Iggy Azalea and Ice Spice fight over who has the better ass!
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* * *
Rap Beef
Hidden Hills, Santa Monica…
Iggy Azalea lay sprawled on the pool tiles, neck swanned as she read the news off her phone.
“Bitch’s Ass Be Lookin’ Like Mewtwo!”-Ice Spice
The latest shot in what the world is calling “The Battle of the Bulge”, “The New Assic”, and “SpIggy” was fired on Thursday, when New York drill exponent Isis Naija “Ice Spice” Gaston compared the posterior of Australia-born rapper Iggy Azalea to Mewtwo, the deformed mutant supervillain in the first Pokemon movie.
“You can tell her I said that, too,” the rapper said exclusively to Hip Hop Newz. “Who did her BBL? Michelin Tires? No cap, that shit be lookin’ all kinds of nasty.”
This comes in response to Azalea’s remark at MADE Fashion Week in Paris that Gaston “looks like a toy troll” with an ass “two inches from the ground”.
“Wack Australian bitch talking mess about MY booty when she bought hers on Temu?” the 25-year-old Bronx native retorted. “I’d kick her ass if it wasn’t made of concrete.”
Ouch! How will Iggy’s camp respond? Watch this space for ongoing developments in the unfolding SpIggy drama!
– Abigail Feinmann, Hip Hop Newz CEO
She snorted in disgust, blowing a hair-strand from mascara’d eyes.
Loud obscene slurping noises throbbed behind her. A savage, sexual rhythm insisted upon itself, filling the air with a thick, guttural squelching. Her much-slandered posterior currently had a cock blowing its walls apart like dynamite.
GLUUURK-SPLAT-SCHLOOOP! SQUISH-SPLORG-GLUBB! SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SPLAAAAATTTT!
Azalea clenched her gluteal muscles, making her dick-filled cheeks wobble like jelly nailed with a spear. Her gaze rode back across the tiles; alighting upon the shadow of the twenty-something music journalist who was rutting her butt wide open.
He grunted; dropped his hips down into her thick booty. With one stroke, he skewering his prick down into her slippery anal pipe—she felt her insides rearranging themselves to make space for him. Richter-scale earthquakes billowed through her deep piles of meat.
SPLATTT~!
“Doesn’t your Dad own that site?” She felt his cockhead pulse inside her ass, rotating with wet twists inside her guts.
“No, Abby does.” With a gasp, he reared back and slammed. Her butt shockwaved flat against the tiles, then rebounded back to its original shape. “My dad’s just on the board.”
“Whatever, can’t he pull some strings and ban this ‘SpIggy’ crap from the front page? I’m sick of hearing that psychopathic midget talk about my ass, day in day out.”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, that’s half the reason I’m banging you, so…”
The journalist curved his hips back, dragging his cock back out her ass. She watched seven inches suck free out of her slurping rectum, glistening and dripping in the air. Only the tip of his prick remained lodged in her shitter. His glans stuck on the contracting knot of her anus like it was a Chinese finger trap.
He palmed her hips, prepared to plow his shaft back in…and paused.
“Iggy…” He seemed awed by the heft of the ass flowing around his prick. He was Edmund Hillary astride Everest; Neil Armstrong walking eternity’s footprints in the lunar topsoil. He filled his palms with an obscene avalanche of heavy, sweaty, cellulite-dappled fuckmeat, heaving it with his fingers. He seemed almost afraid as he sculpted her butt like clay. “…Is your ass real?”
Her glare could have shattered stone. “Yeah, of course. One-hundred-percent made in America. Why?”
“Never mind…” He used her hips as handles to fling his crotch straight down. SPLURCH! Her ass exploded in delirious oscillating waves as his cock displaced a tidal wave of sloshing flesh. It was like he was fucking the Pacific Ocean, except that had slightly less plastic content.
She hadn’t really lied. Her ass had been made in America—South America, specifically. At a clinic in the São Paulo favelas called Doctor PopoZao’s Bueno Bounce!!!, exclamation points very much included.
Yeah, yeah, maybe she’d gone a little overboard with spot injections. Her rump looked simply titanic as he humped the wobbling slabs of her butt. It dwarfed her upper body, as well as the man riding it. Does she have a good point? Is my ass too big? Iggy clenched her fists as she was butt-rutted. No. Fuck her. She’s a demented psycho dwarf made of farts, glitter, and evil. The only good point that will ever go through her head is hollow one with a nine millimeter caliber.
“We love this ass feud you and Ice Spice are having,” the journalist gripped her shoulders, and rowed his hips into hers. Their bodies connected in short, stabbing pulses. “Site traffic’s through the roof. We’re kinda hoping to take SpIggy to the next level.”
“What’s the next level?” His cock thrummed swiftly down her shit-tunnel, burying itself with ball-clapping impacts against her booty. Her pussy drooled, swelling against the poolside tiles.
“Abby asked me to run an idea by you. It’s weird, but keep an open mind…”
“I’m listening.” She closed her eyes, folded her hands, and let his dick pummel her ass to paradise.
* * *
New York City…
Ice Spice had a phone and a penis buried in her ear and asshole, in the order specified. (The other order would be plain weird.)
“…babe, please just read the link I sent you…” A woman’s voice said.
“Fine, whatever,” Spice said over the sound of a cock thumping her fat shitmobile with hard, meaty impacts.
SLAP! PLAP! SLAP!
Anal lube burst out of her rectum with each wet stroke, spraying a fine mist over her satin duvet. “Not like I’m busy or anything.”
Lifting the phone from her ear, she skimmed the blog post Abigail Feinmann—Hip Hop Newz’s founder—had texted her. Reading was hard. The backshots she was taking from the guy buttfucking her—a pop & lock dancer she’d poached from PinkPantheress’s entourage, and hush hush about that—kept jolting the phone in her hand.
Spice shot a quick glance over her shoulder. Her enormous butt spilled on both sides of the man’s narrow hips as it sucked his cock down inside it. Her ass-chute writhed with slippery heat, gripping his dick in a devouring mouth.
Iggy Azalea Throws Down The Gyatt-let!
After weeks of shit-talk—if you’ll pardon the phrase—Azalea has issued a challenge! She (in partnership with Hip Hop Newz) has approved the below statement for immediate circulation.
“Listen, Ice-hole. You’ve been telling everyone my ass is fake for a month. Like yours isn’t 98% recycled pig noses and dinosaur farts. Peep yourself in a mirror, girlie. You look like a bowling ball wearing a clown wig.”
