so you'd expect 
her to be good. Except they put too much emphasis on the final stages, 
and not enough on keeping it going, which is really what it's all about. 
Not as good as me, of course. I looked up at him through half-closed 
eyes, and stroked the handle of my spoon with three fingers, lightly. I 
smiled as he went red. I stroked the spoon some more, fluttering my 
fingers along the handle, and he shifted in his chair. "Trousers getting 
tight Timmie?" I asked. I took the spoon between finger and thumb, and 
moved it up and down a few times, watching him squirm. Then I suddenly 
clenched my fist around the handle, gripping hard, and I watched as dear 
Timmie lost it, inside his pants. 

"Oh dear, Timmie. Accident?" "No thanks, I've just had one. How did you 
do that, Linda? You didn't even touch me!" I smiled, and started to toy 
with the salt shaker. "I don't need to, Timmie. You've been bottling 
that up for weeks. And there's lots more where that came from, you just 
need a fluffer to help it get out." I started to stroke the knobby top 
of the salt shaker. "Linda, stop that right now." I looked up, and 
smiled. My index finger curled down to the middle of the salt shaker, 
where it narrowed in to make a sort of waist, and stroked it gently up 
and down. "I don't believe you're doing this, Jesus. Jesus, Linda, it 
takes Margo an hour to get me like this." "Think what I can do in an 
hour, Timmie." "Oh god, you're the sexiest woman on two legs."  I picked 
up the salt shaker and started to roll it between my palms. "Ungg ung 
ugh nngh" shouted Timmie. Everyone stopped eating and turned to look at 
us. Oh well, that's another restaurant I'll never be able to go to 
again. I stood up and left; Timmie had said he was paying, and I didn't 
fancy helpig to clean up the mess I'd just made. 

Before we left for America, there was one very important item of 
preparation I had to do. Actually two important things. One was to get 
Rudi in the right attitude of mind, and the other was to say goodbye to 
Sharon. Fortunately, I could kill two birds with one stone here. 

"I don't want him injured" I said to her, up front. "I've got to drag 
him all round America, and if his ribs are broken, that will be a real 
nuisance. So no broken bones, no sprained ankles, nothing that causes 
real damage." "Aww, Linda, you're being soft." "Come on, Sharon, you've 
always got Jeremy to play doctors and nurses with." Sharon's version of 
doctors and nurses was for Jeremy to be the patient. It was a constant 
source of wonder to me that Jeremy didn't run as far and as fast as his 
legs would carry him, but he kept right on going back to Sharon, and she 
kept right on abusing him. I guess diff'rent strokes for diff'rent 
folks. Sharon and I were always good friends, though. Ever since I 
removed the thorn from her paw. I'll tell that story some day. "I just 
want him intimidated a bit, so he does what I tell him." It's a real 
annoyance finding yourself alone with a butterstick in the middle of 
some foreign country, and he decides he's going to go do whatever he 
wants, which usually involves playing hide-the-salami. It's not that I'm 
puritanical, or anything like that. It's just that if he's supposed to 
be performing the next day, it's a real drag if I have to fluff a used 
butterstick. It's so much easier on us both if he stays as chaste as a 
novice in a nunnery while we're on the road. But given the natural 
inclinations of the butterstick, I had to give him some motivation. 
Hence Sharon. 

"Come here, sweetie" she said. She looked quite enticing, too. Sharon's 
a big girl; she stands in doorways and never mind about a *person* 
getting past her, not even the *light* can get in. If I tell you that a 
door is six-six high and thirty inches wide, that'll give you an idea. 
High, wide and deep; Sharon is definitely three-dimensional. But not the 
skinny-waist, melon-boobs that the scrubbers favour. Sharon is plenty 
round the waist, and breasts like buckets, two of, milk for the carrying 
in. I saw some guy ask her about her waist once, and she said she 
preferred not to discuss it. She didn't use those exact words; in fact 
she didn't use words at all, Sharon lets her fingers do the talking, and 
they talk in chorus, all curled up together into a fist like a 
sledgehammer. He didn't ask for any further details, he was too busy 
trying simultaneously to A) breathe and B) not vomit again. 

