Roger and I shuffled to centre stage on cue, a few bars after 'tea for two' began playing on the PA system. Both of us were stark naked, save for two small balloons each of us clutched between our thumbs and forefingers, one masking our private parts and the other held just below the left nipple. The overhead lights made it difficult to pick out members of the all-female audience but their squeals, guffaws, and general high spirits reached our ears loud and clear. The drink had been flowing for a couple of hours and the raucous assembly of twenty-somethings, clad in an assortment of skimpy, tight outfits, were ready for some entertainment. Jo and Inge, Roger's girlfriend, were acting as comperes. In a well-rehearsed introduction, we were presented to the plastered gathering. Jo: 'Ladies, please show your appreciation the privates are on parade' Inge: 'and you can clearly see their nuts!' Our clumsy dance began, each of us swapping balloons in a vain attempt to cover our crown jewels, usually failing miserably. As the hoots, hollers, and whistles grew louder, I cast my mind back to the events that had landed Roger and me in our present predicament.

It all started with a few drinks down at our local pub. Roger is an old friend from my University days when we frequently ended up trashed at the end of epic sessions in clubs and wine bars. Inge came to study from Holland on an exchange programme and shared a residence with is in our second year. We had a pact not to make a move on our house-mate, which Roger promptly broke the first weekend I spent away from Uni. The two have been an item ever since. Jo appeared on the scene after I spent a summer interning in the USA. She has dual-nationality and moved across the Atlantic the year after we all graduated. The four of us have shared a lot of experiences over the years and although our wilder nights are less frequent than in our misspent youth, what we miss in quantity we try to make up for in quality. Inge is most men's idea of sex on a stick, with seemingly endless legs and buxom boobs. A classic red-head, with alabaster skin and green eyes, Inge's mischievous streak and natural flirtatiousness made her a natural partner in crime with Jo. Our girlfriends, just the right side of thirty, are both in great shape. They work out regularly at the same gym and are avid attendees of the yoga club. The two regularly compete with us in a playful battle of the sexes, involving numerous wagers and forfeits the consequences of which provide a constant source of mirth as past triumphs and revenges are re-lived. So of course, spotting a vacant dart board in the boozer, it was natural for girls to play boys in a game of 501 and a bet was duly laid on the result. A loss, and the lasses were at our mercy but a win would see the roles reversed. Roger and I scored well enough with the arrows but our doubles let us down. Each of us missed darts that would have clinched the contest. After Inge nailed the bull at her first attempt, she high-fived with Jo and the two of them conferred. Turning to face us, our fate was revealed. Jo: 'You had your chances to put us away, lads, but couldn't take them.' Inge: 'This means we've plans for you at next Saturday's Yoga club supper.' Roger and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and shook hands with the victors. We had been bested and there was nothing for it but to accept our forfeit with good grace.

Meanwhile on stage our act proceeded. We had turned our backsides on the audience eliciting another round of hoots - to blow up rubber phalluses and turned back again releasing the sausage-shaped dirigibles into the gathered assembly. Jo and Inge were attired in matching short red-devil dresses, belted at the waist, with small horns in their hair. Each carried tridents with which they dextrously pricked our small balloons as we hurried to inflate replacements. About half the women were holding out camera phones while the others collapsed in giggles or called out 'smile! you're on Youtube!' By this stage it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain even a semblance of decency as my penis grew harder. I could see Roger likewise beginning to squirm. The girls disappeared momentarily off stage and returned pushing a catering trolley loaded with the instruments of our further humiliation. Swapping partners, Inge stood before me holding a massive custard pie in each hand. While Jo burst my remaining balloons, Inge smacked a lemon and lime pie right in my crotch then planted a blueberry square in my face, turning the tin expertly. Roger then received the same treatment from Jo, the girls making an 'ok' gesture to their buddies with their thumb and index finger to signal satisfaction with the results. Each pie was laced with syrup and rested on a biscuit crust, leaving us already very sticky after just a single barrage.

We were again turned arses front, ordered to learn forward slightly, and our legs spread sufficiently to enable the eagle-eyed in the front row to spy our exposed anuses. I next felt something cold strike home as Inge penetrated my crack with a caramelised fig ice cream pie, smothering my balls. Some of the figs seeds lodged deep in my bum hole. I heard Roger give a sharp gasp as Jo likewise found her mark, then claps as our girlfriends applauded their efforts above their own heads. Two buckets appeared and were set before us, each filled to the brim with lemon mayonnaise. Slipping off the belts that formed part of the devil suits, the two of us were leashed like dogs and forced down on all fours. Inge straddled me and I immediately registered the fact that she had gone commando, her wet pussy smearing the small of my back. She reached forward for the bucket, at the same time using her knees to dunk my head in the emulsion, dominatrix-style. The mayonnaise seemed to go straight up my nose and stuck to my head in great globs as the lead was yanked back revealing my creamy visage. Judging from our repeated dunkings, the girls particularly relished this stage of proceedings. Despite my messy plight, I appreciated the trouble they had gone to in producing giant quantities of homemade mayonnaise rather than opting for cheap salad cream. When extracting messy forfeits, there is an unwritten rule that the winning side should endeavour to get the details right. Eventually, Jo and Inge relented, stood us back up and after removing the leashes planted the buckets and remaining contents firmly on our heads.
Returning to the trolley for a final time, our girlfriends addressed the audience once more. Jo: 'And now, ladies, the highlight of this evening's entertainment.' Inge: 'It's time for the prize draw!' Spinning a mini tombola, each drew out a single ticket. Jo: 'Number 8 Adele, come on down!' Inge: 'Number 14 Bonny, join the party!' Neither of the women needed to be asked twice and were with us in a trice, despite their high heels. Adele was a slim, freckled blond with an unusually large number of moles including a very alluring one right at the base of her right breast, which was partially exposed by the wide-strapped brown dress. Bonny was a flicked brunette, with a much fuller bosom that was packed into a short golden mini-dress clinging to her behind. Both looked barely twenty and I estimated they must be at least five years younger than our girlfriends. My prick and Roger's twitched at the sight of them. 'Naughty boys!', Jo and Inge chimed together and with a cry of 'around the world!' two mango cream pies made a circuit of our faces and heads. Barely able to see, I cleared peep holes using my fingers and saw Bonny and Adele on their knees before us, their dress straps slipped below their arms, exposing two lovely sets of tits. The rest of the audience were out of their seats and had formed a semi-circle. Every women held a custard pie in both hands. Bonny took my fully erect penis into her mouth and began to play with my balls, looking up at me doe-eyed after every few strokes. Meanwhile Adele licked the tip of Roger's shaft with her tongue, before starting to gobble greedily. As the young pair wanked and sucked us, the custard pies started to find their targets. Jo and Inge appeared, stripped nude except for their devil horns and a pair of evil looking strap ons. 'Milk race!' they shouted 'last to come goes first!'