Author's Note: This was a stupid idea that ended up being a way too long story. I couldn't effectively figure out how to even remotely suggest the events could happen in real life, thus... it's a dream. While noted trans person Tiffany is doing the dreaming, rest assured she's having a rather hetero time in this particular case.

 “Tiffany’s Dreams – Beat the Mitt” -by Furcreamer

I.

Tiffany drifted off with the soggy remains of a large overstuffed black fox muff stuck to her thigh with the results of a particularly forceful orgasm. The gluey white remains of her violent ejaculation coated almost half the entire 14-inch long hand warmer, which, though intended for fashionable winter use, had just been pressed into service to take care of her raging 15-inch fuckspear. Her big round tits heaved up and down regularly as she drifted off to a peaceful nap. The remains of the black fox fur muff steamed against her sculpted torso; her cock semi-flaccid, resting in the puddle of goo plastered to the muff and her right thigh.

On the television in front of her, a vintage 80’s episode of a game show flickered on, with Vanna in a large full-length golden isle fox coat.

As the TV receded from conscious thought, this is what she dreamed…

* * *

Loud music blared as the yellow glow of graphics flashed over the screen. The announcer’s booming voice called out as the title appeared. “Now it’s time for another edition of the world most popular game show… BEAT THE MITT!”

The intro packaged played, clips rolling in rapid succession via a cheesy “film reel” effect that ran a few degrees askew from top to bottom as the announcer continued. Highly overproduced and over synthesized music blared through over the roar of applause from the studio audience; everything a classic game show required.

The announcer’s voice continued: “If you can resist the mitt, you can win a fabulous prize! Just last 20 seconds and it could all be yours, if you-”

The applause of the studio audience emerged from behind the opening video package as that faded and the camera swooped in on the studio from above, audience voices in unison joining the announcer:

“-BEAT”

“THE”

“MITT”

The audience chanted in unison, as prompted by the screens over the stage, then broke out into sustained applause as the announcer completed the show’s into.

“Now, the host of Beat the Mitt, Brandy Balldrainer!”

On stage, a large mink curtain swept open as applause peaked and Brandy walked out. She sashayed with a practiced wiggle that required a natural ability atop six-inch, platform-heeled, thighboots. On today’s episode, Brandy wore a short fuchsia dyed fox bolero jacket, which made up for its lack of length with giant sleeves ending in barrel muff sized cuffs and a collar that rose almost a foot high around the back of her head. Her teased out high blonde bouffant rose higher still, though.

Open, the fox bolero jacket framed Brandy’s trademark jugs, which wobbled back and forth with the motion of her hips. The two soccer ball sized tits merged from the supreme effort of a tightly wrapped tube top that terminated without completely covering the upper rims of her areola. Her erect nipples budded through the stretched fabric less than a half inch from the top edge.

Brandy’s leather ultra-mini-skirt similarly failed to completely eclipse the lower curvature of her bubble butt. The two round slivers of exposed ass were encased like the rest of her legs in a pair of sheer nylons.

Brandy, bubbly like the ass behind her, gushed as she greeted the audience. “Welcome! Welcome to another episode of Beat the Mitt!” She made her way back and forth across the stage, waving and smiling through her pouty red lips and painted porcelain complexion. “Alright, let’s meet the contestants!”

Brandy walked over to the three stands, comprised of flashing lights in the shape of an erect penis. Each of the microphones rose from a short fountain of cum rendered in neon lighting.

The announcer filled in the studio audience and the millions watching around the world as the camera flashed to each contestant in turn.

“This is Drake, he’s a teacher from Rancho Cucamonga. Drake’s interests include gardening, origami, and jerking his nine-inch cock with his wife’s fur coats!”

“Marvin is a retired mechanic from Spokane. He still volunteers at the VA in his spare time, likes reading, and blasting fur coats with his 10 and half inch cock!”

“Finally there’s Richard, an ‘activist’ from LA. Richard says he’s got a secret weapon to win the game, and we hope he’s talking about his foot long cock!”