“You can talk all the trash you want using your ass, but I bet you can’t actually use it. Let’s find out.”
“I officially challenge you to an anal sex contest. Girl against girl. Most cocks fucked wins $50,000. Don’t act the prude, or like you’re above it. I’ve got an OnlyFans, and I know you’re already asking around for managers. This is gonna be hardcore ass-pounding with the biggest dicks we can find—big enough to rupture your implants, if ya got ’em. Two women enter, one woman leaves. Or one woman enters, the other never shows up, which is my bet on what happens.”
“Hip Hop Newz is fronting up the prize money, and Abby says she’ll handle the logistics—the time, the place, and the dicks. All you gotta do is show up. Bet you won’t. Easier to talk out of your ass than use it, right Ice-Hole?”
Ice Spice yawned. The phone went back to her ear.
“Irrelevant forty-year old sayin’ whaaat now? I keep having to remind myself who this bitch even is—her last hit is so old, it’s in a red hat voting for Trump. Next thing I hear about Iggy Aus-failea better be her obituary.”
“So you won’t do the contest?” Abby asked over the rhythmic squish of ass getting rutted. The man’s cock tore a path between her asscheeks with loud, squelching thrusts. Each time he bottomed out, ripples rolled up her fleshy body.
“Hell naw!” Spice said. “Why give Miss Has-Been free heat? Bitch so washed up she in the Sahara, and she know it. Besides…”
She turned her head, and winked at the man deep-dicking her butthole.
“We alllll know who running dat shit, don’t we?”
Spice artfully slackened her sphincter, dilating her muscle rings one by one, sucking the man’s fat cock down into the dirtiest, greasiest part of her anal passage. He didn’t even thrust, he simply fell into the deep yielding depths of her ass. Her puckered anus opened like a flower, cushioning the base of his cock as it was socketed in place by her tight-gripping anal walls. Just like that, she had him. He gasped, pelvis submerged in darkness.
With a triumphant grin, she tapped a button, put the phone on speaker mode, and dropped it atop her quivering ass. Right next to his cock.
Then she squeezed every muscle at once.
The backup dancer’s eyes almost burst from his skull like hot grapes. She collapsed her back walls on him with crushing, convulsive force, triggering an orgasm that almost destroyed his brain. He bellowed in release, her ass suddenly a pressurized sucking vortex that his cock was helplessly shooting cum into. Spice felt the hot and itching sensation of her guts getting flooded and laughed diabolically.
“…Isis? …You still there?” Abby kept repeating. The phone shivered atop the rapper’s quaking, quivering heap of jigglemeat as it wrung ejaculations from his prick, until the phone—and Abby’s voice—slid and landed on the pink kitten duvet beside her. She picked it up.
“She messing with the anal queen.” Spice contracted her sphincter, forcing out his limp cock with a POP. It slithered down her left cheek, writing a stroke of wet graffiti. “My ass can Thanus Snap a man out of existence if I sneeze wrong. Bitch be lucky I’m leavin’ her senior citizen ass on read. Promise you.”
Silence. Then the phone crackled.
“Isis, we can pay you if you participate.”
Ice threw her hips sideways, slinging the guy off her. Her eyes narrowed to calculating daytrader slits.
“Hol’ up…that changes things. How much you payin’?”
* * *
The legendary East Coast/West Coast hip hop feud of the 90s had ended in gunshots.
This cut-rate Zoomer sequel would end in backshots.
Both Iggy Azalea and Ice Spice agreed to settle their feud with an anal sex showdown—the $50,000 prize going to most loads of cum extracted within two hours.
That part was easy. Nailing down the particulars almost sent Abby Feinmann into an early grave.
Azalea refused to fly to NY. Spice refused to fly to Cali. Both women saw this as bowing the knee in a situation where each perceived herself as the alpha female. After Hip Hop Newz began promoting the event as “The New Assic”, Ice Spice threatened to pull out. She didn’t like the tagline, which she said made Iggy Azalea sound like the star. After Abby Feinmann apologized and offered to rename the event “Princess Di-anal”, Iggy threatened to walk.
After weeks of wrangling, a compromise was reached. The contest was renamed Butthole Royale and would be held smack-bang in the center of the country, in that notorious hotbed of sin and debauchery known as “Wichita, Kansas.” That way, both women would have to inconvenience themselves flying out to it.
* * *
On the morning of the contest, a camera crew hired by Abigail Feinmann swarmed the venue: a filthy weightlifting gym on Mosely Street.
Once, this had been part of a Planet Fitness franchise chain. Now it was an iron graveyard. The barbells were black with rust, the plates corroded and chipped. The air conditioning had broken long ago—you flicked the switch, and a low, rusty gurgle churned and rattled in the walls. If you wanted cool air, you waited until winter. The mirrors that had once lined the walls were all smashed—like someone had decided to earn themselves sixteen centuries of bad luck in one afternoon. The decor consisted of fun, family-friendly posters, such as a hypodermic syringe framed by the words UP THE DOSAGE! It wasn’t clear whether the poster referred to anabolic steroids or tetanus shots.
Abby Feinmann liked the gritty atmosphere of the gym, its sense of competition. Also, it was the only venue that had returned her call, which helped.
The owner—a former Mr World—had rented the place out to her organization for a pittance, perhaps thinking the place could sink no lower. She liked his sense of optimism.
“Clear the space!” She yelled at her camera crew. “Iggy and Ice will be here soon!”
Straining and pulling, a gaggle of unpaid Hip Hop Newz interns dragged all the weight machines from the main floor, leaving just two shiny metal benches, suitable for doing barbell curls. Also suitable for lying across, with your ass raised high, while a cock was inserted at high velocity into your rectum.
Studio lights were hung from the ceiling girders, spotlighting the two weight benches in hard knives of light. A pair of LED scoreboards connected to a timer were strung up and dangled down over the padded leather benches.
The timer read 120:00. The scores read 0.
Now all that was missing were a pair of assholes.
* * *
Across town, in a rented AirBnB and a rented trailer, two women prepared their butts for doomsday.
They squatted over toilets, red-faced and grunting, emptying their bowels for the final time. For days, they’d supplemented their diets with Metamucil and extra fiber. They anal douched in the shower—Iggy blasted her ass with a saline enema bottle with a lubricated tip, while Spice opted for a silicone-nozzle bulb douche. They rinsed the anterior of their rectums, then dug deeper up their asses, piping douching fluid past the rubbery ring of the sigmoid colon and hosing out any remaining shit with flexible colonic irrigation tubes.