She was wearing shorts that looked like they were in danger of going the 
way that balloons go after the party, and on top, a cheesecloth blouse 
that almost covered up the existence of one of the heavy engineering 
triumphs of western civilisation. I know the guy that designed it, he 
said he used much the same suspension-bridge engineering that was used 
at the Tacoma Bridge. What's the best way to describe this. A cross 
between Jane Russell and Rocky IV? Sharon looked like sex and violence 
in one big package; the fuck of a lifetime and six months in hospital, 
probably in that order. When Rudi saw Sharon, I worried about how well 
sewn-on his fly-buttons were, and whether they'd stand up to the strain 
he was putting them under. 

Didn't you know? Zips are out. Ever since that unfortunate business with 
Terry Trousers (hence the nickname, of course). He lost quite a lot of 
blood before they could get him to hospital, and from then on if you 
wanted to deflate him, the word "Zip" was all it took. Which made him 
pretty useless for comps, of course, since if he looked like he was 
getting anywhere, people would ask each other in a distinct tone of 
voice "Could you zip to the shop for a drink?" and so forth; end of 
Terry, and no amount of fluffing would get him going again. 

"Come here, honey, I want to cuddle you." Rudi strode across the room, 
butterstick at full mast, leading his advance by a soldier's pace. He 
reached Sharon very shortly after his trousers touched her, and she 
started to wrap her arms round him. I settled down in her best armchair 
and pulled out a Jeffrey Archer. I've seen this before, it gets very 
boring and repetitive. But I suppose you want to hear the details. 

From one point of view, Sharon's built like a bear. From another point 
of view, she's built like a nutcracker; she never needs any help opening 
up coconuts. The only question in my mind was whether she was going to 
be a bear or a nutcracker today. She chose bear. She wrapped herself 
round him like a carcrusher round a car, and tried to squash him down 
into one of those small cubes. All that Rudi had to fight back with was 
a two foot long club, which wasn't even hard just now. I watched as it 
bent almost double, then collapsed. And then Sharon began her fun. 

Her arms were right round him, she had one wrist hooked in the other 
elbow, and she was levering her elbow closed. She had his front against 
those huge breasts, So his ribs weren't in any great danger, but he 
certainly couldn't expand his ribcage. Which meant that he couldn't 
breathe in. 

However, he could breathe out. And did. Whereupon Sharon tightened her 
lock, following his chest as it gradually collapsed. When he was 
completely out of air, I saw him panic for a moment, trying to fight for 
his life, before blacking out. At which point, Sharon loosened her 
grasp, and gave him a big kiss, blowing air into him at the same time, 
which revived him enough so that he could appreciate the next part, 
which was exactly the same as the first part. 

After ten minutes of this cycle, he started crying. And begging, and 
pleading. Sharon loves that part. She says it gives her a real kick to 
hear it. Which means, of course, that the tears have exactly the 
opposite of the desired effect; the more they beg and cry, the longer 
Sharon will keep it going. 

I wasn't really watching, but after I'd read a couple of hundred pages, 
there was a complete silence. I looked up, Rudi was slumped on the 
floor, Sharon was standing looking down at him. He looked like he was 
completely used up, and Sharon was looking like she'd finished her ice 
cream and it was too small. I looked up at Sharon and took off my 
glasses. "I hope you haven't done any major damage there, Sharon." 
"Don't worry, I was gentle." I wondered if Rudi thought that. "But by 
god I'm horny, Linda."  I grinned. "OK, Sharon, you get dolled up a bit 
and we'll go out hunting." 