Brandy strut sexily over to the contestants as the intros finished, hitting her mark as always when the camera zoomed into her huge rack, then up to her painted features. She whipped her note cards from the pocket of the fuchsia dyed fox jacket and arranged them as she stood beside Drake. “So, Drake, how’s the gardening out in Rancho Cucamonga? Plow a lot of fields with that nine incher?”

Drake nodded, “You bet, Brandy, right through the wife’s fur closet.”

Brandy slapped his shoulder, “Drakie, I hope you managed to keep it in your pants for the past few months since we all know the smart strategy is going for second prize in this game!”

“Sure thing, Brandy!” Drake replied eagerly, eyes locked on the huge tits that bounced just inches from his face.

“Well, Drake, I’m sure you know what you’re up against, but let me explain our game for the folks at home if they’re just tuning in… or somehow haven’t yet seen the most popular game show in television history!”

A round of applause followed as a raised platform rolled out onto the stage opposite them. In the center of the platform was a large chair, upholstered in a fluffy brown sable. Beside the chair stood a tall woman, wearing a full-length blue fox fur coat. Beautiful and blonde like Brandy herself, the woman’s coat was similarly enormous, with a generous flowing train that rolled down the platform steps behind her, two huge round cuffs, and a generously full collar that surrounded her chin and cheeks with silky soft fur.

Brandy addressed the camera, explaining the game almost on autopilot as she had done this so many time before. “Here on Beat the Mitt, the rules are simple. Constants just drop their pants, have a seat over there, and… this is the tricky part folks… keep their load all safe and sound for 20 whole seconds while being jerked off with… THE MITT!” Brandy swung her arm theatrically outwards towards the platform, pointing with the edge of her note cards as she did every night.

The blonde on the platform raised her right hand, which she had previously hidden behind her back. The end of the big blue fox cuff met a shining chinchilla mitt which sheathed her right hand completely. Spotlights focused on cue, lighting up the mitt in a harsh glare as the audience again roared its approval.

“Seems simple, right folks? Well, this is show 8,053, and it’s not happened once! Not even for…”

The announcer picked up Brandy’s beat, “… 500 million dollars!”

The audience went wild.

Brandy continued after the applause died down a bit. “Yes, will history be made tonight? Who knows?” she said, while playfully shaking her head in the negative to the camera. “Now, now, as you know, you have to beat the mitt, survive the full 20 seconds, to win the big money, it’s not the best time… But we do have a fabulous second prize that’s guaranteed to be awarded tonight to the most deserving contestant!”

Again the announcer’s voice appeared on cue, “A 1 million dollar gift certificate to the Beat the Mitt fur vault!”

The audience cheered once more.

“That’s right, not a bad haul for 'second place’, and how do we make sure that a million dollars worth of fur is in the best of… dicks? Well, that’s because second place goes the contestant who cums the biggest load!”

Brandy paused for the applause.

“That’s right, whoever has the biggest nut will take home that gift certificate, where they can use that ejaculatory prowess on a wide selection of the biggest, most extravagant furs in the world, direct from the Beat the Mitt vault!”

Brandy again waited for the studio audience’s applause to subside. Making a show of looking at her note cards while the cheers died down.

“Now, finally, tell us who tonight’s guest stroker is!”

“Star of film and television, known the world around as a lady that really rocks the fox, Morgan Goodchild!”

A final audience pop while Brandy nodded to Morgan, who smiled back with a pearlescent glow from the studio lighting, holding her chinchilla mitt up high once more, her huge blue fox coat sparkling like her smile. The guest star stroker nights always goosed the ratings a bit, though star candidates who wanted to boost their profile by appearing on the show had to endure a rigorous testing process to make sure they could work cock to the show’s rigorous standards. Brandy watched Morgan milk ten cocks in a row during her tryout to appear on the show, she was a natural at it. The try-out mink she wore was drenched from cuff to collar by the time she was finished.

Brandy spun back to Drake, “Okay, you seem a little eager Drakie, probably not the best frame of mind to be in if you’re going for the big prize tonight!”