Ice Spice kept it simple. She stuck a tampon up her ass and twerked a few times, so a wet spot wouldn’t show as fluid worked its way out onto her denim. Then she dressed, calm and unbothered, freestyling in front of the mirror.
“Without plastic you assless, Bitch be tha New Classless.”
She diss-rapped, hauling on jorts so tight-fitting they looked like they’d been shrinkwrapped and steam-ironed over her huge fart-wagon. Each time she walked, her heavy brown cheeks wobbled beneath the cutoffs of the jeans. Despite Spice’s short height, she was a genuinely massive-assed girl.
She smiled; made a gun sign at herself; booked an Uber.
Time to eviscerate this pretender Australian bitch.
A few miles away, Azalea was less certain and thus did more. She injected a final cleansing douche of herbal oils and lay on her back, pedaling her feet in the air, trying to circulate it back through into her lower gut. Then she flung herself into a sequence of stretches and kegels exercises, trying to work out bubbles of air and moisture from inside her colon. She called Abby over and over.
“Are you sure she’s not at the gym yet? No, I wanna be late. I’ll look so pathetic if I’m the first one there. I’m not gonna leave until I hear from you that she’s there, got it? Okay, bye.”
She flung on a light floral-pattern dress that threw her ginormous dumptrack into sharp relief. It hung loose off her upper body, but was stretched to bursting by her ass, which bulged through the fabric like the bulb of an ungodly flower.
She did a quarter-turn in the mirror. Smacked her ass. Her gyatt was so big it barely fit in the mirror.
Even though she hadn’t heard from Abby, she impulsively thought fuck it and booked an Uber. She spent the ride to the gym rehearsing an opening line for when she was face to face with her nemesis.
* * *
“We meet at last, Ice.” Yikes. Sounded cooler in my head.
Azalea eyed her rival up and down in the gym—she was ten inches taller, so it was mostly down.
“You’re smaller in person than I thought.” Pink lips sneered, vacuous and cruel. “Ever wish you were taller?”
“Ever wish you had a career?” Spice’s eyes slitted. Her mouth became a flat line.
“Raise your hand if you’ve been number one on the Billboard Hot 100.” Azalea raised her hand, looked at it, and feigned shock. “Oh, gosh! Only one hand went up! Mine!”
Spice’s loud brat laugh dripped with scorn. Her huge ass went swish-swish.
“Yeah, ‘Fancy’ whips. I hear it on oldies stations sometimes when I’m driving. Takes me back, y’know? Real nostalgic. I drove here with a white fifty year old bitch bumpin’ it in the next lane…I think she was on the way to her osteoporosis checkup. Maybe you two can catch up there after this.”
Azalea saw red. Fury rolled through her like chain lightning.
She snarled, balled her fists, and stalked forward. One stride. Two. Then a sharp-fingered hand caught her, and yanked her back into line.
“Ladies, ladies! No fighting!” Abigail Feinmann bounced between the female rappers—she was effervescent, smiling like a minister marrying a highly-strung couple.
A middle-aged woman with enormous breasts and a Star of David necklace around her neck, Abby was a social studies burnout noted for peculiar and somewhat motivated sociological pursuits. In college, her doctoral thesis had used a mixture of genetic sequencing, MBTI profiling, and astrology to prove that Jewish women make scientifically ideal partners for African-American men. The furor this paper had attracted had given her enough fame for a pivot into journalism. Particularly, journalism that allowed her to pursue her purely academic interest in black men.
“So glad you could make it! How about a handshake, or a hug, or…no? Okay then. I’ll just need your signatures.”
Abby forced handfuls of papers into their hands—consent forms, release forms, aand waivers. Spice and Azalea barely had time to glance at any of them. As pens scribbled signatures, Abby’s entourage patted them down for weaponry. Which was stupid. Both women were poured into such tight clothing that they couldn’t have smuggled a paperclip into the gym.
“Alright, it’s time to begin!” Abby said. “You both know the rules! Let’s meet our male talent!”
The shower doors were flung open in a hiss of steam.
As one, Spice and Azalea turned…and froze.
* * *
Hulking shadows emerged through a wall of steam.
Muscular shoulders swung and moved in silhouette. Huge protuberances the size of kielbasa sausages dangled between their legs.
Spice and Azalea gasped as a dozen enormous black men strode out of the bathroom and advanced on them.
They were naked and oiled; their gym-pumped bodies glistening like snakeskin under the gym lights. Enormous cocks flopped from their crotches, all rapidly swelling as they leered at the two big-assed women.
“No. Fucking. Way.” Spice suddenly had to suppress the urge to hug her rival for emotional support.
The men advanced in a wall of melanin and muscle—grinning, snarling, leering, whispering obscenities. Their dicks ballooned to terrifying size inside their fists.
“Aren’t they marvelous!” Abby giggled behind a hand clapped over her mouth. She was blushing like a schoolgirl. “And they’re all for you two!”
Abby had cast a wide net for talent. These men were porn stars and professional athletes and semiprofessional athletes and mall cops and ex-cons. Anyone who had the inches, the aptitude for violence and female degradation, and the afternoon free to combine the two.
Color drained from Ice and Iggy’s faces as they were surrounded by a waving forest of colossal coal-black pricks. The smallest was terrifyingly large.
“Um…” Color drained from Ice’s cheeks as they surrounded her. “Abby, can we talk…? Maybe this contest isn’t such a good…”
She backed away from the thick forest of erect penises glistening in front of her face…and backed onto the thick shaft of a man standing behind her. She skipped forward with a small kittenish waaoo? of fright.
Men ringed them now. Wherever they turned, it was into a wall of bared teeth and gangsta tattoos. The fierce shine of the studio lights cast bleak torrents of radiance on their iridescent bodies.
The camera crane creaked as it swung overhead, capturing their expressions.
“Hol’ up,” Azalea frowned, momentarily distracted from her predicament. “What’s that camera doing?”
“We might need to adjudicate irregularities in the judging process,” Abby said, briskly walking away. “The video is solely for the benefit of our judges. And for our Hip Hop Newz Premium Subscribers, of course…”
“WHAT?” Azalea screamed.
“That wasn’t the deal!” Spice yelled beside her.
“Start the clock!” The proprietress walked away, clapping her hands for attention. “Time starts now!”
The timer above the benches began ticking down.
120:00
119:59
119:58
119:57
“…Butthole Royale BEGUN!” the tiny publisher of Hip Hop Newz roared to make the weights shake from the trees. “Get them, boys!”
The men roared and charged forward.