You've probably seen the system whereby every pretty girl is accompanied 
by a friend who's a bit of a dog? Well, the reason is, the pretty one 
feels prettier by contrast, and the dog is using the honey pot 
principle; hang around a honeypot for long enough, and pretty soon there 
will be lots of bees. 

Unfortunately, with Sharon and me, there isn't a pretty one. Apparently 
my chin is too big and my nose sticks out too far, or maybe it's the 
other way round, although I perfectly happy with both. And Sharon, of 
course, just scares men to a jelly. But we've worked out a routine that 
usually works. 

Sharon wore an anorak over her blouse; that's big and bulky and pretty 
much hides everything except her height, there's not much you can do 
about that. I dressed normally, and carried my fluffers bag of bits. We 
hit a couple of bars, then found a place with a few likely looking men 
in it. We went to one of the corner booths. "Can we join you" I said. 
They looked up; two chicks smiled down at them. "Sure, babe" one of them 
said. Babe? Moi? 

I got in first, sliding across one of their laps to get in between them, 
then I wiggled myself down so I was wedged in. Sharon sat down on the 
outside, and I'm sure they didn't realise that there was absolutely no 
way they could get out except past her, and that just wasn't going to 
happen. Nor was there anyway that anyone could get in past her. 

I leaned back happily, and casually rested each of my hands on a groin. 
"I do this for a living", I said. "I'm a fluffer. It's nice to just 
relax and enjoy myself." I kneaded them a bit. One of them moaned, I 
can't remember which one. "A fluffer? For real?" one said. I gave him a 
friendly squeeze, and worked his zipper down a bit. "Mmm, a fluffer. 
Professional. I fluff for a living. I help to make porno pics, if I 
can't get a butterstick ready, then I'm holding a corpse." They both 
groaned. "Say, it's a bit public here, would you two guys like to come 
round our place, so me and my friend can give you a real good going 
over?" "Is she a fluffer too?" "No, she works in sex-and-violence vids. 
She's a smasher." Sharon unzipped her anorak a bit, to show hints of the 
depths within. They peered at her milk-buckets. "She looks smashing, I 
must say" said one of them. 

We got back to Sharon's place, and headed straight for the bedroom. 
"Linda, you're a peach" she said. I settled down in an armchair to watch 
the fun. 

I've seen Sharon in action before. Basically, she intimidates and 
terrorises them by threatening to hurt them far worse if they disobey. 
She gives each of them one punch in the gut to show them what that 
means, and that's all it seems to take. One of them sat and snivelled 
while the other one lay face-up on the bed and got used. The sniveller 
got to see what would be happening to him in due course; the one being 
used was facing the worst of Sharon's horniness. I think the sniveller 
had the poorer deal, his imagination would torment him almost as bad as 
Sharon did. 

After an hour or so, she got off the first one, who wasn't moving any 
more, and yanked the other one onto the bed. He was all ready for this 
"Please no, I've got a wife and mmph mff". Sure you do, sweetie. And you 
go off with strangers in bars. I checked the one Sharon had done with, 
but he was still breathing, no real harm done. No physical harm, anyway. 

Sharon was having a great time with number two, I noticed. Having taken 
the edge off her horniness with number one, she was able to take it slow 
and easy with this one. As a result, it was a couple of hours before she 
finally rolled off him. "Whew", she said. I looked up from my book, he 
looked in bad shape and I thought maybe one of his ribs was broken, but 
he was breathing too. "Jesus, Sharon, I thought you were taking all 
night." She laughed and said "I feel so much better now", so I climbed 
in on Jeremy's side of the bed and spent the night there. Just us two 
girls, all alone in a bedroom with two men. "Hey, don't be scared, 
sweetie, Sharon's asleep now. But don't make any noise, honey, you don't 
want to wake her up, do you? " 


Next day at the airport, Rudi was difficult about the airplane; claimed 
he needed to travel first class because he needed the legroom. Of 
course, he didn't mean legroom. Economy class gives you 22 inches, 
that's from the back of the seat to the front of the next seat. That 
only left 12 or so inches for Rudi's butterstick, so he had a point. On 
the other hand, when it's soft it takes up a lot less space, and you can 
fold it. So I explained to Rudi that I'd make sure it was soft at the 
beginning of the flight, before we boarded, and if necessary I'd soften 
it during the trip. This made him perk up a bit. In any case, there 
wasn't any money for upgrading. 