“Fuck that, I’m gonna soak that thing like you’ve never seen Brandy! I want that gift certificate!” Drake enthused.

“Okay, Drakie, I’ve seen some gushers in my day, but let’s see if you can…”

The audience joined in on cue.

“…BEAT”

“THE”

“MITT!”

II.

Drake ran over to the platform as Brandy followed with more restrained steps. Drake had unbuttoned his pants halfway by the time he arrived, ascending the stairs to the raised chair and taking his seat on the sable cushioned chair beside Morgan Goodchild, her enormous blue fox coat, and, of course, the chinchilla mitt on her right hand.

Drake leaned back in the comfortable chair, the nine-inch cock waving between his legs from his hurried movements. Brandy nodded, the official Beat the Mitt measuring girls were never wrong, though they’d had a few prospective contestants never make it on air after their assumptions about the caliber of their artillery were proven to be rather wishful thinking.

Brandy climbed the steps to the top of the platform and took her place beside Morgan. “So Morgan, ready to turn this crank?”

“Sure am, Brandy, he’s not going to last five seconds,” she replied, holding up the chinchilla mitt again.

“Okay, then let’s find out…” she turned, held out her arm, and called out, “Let’s have 20 seconds on the clock!”

A large digital display hung on the back of the set, accurate to microseconds, flared to life with “20:00:00” blazing in glowing yellow.

“Ready Drake?”

“R-ready!” he stammered. Between his hairy thighs, Drake’s cock drooled clear fluids that ran down his shaft and over his nuts, staining the sable cushions with droplets of precum.

“Ready Morgan?”

“Ready,” the star replied with a self-satisfied smile.

“BEAT THE MITT!”

At Brandy’s call, Morgan leaned down and grasped Drake’s cock with the chinchilla mitt, curling around the shaft at the base. From above, this nestled Drake’s dick vertically in the mitt, from the trunk to the very tip, where the leaking crown pressed to the mitt’s edge where it mixed with the big round blue fox cuff of Morgan’s enormous blue fox coat.

Behind them, the clock began to count down, as did the audience, who, in unison, shouted, “ONE!”

Morgan jerked upwards and Drake’s head craned back in the big comfortable sable covered chair, hands clenching the arms in a vice grip.

“TWO”

Morgan jerked the ultra soft chinchilla mitt down Drake’s cock slightly before second 2. There was no requirement the strokes be in time with the count, it was purely up to the discretion of the stroker. Brandy, rather experienced at it herself, knew Morgan’s beats were near perfection.

So, it seemed, did Drake, who gasped as the audience shouted “THREE”

The sensors in the studio stopped the clock in near perfect unison with the first white jet of spunk that erupted from the tip of the nine-inch dick and squirted furiously into the chinchilla fur mitt. Morgan smiled triumphantly, popping Drake on the down-stroke just as his flared head slid through the palm of the silky smooth mitt.

The strategically placed studio cameras caught the ensuing cum-storm from all angles, throwing them up on a big bank of screens at the back of the stage beside the various oversized digital counters. The “shot clock” started up, incrementing once each time Drake’s dick squeezed out a huge string of buttery thick, white dickslime.

“ONE – TWO – THREE -”

It was difficult to separate the first few spurts, they arrived one after another with virtually no pause between them. Those first few jets sprayed thick white load into the fur in what was virtually one uninterrupted spurt.

“FOUR – FIVE -”

Drake’s next shots were more powerful, the first only build-up to the heavy spray of nut that suddenly splashed up the wet, sloppy palm, over the wrist of the mitt, and across the broad leading edge of the blue fox cuff above.

“SIX – SEVEN -”

The major spurts past, the next ones only added to the huge jelly-like puddle that had formed in the palm of the chinchilla mitt. Drake gasped and moaned continuously throughout the “ordeal”, his hips having thrust upwards against Morgan’s hand trying to fuck the mitt harder during the body-shaking orgasm.

“EIGHT – NINE!”