They stampeded Spice and Azalea off their feet—the rappers were bowled over in the churn of bodies, then dragged caveman style to the assfucking benches, with hands stripping them naked as they went. They became slabs of meat—pulled, prodded, and jiggled, their asses palmed, smacked, hit, and slapped with belts, hands, and cocks, their voluptuous flesh soon bearing bruises.
“Hey! Not so rough!” Ice yelled as her jeans were pulled down over the swelling bulk of her ass. A second later, she was flung meatily across the weight bench—face down, ass up. Her gigantic bare dump truck bounced as it landed, massive cheeks jiggling and clapping for several seconds. Black hands like talons grasped into her slam-meat, scooping up handfuls of her butt. One man motorboated her ass. Two more drove cocks into the soft yield of her buttmeat, humping themselves on her asscheeks.
Iggy Azalea was fireman carried her to the bench, and slapped down directly on top of it with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs. Her expensive Lululemon pull-on was torn to rags off her butt. Her ponytail flipped onto her face, covering her eyes as she yelled curses at Abby.
“Let’s break these sluts wide open,” a man grunted, his nine-inch penis throbbing. “I ain’t cum since yesterday.”
Another man jammed a thumb the size of a sausage into Iggy’s asshole, pulled it out, and licked it. “Dry. Spread these bitches—we gotta lube ’em up first.”
Two men swooped in from the sides on each women, gripping their kicking, thrashing legs, and pulling them apart like scissor blades.
Two vast asses partially split open, their cavernous depths quivering like jelly under the gym lights. When even this didn’t provide enough access, the men shuffled down the women’s splayed legs, hefted their asscheeks directly, and pulled them apart like sheets of gooey pizza dough.
Azalea and Spice drew in breath as they were stretched wide open, their anuses glinting in the dark recess of their rectal creases. The camera swooped in, capturing the big reveal.
The starfish. The back opening. The rosebud. The date.
Call it what you will, it is a hole. A nothing. An absence.
An emptiness to be filled.
Industrial bottles of farm-grade lubricant—made for prepping horses at stud—were slammed into their asses. Both women howled as enormous blasts of cold oil were squirted up into their guts in slippery rivers.
“FUCK YOU, ABBY!” Spice yelled as lube spewed back out of her slack asshole in a curving arc, jetting over the ground.
“Yes, yes, good reactions!” Abby clapped. “Get some footage of their faces when the cocks go in, Tom!”
Two men swaggered up, penises guiding the way. They settled into place between the splayed thighs of the women bent and quivering with ear over the weight benches.
Azalea and Spice gulped as men planted huge throbbing logs of fuck-flesh at the entrance to their assholes. Assholes that puckered and tightened in a reflex as natural as it was useless.
The men swung and propped their muscle-shredded bodies over the women braced on the bench. They breathed hot predatory breath upon Spice and Azalea’s necks, setting their flesh to crawling. Both studs were big and rangy, corded with muscle fibers. Dreads swung in messy cords from their heads. They limbered up, scissoring their hips back and forth before the anuses, checking the angle. Their cocks surged and throbbed, hard enough to fuck a hole in sheet metal. Their erections throbbed, two hungry raptors ready to strike. The camera rolled to the side, capturing leg and hip muscles in full flex—tension, potential, muscular force as pent up as the coils of a spring, ready to shoot forward with hole-wrecking force.
One of the men winked at the camera as it passed his hips. The other dropped his Soundcloud.
…And then they lunged forward, driving cocks as thick as post-hole diggers into the girls.
SPLAT! SPLOOSH!
Lipsticked mouths burst open in identical gasps as brutal, meaty sidestrokes scythed into their asses, blasting their rectums wide open. Star-shaped explosions of displaced anal lube burst across vast continents of assmeat as giant cocks pushed it out.
“AHHH!” Spice and Azalea snarled, jerking as colossal throbbing pricks poured and pounded into them. The erections seemed more solid than liquid, flowing to fill every cavity of their rectums and colons.
Each man sunk his erection to the balls in a single cleaving strike, then drew back, then repeated-repeated-repeated. SPLURRRT! SPLORRRT! GLOOPPSH! The meaty impacts were utterly dirty, and head-spinningly loud.
“Hol’ em steady, Quantavious!” one shouted, a gold tooth gleaming in his grimace as he smashed and sundered his cock down to the bottom of Spice’s shit-trench. “Don’t let ’em wriggle!”
Hands pulled behind their heads and their legs akimbo, and wrestled their arms behind their backs. The fucking began in earnest, a steady bone-jarring rhythm that shook the weight benches from their mountings on the floor. The men gripped and found handholds on hips and shoulders, allowing their ass-wrecking strokes to land with surgical precision.
“Ah! Ahhh! Ohhh!”
Spice screwed up her eyes as heavy wet strokes cleaved her buttcheeks apart. She tried not to scream each time a huge fuck-pillar reared back and then sheathed itself in her wobbling butt.
Beside her, Azalea’s curvy body was wracked by surges as an enormous black cock lunged home, hammering her into the weight bench. The brutal swing and stroke of his erection was a dark glistening blur, pulling out ropes of anal lube on each backstroke. Her heavy tits shook, pressing sweaty circles on the leather of the weight bench.
SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP! PLAAAAAAPPPPPSHHH! SCHLAAAPPP-SQUISH!
The men humped with wild enthusiasm. Muscles flexed and scissored as they rammed gigantic beefy cocks into gaping assholes, faster and faster. The camera caught a noisy, blurry din of hips slamming, flesh quaking, asses wobbling, and expelled juices sluicing, spilling, and splattering. Spice and Azalea’s butts were both moving so fast the lens couldn’t keep up—all the cameraman saw on his viewfinder were two bleary, greasy smears of light—huge slabs of meat agitated into sweaty, spinning blurs as cocks sledgehammered them into abstraction.
Both women moaned and grunted and swore as cocks packed into their slavering, lube-flooded rectums. Their eyes slid sideways, onto each other. Their faces were sweaty, their teeth were set against pain, but there was no give in their stares.
Loser, their faces said, as dicks sprung them open. Failure.
Splat-splat-SPLAAAAATTTT! PLOOOORRRPPP-SMACK! SCHLOOOOPPP-THWACK!
“This is incredible content!” Abby clapped her hands. “There are a combined seventeen inches of dick filling these women! Get the camera in closer, Tom! I want hi-def footage of asses bouncing!”
The cameraman grimaced as churned-up jet of lube spewed onto his camera body. “We gotta talk about hazard pay, Abby.”