The tour started well. When we did the first guest posing, Rudi strolled 
out in the posing suit, half a yard of sausage sticking out limply, and 
as I fluffed it up to full size, I could see the audience gasping. 
Mostly women, of course, but I could see a few embarrassed-looking men 
here and there, being asked pointed questions by their wives, no doubt. 
We topped off the posing with a demonstration of genital weightlifting 
using a very light three-pound weight; I carefully attached the weight, 
fluffed him to lift it about eighteen inches, then let it slowly sag 
down again. 

The Herns were dead impressed. They had a small GW following, but 
nothing like we had, and nothing like the rone and gen-enhanced monsters 
that we were used to. So they'd never seen anything like Rudi the Red 
and his butterstick. They crowded round afterwards; some of them wanted 
to touch it, but I wouldn't allow that, an accident would be likely, and 
that would just be too embarrassing, not to mention messy. So they had 
to look and not touch. But after a while, I thought a bit of fluffing to 
show him off wouldn't be too bad, so I brought him up into full size so 
they could see what it was like. 

This was a big mistake. One of them reached out to touch it, and before 
I could stop them, so did several others. And because they didn't know 
the first thing about the art of fluffing, Rudi galloped off over the 
horizon before I could stop him. 

"Oops. Sorry, folks. I did tell you not to touch." "Yeucchh" "My skirt" 
"My skirt, too" "Jesus, how long does he go for?" So I showed them the 
immense grapefruit that acted as a sort of reservoir, and they wanted to 
touch those, too, and since he wasn't in a hair-trigger state any more I 
let them have a good feel. "Wow, see how big they are?" "Is he on 
testosterone?" Of course he's on rone, lady! "No, that's an illegal 
drug." I said with a straight face. 

Afterwards, back at the motel, I gave Rudi a carpeting. "That was 
inexcusable" I said. "You've got to control yourself better" "It wasn't 
my fault," he whined. "Tell that to Sharon" I replied, and he went grey 
and limp. "Linda, they were touching me and feeling me, I couldn't help 
it." I knew that, but I wanted to put the frighteners on him. 


Next day we did our first magazine interview and photo shoot. This was 
with "Rigid" magazine ("the magazine for hard men") and it went fairly 
well. The lady who interviewed Rudi was genuinely interested in GD, and 
Rudi was, of course, exceptional. She asked if she could feel its 
hardness; apparently that's something that Rigid is especially 
interested in. I told her no, after yesterday, Rudi wasn't as hard as he 
might have been. She looked so disappointed that I relented and let her 
feel. "Wow" she said, several times. 

The photo shoot went well; in between poses I fluffed Rudi up a bit. The 
photographer got the lady from Rigid to put her face in the shot, he 
said it would give the necessary scale, and also show that he hadn't 
gotten the colours wrong. Yes, it really is bright red. 

Back at the hotel that evening, Rudi asked "Did I do well?" "Yes, Rudi, 
you did great" I assured him. He looked pleased. "Then, Linda, would you 
..." I looked up from my book. "We aren't here for you to enjoy 
yourself, sweetie. We're here to do a job, and I want you good and ready 
for tomorrow." 

The next day we did a TV show, some sort of chat show it was, with some 
sort of disk jockey who'd gotten himself a job as a chat show host, and 
made his reputation by being outrageous. As a result, he was forced to 
be outrageous all the time. It went disastrously. 

