Queen of Cock: Widowmaker VS Toriel (Match 29)

The semen pools were already half full. Toriel and Widowmaker, the final competitors of the lower bracket, stood side by side, staring ahead with steadfast determination as their enormous cocks gushed uncontrollably into the vast reservoirs before them. There was nothing else; the landscape had been swept of features—as if by a mad god-architect— and filled with an intricate system of pools and pipes, clearly color-coded to measure the output of each monstrously virile would-be champion.

Having outgrown everything several times over, there was little reason for the two to go out on pure size—not when the object of this particular challenge was to cum the most—and so they had both settled at a comfortably casual level of endowment; with mere body-sized penises and balls that touched the ground, inching towards the edge of the pool as they, despite ostensibly being emptied at full force, bloated bigger by inches, every other minute.

The pools themselves were alarmingly ample, digging deep into the crust of the planet, as if created in a facsimile of a reversed city, the negative spaces where there should have been buildings instead pressing downwards into a series of rectangular pits that might as well have been bottomless for all the careful spectator could see. Bottomless—and yet already half-filled by Toriel and Widowmaker, at least the closest set of pools. The drainage system carried their seed outwards, to fill the adjacent ring of repositories with potent, steaming goo. They had just started, and already the pipes were starting to struggle…

“Ah. Isn’t this nice?” Toriel said, her cheeks just a smidgen rosy from the pleasure of her constant orgasm coursing through her. “My girls get so tense when they’re backed up. The relief is heavenly, especially when there’s no worries about flooding your neighbors houses, or cities…”

“Speak for yourself. I find that rather adds a certain, je ne c’est quoi, to the experience,” Widowmaker replied, smirking over at the goat. Her feminine cannon throbbed eagerly between her legs, each stroke of her hand coaxing many more tub-fulls of cum from her churning balls, and the volume of her squirts only ever increased. She listened to the torrent strike the growing lake below, several stories down, and licked her lips, turned on by her own excess. “But, yes, it certainly invites you to let loose, without reason or restraint.”

“Well, in that case…” Toriel said, running her fingers over her fat, veiny girlcock. Immediately, her fountain of cum evolved into a waterfall, as if a whole lake of omni-impregnating seed was trying to shoot out of her at once. The level of her pool raised noticeably, the drainage systems rerouting to her second ring of pools with a sputter of activity. The motherly goat let out a soft coo of pleasure, caressing her balls, now visibly inflating to the naked eye.

“Cute. But two can play at that game.” It took no effort for the frenchwoman to match Toriel’s increased output, nor to blow past it with a stream so forceful that it battered the far end of the pool, testing the structural limits of the cyclopean structure as her river of cum ran down, threatening to overflow if the pumps didn’t spread it out quick enough. And her sack, smooth and lilac, filled, dipping over the precipice of the pool, dangling over the sea that they had created.

“I’m not playing at anything, my dear. I merely had a moment of weakness, relaxing a bit too much. You know how it is.” Toriel smiled, patting her taut scrotum. “You don’t mind, right…?” She didn’t wait for a response before shifting ever so slightly in place, widening her stance for just a moment—long enough for two additional ball sacks to appear between her legs, swinging out to slap against her first, all three equally monumental in size and capacity. Her barrage of cum adjusted accordingly, her unceasing orgasm increasing three-fold or more.

“Whether I mind is immaterial. I do not, however, buy that gentle facade of yours,” Widowmaker said, gauging her opponent with a critical glance. “No matter. I came here to out-cum you, and out-cum you I shall.” The tiles at the far side of the pool shattered under the force of her orgasm, now, great gouts of pearlescent white arching across the sky before impacting upon the sharp angles of the alien architecture and turning it to ruins. The drainage system was in full effect at this point, pumping Widowmaker’s seed into the surrounding areas, but it could not contain her, excesses pouring through the broken walls to spill into adjoining pools as the sea rose and lapped at the bottom of her burgeoning balls.

Toriel merely laughed. “Oh dear. You can think what you want, of course, I wouldn’t want to impose. I merely wanted a spot of welcome relief. And, maybe, just maybe… I was feeling a little ballsy.” She continued chuckling at her own joke as her legs spread and let out another six scrotums, each of which continued to grow, spilling into the pool and splashing against her own rising ocean of cum. The resulting overproduction sent her own stream arching too high to hit her own pool, spattering across the tiled scenery instead and filling whole reservoirs to the brim in one go.

“How droll,” Widowmaker replied, her face—and cock—growing serious in her pursuit of supremacy. Her elegant girlcock couldn’t help but swell bigger to accommodate her growing loads, but it was still her balls that took center stage, bloating obscenely in the cum-filled chasm below her, forcing her slow-moving sea to displace and spill over the sides. The heat was unbearable, the scent of her own and Toriel’s pleasant, if overwhelmingly pungent, erotic aromas drowning out the very air itself.

“Can’t help it. Just a mood, you know?” Toriel offered, her smile and manner as casual as if they were conversing over a cup of tea, even as her nuts multiplied again, filling the empty space before her with a staggering number of hefty, glistening balls, growing heavier by the moment as they, despite the flood-level output that they had already delivered, prepared to make even more, every million-gallon gush matched by a corresponding bloating in each of her 27 sets. Toriel’s mind wandered for a moment, and they tripled again.

“So is this,” Widowmaker said icily, almost inaudible over the roar of her own waterfall, her eternal orgasm making a mockery of the carefully prepared mega-city of cisterns and channels. Cum sailed through the air, hanging for a moment like grand, sprawling clouds, before slamming into the ground below with the force of a wrathful god, intent on punishing their creation; though a biblical flood would be laughably inadequate to describe the end state of her climax…

Nor would it fit Toriel. But while she was outmatched in strict quality—Widowmaker’s fat, purple balls easily dwarfed her own—her quantity had a quality of its own; with hundreds of balls—soon becoming thousands—each of which were almost, but not quite, as colossal as her opponent. The result was a world-spanning deluge, delivered from a single cock struggling to grow to keep up with what could only be described as a landscape of balls, constantly dividing and growing and churning with ever more voluminous loads. She rose up on those fuzzy mountains, moaning to herself and rubbing between her legs, chanting for “more, more…” as her body eagerly obeyed and made, impossibly, yet more scrotums swing free, stacking their owner higher and higher into the stratosphere.

“Ugh,” Widowmaker said from her own country-dwarfing ballsack, “such a cheap trick.” She still spurted uncontrollably, of course, but as the planet below vanished in their combined juices, the disparity became too obvious to deny.

“There are no tricks, dear. Just an old goat getting some relief. No reason or restraint, n’est pas?” Toriel smiled, not unkindly, down at Widowmaker and, with a deft swing of her hips, bumped their balls together.

“No reason, surely. I want a rematch. I’d have drenched this whole universe if I had gone multi.” Widowmaker looked up at Toriel, grimacing as the million-balled goat made them jostle. “You’ve already won, you can stop making more now.”

“I don’t think I can,” Toriel said, her smile turning apologetic, if somewhat proud. The planet disappeared between a few of her scrotums, caught between the taut, rumbling spheres. “I wasn’t even trying to grow more bits. It’s just a mood, like I said. I’m feeling ballsy… and I don’t think I’ll stop any time soon.”

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