Brutal meaty pummeling sounds filled the gym, interspersed with breathy grunts and cries caught in throats. Azalea’s stud and Ice’s stud fucked, side by side, pounding heavy cocks into the splayed women in a rhythm that lined up, then went out of sync, then fell back in line. It soon became clear that this was not exactly a fair fight.
Iggy was taller, Iggy was heavier, and Iggy was the first to get her situation under control.
Rocking and twisting her hips back, she got leverage against the cock onslaught. Instead of being helplessly fucked forward, she was able to rock her ass back, spiking her wagonload of meat against the reciprocating cannon-shots of his cock. With slaps of her hips, she began applying the ribbing of her sigmoid colon to his sensitive nerve-rich glans, making him flinch, react, and swiftly blow his load.
“FUCKING WHITE BITCH…MAKING ME CUUUUUHHHHHHHHMMM!”
The bald black man’s eyes rolled back as his hands gouged trenches in her butt.
He snapped his hips into her, shanked her full of cock, then orgasmed with powerful jerks. His driving balls began pulsing, flushing out torrid white jets of spunk, which he fucked until it was forth.
“SCOOOREBOARD!” Iggy yelled to the woman across the other bench.
IGGY AZALEA: 1 – ICE SPICE: 0
“First point goes to Miss Azalea!” Abby screamed with excitement.
Schlopp! Plapp! Blapp! GLOOOORRRRPPPPP! SCHLOOOOOORRRRKKKKK
“AHHHHH!” Spice arched her back violently, her sucking asshole clenching around his plunging, ass-defiling prick. “Hurry up and cum! I have to catch up!”
With a grunt, the man pulled out of Azalea, his erection sagging and coated in white. Her asshole gaped, puckered, then closed. A drooling strand of sperm was tugged free by his prick. Her ass closed around it like a camera shutter, severing it.
He stepped back, and the next man stepped forward. He swung his hips onto her, mounted her, and used his dick to split her wide open again. He began whipping his hips forward with punishing slaps, hurling his big prick down her buttchute.
“Ahhh!” Iggy’s face streamed with running makeup, but with a smug grin underneath.
One bench away, Ice Spice’s mouth broke in a defiant snarl as she copied the bigger woman’s technique. Or tried to. She’d fucked a lot of dicks up her shitwagon, but this was absolutely one of the biggest and meanest. It seemed alive, rampaging through her guts like a kaiju monster.
Spice swiftly earned her first point. The man flexed his hips forward, twitched once, then ejaculated in a wild spray of semen. He didn’t even shoot ropes, just a single continuous outpouring. Half of it ended up jetted through her bowels, the rest was hosed across her quaking back when he pulled out.
She turned to gloat…just as Iggy made her second man cum.
Squeezing her ass, Azalea sucked him in and down and crushed his glans with her anal deathtrap until he broke. He thumped his erection down to the balls and exploded. His thick gooey discharges were audible, even muffled by the thickness of her ass.
“Two points!” She yelled and made a peace sign at Abby. Her face was flushed, and veins stood out in her neck. “Update that scoreboard right now, you bitch, or—OW!” A cockhead the size of a crab-apple had just torn free of her sucking ass, only to be replaced by an even bigger one.
Spice panted for breath. Her eyes flicked back and forth from the floor to Azalea, suddenly aware that she was falling further behind with each wet cockstroke that smashed into Azalea’s dumper.
“Why is there no dick in my ass?” She roared, clenching her fists. “Hurry up!”
The next man was slow to get inside her. He earned a vicious kick from the shortstack rapper. “Either shit or get off the pot!” Spice wailed. “I can’t lose to her! She’s from fucking AUSTRALIA!”
He crammed himself inside, filling her eight throbbing inches deep. The steady cadence of his shaft tearing down her tunnel was loud and rhythmic as it burst out between her clapping asscheeks.
Grimacing, she brought him off just seconds after Iggy made her third man cum.
* * *
IGGY AZALEA – 8 – ICE SPICE 6
An hour passed. The gym had descended into carnage: a nauseating tableaux of debauched sin. All it needed was publicans eating grapes and Christians being fed to lions and the Roman reconstruction would have been complete.
SQUELCH PLAP SCHLORP SKLCH SCHLAPP BLORP SQUISH SQLLLCHHH
Two men heaved their hips into squishing pillowy asses. The strident thunder of crotches slamming and squelching against obscene mounds of buttmeat became like the sound of gunshots in Black Hawk Down—so omnipresent and mindnumbing that it stopped even seeming like sound. It was just there, like background radiation.
Sperm slopped out of gaping asses as cocks were changed. It flowed into buckets placed beneath their splayed legs. Abby had suddenly become quite paranoid about the cleaning deposit she’d paid to the gym.
The cameraman was hating the day of his birth. He gritted his teeth as Abby worked him like a slavedriver—yelling at him to get in closer, to catch the action from a different angle, to kneel in jizz if he had to. Soon, he was splattered droplets of sperm, lube, and sweat from the churning, slathering hips. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when going to the best film school in the country. The camera swung in queasy circles atop the crane arm, recording hi-def footage of two vast-derriered rappers being used as target practice.
The men were in high spirits. The women acted as if this was life or death. They exhorted, encouraged, threatened, and bullied the studs—trying to suck as many cocks up their backdoors as quickly as possible. This was a game of metrics and performance indicators. Speed. Volume. Faster. Faster. Faster.
Spice had an orgasm. Azalea had two. They both tried to stop themselves climaxing. Pleasure was a distraction from duty: namely, the duty of milking as many dicks in a hundred and sixty minutes as possible. This was an athletic event, and they treated it as such—Usain Bolt probably hadn’t had many orgasms while running a hundred meters in 9.58 seconds, either.
Azalea tried to stop herself checking the score above her head. It would either demoralize her or lull her into false security. Neither state was useful right now.
But as another man currently on top of her sprayed more ballslop into her, she gave into temptation, and glanced.
IGGY AZALEA: 9 – ICE SPICE: 6
She hadn’t just kept her lead, she was widening it.
She fucked like a machine, scissoring her pelvis and torquing her hips artfully, squeezing her ass inward and wrenching cumloads from ballsacks. As the anal destruction piled on, her panting, saliva-dripping lips hovered between a grimace and a smug look of satisfaction.
She sneered at Ice Spice, who was struggling beside her.
The younger girl was simply too short to accurately fuck back against the men, or gain much control over what they were doing. She just hung slack upon the bench, her thick thighs flopping in the air, her huge ass wobbling explosively but helplessly under jolting strokes. She had no recourse except to yell at them at piercing volume to cum and then get out.