The problem was, Rudi was more than they were expecting. We came on, and 
Andy the host introduced Rudi as being the man with the yard-long 
schlong. Now that's a complete exaggeration, he's barely more than 
thirty inches fully fluffed. But apparently, in America GD folks 
routinely exaggerate their size, so thirty inches wasn't considered 
enough. Still, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, as they say, 
so I pulled it out and fluffed it up a bit, so that the cameras could 
get a good look. 

"Jesus that's big" said Andy, talking to me. "Yes, Rudi is one of the 
best developed buttersticks in the business." "He must be up to his 
eyebrows in testosterone then." "Well naturally," I said, "with 
testicles as large as grapefruit, his body is very full of hormones." 
Rudi grunted. "And what about you, Linda." "Me?" 

And that's the point at which it all came unglued. Andy had decided that 
there would be more milage in trying to get a rise out of me, than in 
winding up Rudi, who was sitting there looking like a spare butterstick-
holder at a wedding. The purpose of this sort of chat show is to make 
the guest humiliate herself, or else to make them angry, or anything 
that gets ratings. 

"Yes, you. You're his fluffer, aren't you?" "I'm a fluffer yes, 
currently on contract to look after Rudi". I belong to no-one, that's 
important. "That's really a sort of prostitute, isn't it?" he asked, 
insultingly. 

What? Hey, hang on a minute there. A) I'm not a tart or a scrubber, I'm 
a fluffer, and B) why's he attacking me? "Andy, you get one free shot, 
and you just had it. Now get back to talking about the sport of Genital 
Development, Genital Weightlifting or Rudi, and I'll forget what you 
just tried to do." 

But he didn't listen. "You get paid to jerk men off, doesn't that make 
you a prostitute?" OK, Andy, you want a fight, you got one. But we fight 
on ground of my choosing, not yours. "Andy, you get paid to insult 
people in public, doesn't that put you one step lower than a lawyer?" 
"What insult, I just asked a question." "You didn't know it's possible 
to be ill-mannered by asking rude questions?" Pause while everyone 
thinks up the next round of insults. 

"How small is yours, Andy?" "I've got the smallest dick in the world." 
"Boasting again. I bet you're just average. Let's have a look." He shook 
his head. "I thought so", I said. "Chicken. Four by one, I'd guess, 
three when cold, five when excited. I bet I could get you up to six if I 
really tried." He squirmed a bit in his chair. "Feeling a bit tight in 
there, is it?" I asked, kindly. I went and sat next to him. "Here, let 
me loosen your trousers a bit, make you more comfy." I unzipped his 
pants, and an average sized butterstick stood up and looked around. 
Surprise surprise. 

"Rudi, come over here, and let's compare." Rudi dragged his substantial 
pole over to join us, and sat down on my other side. "Fluff fluff, 
Rudi." He perked up a bit, obediently. So did Andy. I opened my bag, and 
brought out a few of the tools of the trade. I put on my favourite 
sheepskin glove and turned to Andy. "You see this?" He nodded, and 
perked a bit more. "And this" I brought out the feather - no reaction. 
"You use all this stuff?" he said, as I sorted through my bits and 
pieces. He sounded genuinely interested. "Part of the skill of the 
fluffer is to find what turns you on. Aha!" I said, as the chamois 
leather seemed to have a useful effect. "You like this?" "Ngghh." he 
said. I grinned, you're mine, buddy, all mine. 

I held the chamois in one hand and slowly pulled it through my left 
fist. He was watching, fascinated. "A good fluffer can bring you off 
without touching you. A really good one like me, can keep you hanging 
off the edge of the cliff for hours." I tied a knot in one corner of the 
chamois, and held it between my thumb and forefinger, and rolled it, 
voluptuously. He moaned, as of one in delicious pain. I wrapped the 
chamois round my fingers, and stretched it between my hands. His eyes 
went wide. 