“This bench is too high,” Spice wailed, feet kicking air as a man impaled her.
“Or your ass is too low,” Azalea snapped her head sideways and spat. “Just give up, you midget. You must be this tall to ride!”
With her rival racking up a huge lead and nobody even trying to lower the bench. Spice took out her fury on the only person she could—the man currently buttfucking her.
“You useless fucking idiot!” His cock had just sprung out of her butt for the third time. “Can’t you even keep it inside? You’ve taken twice as long as the others.”
The OG ripping huge meaty thrusts up her ass slowed down. He’d done six months upstate for armed robbery, two of which had been spent in solitary for shanking a fellow prisoner in the chow line. Strangely, this diminutive woman had him utterly ballbroken.
“Chill, lady,” he sulked. “Words hurt.”
She crossed her arms under her chin, scowling. “The one and only time I do want guys to cum early…”
He pounded his shaft into Spice’s cavernous rectum, until his abs seized in a rippling spasm. Ropes of baby-batter gouted out, audibly slopping into her bowels.
Alongside her, Iggy’s guy locked his hips in place between the cushions of her ass, held himself to the hilt, and let his cock pulse out spurt after spurt after spurt. Veins twisted like snakes beneath his skin.
With satisfied grunts, the men pulled out and stepped back. Azalea and Spice gasped, semen glugging out of their gaping rectums. Strangely, no new cocks arrived to staunch the drainage.
They twisted their heads; saw Abigail Feinmann talking to the massed men. Her arms were outspread, as if she was holding them back…but why?
Azalea relaxed. She knew she had this all but won. She checked the scoreboard again…
57:55 IGGY AZALEA – 10 – ICE SPICE 7
…and smiled.
* * *
A door swung open at the back of the gym. A nasal whine hit their ears like sandpaper, and both women flicked their heads around.
“Hey folks, how’s it hangin’?”
An extremely fat, extremely nerdy-looking, extremely white boy was waddling into view. He made a straight line for the benches, shuffling through the crowd of waiting black men.
“Scuse me…pardon…coming through…word up, mah nigga…um, just to be clear, I said that with an ‘A’, not an ‘E-R’.”
The white dweeb pulled up in front of the two bent-over women, clapping in giddy excitement. He seemed to be about eighteen, and looked like Jonah Hill minus the fame and charisma. His glasses were coke-bottle thick. His shirt had Deadpool over the words I SPEAK FLUENT SARCASM.
Abigail clapped a shoulder around the young man’s shoulders. “Everyone, this is my son Dennis. Because he doesn’t have a girlfriend—”
“Aw, Mom…”
“—he asked if he could lose his virginity at this event. I said yes.”
Dennis leered at the women, exhaling an odious cloud of Cheetos breath from above three extra chins. He ogled the two asses splayed on the bench. They might have been plopped there just for him. “Oh man!” he squealed excitedly. “But who should I pick…?”
Spice and Azalea shared a look of absolute horror. The same thought was pounding like a drumbeat behind their eyes.
Choose the other woman. PLEASE choose the other woman.
Dennis scratched his pimply head as his Mom began undressing him with discomforting familiarity. “Will I look racist if I bang Iggy first?”
Azalea sighed miserably as his XXL-sized boxers hit the floor, and he clumped up to her waiting ass. Alright, let’s get this over with.
Naked, Dennis was pudgy, pale, and heavy. He looked like a man sculpted from vanilla cookie dough. A modest erection jutted from his pubis—it looked to be half the length of the huge black fuck-slabs pulsing further back, waiting their turn. It was difficult to determine his exact size: his belly hung over his cock like a wad of melted cheese.
Spice howled with laughter, wriggling her butt. “Ha! You two enjoy each other. Next man, where you at?”
The next stunt performer swaggered up behind her, slapped his cock against her spread-open hole with a percussive wet SMACK. He crammed himself deep inside her, and they began fucking. Hips slapshotted forward with absolutely brutal speed.
“Dass it!” Spice’s snarled uncoiled from the back of her throat as she was pounded by his sledgehammer strokes. Her asscheeks whiplashed back and forth, flailing before his fast-pounding hips. “How’s it hangin’, Aus-failea? I gotta feeling I’m winning this after all.”
Dennis Feinmann poked and prodded Azalea’s ass with a curious finger. He seemed to be very confused by it. When he gingerly clambered on top of Azalea, his bulk crushed the air from her lungs. The bench didn’t just creak, it almost threatened to collapse.
“Man, this is so cool!” The awkward teenager babbled behind her ear, jabbing his tiny dick against a huge slab of ass. “I love that song you did, by the way. ‘Gucci Gucci’ is, like, my jam!”
“That’s Kreayshawn’s track,” Azalea wanted to cry as he wheezed into her shoulder.
Hell, she thought, hearing Spice’s man have an orgasm beside her. I am in hell.
Huffing and snorting, Abby’s son lay atop her like a walrus, gently rocking his hips. His tiny cock slid back and forth, nowhere close to any orifice on her body. Finally, he pulled open her sweat-slick cheeks and stared in confusion.
“Sorry,” he said. “So your butthole’s like, the top one, isn’t it?”
“Ha!” Spice unclenched her hips. The man pulled out his cock with a loud sucking sound. The next man took his place. “Take the L, you bitch!”
“I hate you!” Azalea roared and spat, unsure of who she was speaking to. She turned to face Dennis. “Look, kid? Can you just jerk off on my butt or something? I’ve got a contest to win and we really don’t have time for remedial sex-ed right now!”
“I’ll figure it out! Just give me a chance!” The dweebish kid sounded so pathetic and heartbroken that she sighed, reached around, and tried to help him. He thrust his cock into her anal fissure, without much success. It kept catching on the slopes of her huge butt and skidding in the wrong direction. Then he got inside her pucker, and started awkwardly humping in almost invisibly short thrusts. He simply couldn’t get more than an inch of his small cock inside her ass, no matter what he did.
It would have to be enough, she thought grimly.
Beside her, Spice howled in victory as another load was slammed up her back door.
Iggy’s ordeal seemed to last for an eternity. When Dennis started wheezing like a strangled cow and flopping his hips, she almost wept with joy.
“Huhh! Huhh! CUMMING!” He jerked and ejaculated in short, sharp bursts.
“Good!” She threw him off. “Hope it was as good for you as it was for me, Dennis.”
She craned her head up, and looked at the scoreboard.