Meanwhile, the audience was going wild. Firstly, I doubt if they'd ever 
seen a good fluffer in action, and secondly more than a few of them were 
having the same reaction that Andy was. So I told Andy in a serious tone 
of voice that he was the best fluff I'd done for a long time, and he was 
looking at me like he was believing it, and I brought the chamois up to 
my face and stroked it along my cheek, and the audience started 
screaming and hollering, and suddenly some fool started up the yogurt 
pump, I could see it arcing through the air, except what was a yogurt 
pump doing in this studio, and then I turned round and it was Rudi 
disgracing himself. 

Apparently, we made top ratings, Andy's suit was totally ruined, one guy 
in the audience had a heart attack, and the Federal Censors wrote a 
Stern Letter to the TV company. So maybe it wasn't a complete disaster 
at that. 

Next day, we had a number of sessions scheduled. This was Timmies way of 
paying Rudi, he set him up for one-hour sessions with women who wanted 
to see what an extreme example of GD looked like. We charged them $300 
for an hour, $200 for a half-hour, but they always took the full hour. 
And they'd do all sorts of things. A lot of them just wanted to talk to 
Rudi and ask him what it was like. They'd be disappointed, of course, 
Rudi isn't the world's greatest conversationalist, his repertoire 
consisting mostly of "Yes" and "No", with the more complex "I don't 
know" popping out occasionally. Some of them brought a tape measure, 
because they wanted to check his stats out for themselves, some just 
wanted to touch and feel the hardness, and some wanted to try to get 
their hands round it (which is possible, unless you have very small 
hands). 

During all this, poor little Rudi is doing his best to stay in control, 
because if he loses it, the next client isn't going to have so much fun, 
is she? It's a hard life being a butterstick-for-hire. And without me 
there to help with some control, I was surprised when Rudi came through 
it intact. 

So then we did another interview, this time with "Heavy Erection" 
magazine, who billed themselves as the organ of the National GW 
Committee. Photos of Rudi, of course, or at least part of him. And just 
for a gag, I attached ten pounds to him and coaxed him up. Of course, I 
attached it half way up, so he'd not have too much trouble with it, and 
people who know about such things would realise that's what I'd done, 
but since most readers of these mags only get them to gawp at the 
pictures, they wouldn't mind. Staring at Rudi's thirty incher would keep 
them happy, very happy. But he wasn't exactly blessed with the blarney. 
So she interviewed me instead, and I talked about how happy we were to 
be in the US and how lovely everyone had been, and all that sort of 
sweetness and light stuff, and she then asked if Rudi was on 'rones. 

Well, really. I mean, did you think you got a thirty inch butterstick by 
eating your spinach? Of course he's on 'rones. "Rudi would never take 
any illegal drugs" I said with a straight face. "Oh come one, Linda, 
look at him. You can tell just by seeing him." "Supplements" I said. 
"Vitamins and supplements, and hard training." and I looked her straight 
in the eye when I said it, apparently it's impossible to lie when you're 
looking someone straight in the eye. So she abandoned that one, and took 
off after me, looking for something sensational, as usual. "I heard you 
got called a prostitute on TV?" Nice one - saying yes is like admitting 
that I am, and saying no is a lie. "No, no-one called me a prostitute. 
Has anyone ever called you a prostitute?" "No, of course not." "You're a 
prostitute. There, now someone has called you a prostitute." "But I'm 
not." "Possibly, but it doesn't alter the demonstrable fact that someone 
once called you a prostitute." 

There was a long silence as she tried to work that one out. "You jerked 
Andy Foreman off on TV." "No I didn't." "You did, it was in front of the 
cameras." "In the first place, I didn't touch him, I suggest you watch 
the recordings, and in the second place, it was Rudi that shot, not 
Andy. As should be obvious from the quantity." There's an awful lot of 
juice in a grapefruit, and Rudi has two of them. 

So then they had to take some more pictures of Rudi, to see if they 
really were as large as grapefruit, and by the time they were finished, 
it was time to eat, so I dragged Rudi off to a decent restaurant for 
dinner. 