40:55 IGGY AZALEA – 11 – ICE SPICE 13
“No way!” She was aghast, and turned to face her enemy. “You had six guys fuck you in that time? I call bullshit. NEXT COCK! HURRY!”
Time poured down the sink. Man after man stepped into position behind the mountainously-piled asses, cock after cock was driven deep inside, load after load of vile, thick yellow cum was blasted straight up their back doors. It was like a production line. A reproduction line. Huge sweaty asses flew and smashed and wobbled around brutal gut-gouging spikes of cock meat.
The men grinned, exhorting each other, slapped booty, making it bounce. Blunts were passed around. Soft drink cans were cracked, and then propped inside the hugely-deep clefts of asses for easier consumption.
The women just focused. Locked in, their eyes were razored down to slits. Their asses sloshed back and forth with cock-pounded rhythms. The obscene sounds of flesh piledriving flesh echoed like wet artillery fire across the gym.
BLOOOORRRPPP-SCHLAAAPPPP-GLUUURURRRK-SQLLLLCHHHHH-DROOOOOLLL-SPLAAAAAT-GOOOOOPPPP!
15:55
IGGY AZALEA – 16 – ICE SPICE 18
With time running out, Iggy had a desperate—desperate—idea. “Yo!” she hollered as a man buttfucked her. “I need a second guy up here!”
“But it ain’t my turn…” the next man said.
“Nevermind who’s turn it is. Just get up here.” She curved a painted nail, inviting him up to the front. He stepped up. “I want you both in my ass.”
She had two points to make up.
Beside her, Spice had finally hit her stride. She closed her eyes, milking cock after cock. She was at the home stretch. She just had to not blow her lead…
She heard nerdy mouthbreathing to her left. Dennis tapped her on the shoulder. She saw with dismay that his little pindick was hard again.
“Um…” he crossed his arms in front of himself politely. “I just asked Mom if I could bang you, she said yes, so…”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She wailed as Dennis Feinmann climbed onto her back. “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING TO ME!”
Dennis Feinmann’s belly flooded over her in a tidal wave of fat. He began his awkward humps, trying to find her asshole. He kept sliding off her body, which was greasy with sweat. His little dick jabbed in all the wrong spots.
“Woah,” he said. “You’re so…big.”
“Get off me!” Spice roared. “I need someone who actually knows what they’re doing!”
“Come on, don’t be that way…” Dennis found her hole, and then slid straight out of it. Hard to blame him too much, Spice thought as she fumed under his bulk. Her hole was slack and fucked open by countless enormous cocks. Even a normal-sized penis would have struggled to find purchase.
Meanwhile, Azalea was attempting something she had never, ever done.
She stepped down from the weight bench, her knees shaking as she squatted on one of the two men, who she’d told to lie on the ground. His cock curved upward like a banana, jutting at the ceiling. She sat on his hips with a squish, looped his cock around, and began feeding it into her ass like a pipe-cleaner.
“You!” she shouted at the second man as she swung her hips to cover him. “Get on top! Fuck my ass at the same time he does!”
The black man looked sheepish as he stepped forward, and kneeled down. His dick snaked through the air, hunting blindly for prey. “But then our cocks will be touching. Sounds kind of gay…”
She rolled her eyes so hard they almost hairline-fractured her skull.
“Then it’s time to become all the colors of the rainbow, Liberace! GET IN!”
He shrugged, and mounted his hips upon the raised pillows of her ass. He gingerly tried to avoid skin contact with the man pinned underneath Azalea, which wasn’t easy.
The second man skated his cock inward her anal ring, which already had an erection pulsating inside it. He rode it forward, letting it sink into the lubed hole with a slopping tunneling noise. Her asshole initially resisted the pull of the double-cocks and then relented, allowing both shafts to squeak inside at once.
SHPLOTT!
Azalea’s eyes flew open, huge and white. Not one but two ginormous black cocks were chewing against each other inside her, grinding a messy pathway into her rectum. She couldn’t believe it! Her ass felt like it was the width of the Large Hadron Collider. Cool air registered on her mucous-slick membrane walls.
“UGHHH!” she breathed atop the first man’s chest, her hands digging handfuls of his pectoral muscles.
SQUUUUEEEEELLLLLCHHHHH! SQLLLLLLCHHHHH-PLOP! SQUUUUISSSSHHHHH!
The messy, blocked-pipe sounds of double-penetration filled the air. Two cocks sawing together in the same hole.
“UHH! Fuck me!”
Azalea’s voice throbbed and rose and crested in her throat, moans transmuted by sexual alchemy to screams. Her asshole was spasming around the blunt-force invaders ripping it wide open. Her cunt slithered noisily between the grind and crush of their hips, clit throbbing and thighs scissoring, feeling yet another orgasm build and detonate like thunder.
“Gonna cuuum!” she couldn’t even slightly stop the waves of pleasure. She bucked and humped the man’s waist, her pussy foaming wildly.
With a moist, sucking sound, the cock slid deeper inside her quivering ass. The second cock rubbed against it, her ass filled with nine inches times two. Both men sunk their burgeoning erections through swirling lube-flooded voids, pulverising apart swathes of dark tanned assmeat, letting their crotches root down to the bottom.
They gritted their teeth, trying not to make eye contact as they involuntarily ground their dicks together inside Iggy Azalea’s body. Trapped between them, white meat in some deliciously dark sandwich, Azalea’s asshole was stretched so wide it looked comical. Absurd. Rivulets of thick precum and lube dribbled down the throbbing bases of the penises as her sweltering ass simply devoured them both, its lips folding over both dicks like a mouth.
She felt one cock orgasm—impossible to tell if it was the top or bottom man—and its cum-shooting spasms triggered the other one.
Azalea intook sharp breath as twin pricks filled her like a flesh glove, blowing out semen. She felt their glans jerking and vibrating inside the sweltering depths of her guts, hosing out overlapping cum-rope.
She blinked, and squeeze with her rectal passage muscles.
A pair of squelching cocks emerged from the cum-bubbling, farting sleeve of her gaped rectum. They sprung out simultaneously with a sickening slurp, their rubbery surfaces caked with strings of cum, more of which pulsed out of their prickheads.
Azalea felt her ass close like a trap snapping shut as they both pulled out of her butthole. SHPLUCKKKIT! She fell sideways, and just lay there, panting. She’d done everything a human woman could do.
Meanwhile, Spice’s bench creaked as the fat teenager awkwardly fucked her from above. Dennis giggled nervously in her ear.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Spice’s lower lip curled. She tried to calculate how doomed she was, and decided she wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
If he cums, I’ll still be one point ahead. That bitch can’t possibly fuck another man in that time.
Dennis’s dick pressed against her ass, slipping across its surface. He lunged into its pillowy softness as hard as he could, springing back and forth, before howling and ejaculating his second load.
…into her vagina. The wrong hole.
“That doesn’t count!” Abby yelled. “It has to be an anal ejaculation!”
“Oh my God…YOU HAD ONE JOB!” Ice Spice screamed. The world before her eyes drowned in red. She flung Dennis off her, hoping she hurt him. He landed on his back with a loud oof, his tiny cock deflating on his belly with a dribble. “YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT!”
Spice kicked the ground, and was about to call for one more man, when…
“Time!” Abby stopped the clock.
00:00 IGGY AZALEA – 18 – ICE SPICE 18
“We have a tie!” Abby said. “I guess that makes them both winners. Tom! Film their reactions!”
The camera opera feverishly worked the controls…but there were no reactions to film. Or at least, not good reactions.
The camera swung viciously, documenting what looked like a war scene: a queasy sea of sweat and filth and human debris. Two exhausted, sweaty women looked up at the lens, makeup bleeding down them in ragged claws, glaring venomously at the blinking red RECORD light shining across their faces.
Neither Azalea or Spice looked like a winner. They glowered, teeth clenched in shame and embarrassment. Nobody is photogenic five minutes into a gangbang, let alone at the very end of one.
The camera dipped to the side, capturing their huge asses. Up close, they were bruised and sweaty and overlaid with welts from thousands of impacts. Between each set of asscheeks was a gaping, slack void. A broken-in hole.
And then the gurgles started.
Throughout the two hour ordeal, an enormous amount of male genetic sludge had been forced up around the curves of their rectums, trapped in place mostly because the women had been lying flat.
But now that they were standing, and it was all sliding out at once.
PBTHTHBBBBBT!
Spice felt it first. She gripped her stomach, hearing her insides rumble with impending apocalypse. Her asshole began dilating suddenly, fluttering as it prepared to evacuate.
She moaned. “Oh, there ain’t no fuckin’ w—”
A sudden clench of her guts forced out a loud, sputtering shart, spraying cum in a long, vile squirt from her ass. It flew in a wide fan of spunk, painting a white stripe across the already stained gym mats.
A gurgling sound rumbled in Azalea’s lower gut, then she had to let go too.
PBTHTHTHTHBBBBBBBBBBT!
The squelches and spurts and spluttering noises were loud and putrid, as cum bubbled and farted out of them in twin waterfalls. Both women moaned in release, squatting over buckets, their rectums dilating. They grunted, shitting out thick braids of white cum that spewed out into the buckets, sending backsplash over the mats. The thick chunky semen made a loud splattering sound as their assholes squeezed it out in pearlescent jets.
Abby applauded the horrific sight—but applauded alone.
There were no winners here today. Just two naked women, squatted over buckets, cum-sharting out several dozen loads of sperm, their faces red with embarrassment.
“Is now a good time to discuss the prize money?” Abby asked pleasantly over the sound of explosive semen farts. “According to the paperwork you both signed, it returns to the Hip Hop Newz account in the event that there is no winner. Sorry!”
“I thought we were both winners,” grumbled Azalea, as more jizz bubbled out of her ass.
“No, sweetie. Not that kind of winner.”
* * *
Spice and Azalea squashed their beef after that.
After two hours and several showers, they sat side by side on the sidewalk of Moseley Street— sharing a blunt, and watching the sunset turn the sky red.
“Was any of it real?” Spice asked.
Azalea adjusted her posture, grimacing in pain. “Sure felt real.”
“Yeah, but was the whole contest a setup?”
“Educate me.”
“I mean, what are the odds that you’re winning…so Abby’s idiot son climbs onto you to mess up your lead. Then I’m winning, and he does the same thing to me. Do you think his Mom put him up to it?”
The thesis was plausible, aside from the idea that Dennis would ever be entrusted with such a devious, clever plot. Azalea inhaled and held smoke in her lungs until her vision collapsed and distorted in a corroded dreamscape of color. “Abby would deny it if you ask her, but…ugh, whatever. Who even cares in the end.”
“I can’t lie,” Spice said. “I was kind of playing up the feud on my end.”
“Really?” “You said some things that annoyed me. But I also knew that every time I shit-talked you, my album sales bumped.”
“Same for me, I suppose,” Azalea said. “I mean, that’s the game, I guess. Always be closing, huh?”
Spice winced, rubbing her asshole through her jeans.
“Not my butt. That shit ain’t closing nevuh. Look, Iggy, I’m not saying I wasn’t mad at you. Just don’t think it was bigger than it was. It was twenty percent real, eighty percent hype.”
And with that, Azalea shrugged. The blunt was now a column of ash between her fingers.
“Eighty percent fake, twenty percent real. You just described this crapsack planet and everything in it.”
“So you admit your ass is fake”
“Bitch.”
* * *
In 1918, World War I came to an end.
But it wasn’t called World War I, of course. It was The Great War that had ended.
Many a demobilized soldier comforted himself with that thought, surely. They’d gone was hell. But it was their hell, a singular experience that would never, ever be repeated.
A generation later, they watched their sons march away to Midway and Stalingrad and Kursk, and realized the scam. War never ends.
The anal sex contest briefly made Spice and Azalea the two most talked about celebs in the world, but their record sales soon slackened off. Then the outrageous stunt became a cross around their shoulders.
Ice Spice in particular had to struggle to get stations and podcasts to talk about her music. They always diverted the conversation back to her anal sex gangbang. So…that contest, huh. It’s all over xHamster. When are you doing it again? You ARE doing it again, right? This is what you’re famous for now.
A wave of female rappers tried to outdo them. Minaj. Doja. Cardi. Megan. Even Lizzo. They began instigating increasingly loud—and fake—catfights with each other, settling them with bizarre and repulsive publicity stunts. Trying to recreate the lightning in a bottle of the SpIggy feud. Neither Ice Spice nor Iggy Azalea had won. They’d both lost. They’d kicked off an arms race that would doom their scene.
The only true victors of war are those who stay out of the fighting, working a hustle on the sidelines. Guys who make the bullets and the bombs. Guys who cash checks to rebuild ruined countries in the aftermath.
Guys like Dennis Feinmann—who traded his Marvel shirt for one saying I FOUGHT AT THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE.
“I got to bang Iggy Azalea AND Ice Spice!” he bragged to anyone who asked (and many who didn’t). “And I was the man who lasted the longest!”
THE END
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