That evening, over wine, he propositioned me. "Linda, I could really get 
to like you." Gee, thanks. "I guess with your looks, it isn't too 
surprising you're single." I know he isn't trying to insult me, he's 
just too stupid to know what he's saying. "You could stay with me and 
fluff me every day if you liked." I think he's under the impression that 
he's making me a great offer. Actually, I rather like living on my own, 
no-one to nag and badger me. I'm perfectly happy as I am, so there's no 
need to keep trying to find me a husband. 

Unfortunately, I can't just cut him off at the knees, he's my bread and 
butter right now. "Thank you sweetie, that's very kind of you. But I 
think you'd be happier with a scrubber or two." There's always lots of 
scrubbers with no talent, no sense and big boobs hanging around, they're 
ten a penny. And they're ideal for wrapping round a butterstick like 
Rudi; all he needs is something soft and wet. 

But it was the end of the tour, and he had been a good little 
butterstick, and it's best to reward good behaviour, so that you get 
more of it later, so I told Rudi I'd give him a treat tonight. His eyes 
got big and his trousers got tight, and I smiled and licked my lips. "I 
bet you've never been fluffed to completion by a real fluffer." "Oh, 
Linda". "I bet you've never been wrung out like a limp dishrag." "Ooooh, 
Linda." I bet you've never been blown into tiny bubbles and screamed 
yourself hoarse in an unending series of shattering orgasms." "Oooooooh, 
Linda." 

That evening, I tied him to the bed, it's best to have them totally 
helpless for this. Both hands, both feet. A couple of pairs of tights is 
all it needs. Then I had to muffle his screams; they scream a bit loud 
sometimes, and in a hotel, you get complaints (not to mention offers of 
work). So I popped a golf ball into his mouth, which quietens them down 
a lot. I used a nice clean one, of course. Then I blindfolded him, there 
was something I really didn't want him to see. And then I set to work. 

I had a clock by the bed; that helped a lot. I'd decided to give him an 
hour of cliff hanging, followed by a forced orgasm, with several minutes 
of milking. I got him to the edge of the cliff in seconds, and then it 
was just a matter of keeping him in check by gripping the base, or a 
quick fingernail down the chest. Rudi did most of the work, of course. 
Huffing and panting, straining against the ropes, the poor lamb 
exhausted himself. I just kept my hand in place, squeezing slightly as 
required. 

It's difficult to do, but I've mastered the trick of reading a book one-
handed, which was the thing I didn't want Rudi to see, because for some 
reason, they like to think you're concentrating on their butterstick. I 
mean, how else would you pass an hour that would otherwise be totally 
tedious? Anyway, I kept him on the edge until the alarm went off and I 
knew his hour was up, and then I finished the chapter I was on, and just 
tipped him over the edge so that he'd fall into the orgasm. 

But I didn't just let him fall. As he fell, I pulled him, ramming him 
hard into that place that men go to when it all explodes, rubbing hard 
and squeezing, pulling it and telling him what a fine big guy he was. 
Then, when there was about 100,000 volts of orgone energy blasting 
through his brain, I switched to milking, hard and fast, and tried to 
pull all those ounces out of him. And he erupted like a fountain. 

I untied him and left him to clean up the mess. 

He was nice and docile all the way to the airport, and on the plane he 
fell asleep as soon as we took off, and didn't wake up till we landed. I 
handed him over to Timmie. "How was he, Linda?" "He was fine, Timmie. 
You've gingered up a boatload of interest in the States, what are you 
going to do now?" Timmie smiled. "Professional GW contests, Linda. I'm 
talking to a big US TV network, we're talking major coverage for the 
sport. And if we can get that, we stand a better chance of getting 
Olympic status in 2008." And oodles of dosh in your pocket, Timmie. Yes, 
I see. "I suppose you'll need some really good fluffers over there." 
"Yes, Linda. Start practising your American slang." 

"Yo"