Morgan skillfully tilted Drake’s cock forward to keep the last weaker spurts from just rolling down his shaft. This assured the rest would merge completely into soggy wad at the middle of the chinchilla fur mitt.

Spent, Drake panted like an exhausted dog, sweat beading his brow.

The crowd roared in approval. Brandy’s practiced eye reasoned that Drake may have a good shot at 2nd prize, but it was a little early to make that bet. Morgan held the splattered mitt aloft triumphantly, the screens showing various close-ups of the steaming clusters of cocksnot that plastered the palm and caked the cuff of the mitt, as well as the stark white streaks on the edge of the tall blonde superstar’s blue fox coat cuff.

The “basket” lowered from the top of the stage and Morgan gingerly dropped it in. Behind them, the “shot clock” snapped off and was replaced by a single large figure: 11.54OZ.

The crowd cheered. Brandy nodded, an impressive load, to be sure. She turned to the camera again. “Well folks, another contender doesn’t go the distance, but ole Drake there put an impressive load on the board, can our other contestants spunk even bigger? Find out when we come back!”

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III.

“And we’re back!” Brandy announced. “Marvin is all ready to go, but that should be obvious!” she said, sweeping her hand out as the camera quickly panned over to the retired mechanic from Spokane and the ten-inch pole of flesh that stood completely erect between his legs. “Let’s put 20 seconds on the clock, please.”

Morgan Goodchild’s right hand sported a fresh chinchilla mitt, though the spunk stains from Drake’s fountain shots still clung to the cuff of her huge blue fox coat.

“Alrighty Marv, are you ready to…”

“BEAT”

“THE”

“MITT!”

The clock started for contestant number 2. The helmet of Marvin’s ten-and-a-half inch battering ram vanished into the cupped surface of Morgan Goodchild’s fresh chinchilla mitt. His entire body stiffened at contact, fingers sinking into the sable covered armrests. Marvin let out a deep breath.

“ONE!”

Morgan started a steady stroke, a different pattern than the one she used on Drake. This one was slightly faster, with a twisting motion near the base to keep things interesting.

“TWO!”

Marvin’s big schlong throbbed. The red veins that traced patterns over the shaft were visible but not highly raised, providing little additional friction to the yielding fur. Brandy could tell his sac was swollen just at a glance. Maybe Drake wasn’t a shoo-in.

“THREE!”

Morgan’s pattern continued, Brandy could tell she squeezed harder and harder on the downstroke each time, pressing the softest fur in existence to the most sensitive part of the male anatomy with exquisite precision. Though well-endowed, the big fur mitt was able to accommodate the man’s impressive girth.

“FOUR!”

The audiences shouts were increasing with each passing second. Marvin gasped, sweat pouring down his temples in clear lines while he very transparently tried to control his breathing. His cheeks puffed with each gulp of air.

“FIVE!”

Hollywood star Morgan Goodchild’s brow knit only momentarily in confusion before her stage presence took over and an impressed smile returned. Five seconds was longer than anyone she’d pumped had ever lasted, from her original try-outs to this moment.

“SIX!”

Brandy’s lower voice cut in over the crowd’s count, “Don’t forget folks, the DVD of Morgan’s try-out stroking is available at the Beat the Mitt website!”

“SEVEN!”

Marvin’s head shook back and forth, fingers digging into the armrest as his breath expelled in deep huffs. Morgan’s expression changed to one of determination. Marvin’s success at staving off his orgasm had just become personal.

“EIGHT”

Morgan clenched the big ten-and-a-half-incher in a vice grip and jerked down, then released, and returned again, this time slowly, repeating the motion.

“NINE!”

The crowd was in a frenzy, as passing nine seconds was something rather rare in Beat the Mitt history. The “Ten Second Club” was something many aspired to but few achieved. Morgan knew this as well, and she twisted the palm of the chinchilla mitt directly on top of Marvin’s flared glans, then drew it down the base.

“TEN”

“FUUUUUCCCK!” Marvin screamed.

The countdown froze and the shot clock began. The crowd’s frenzied cheering washed over the platform, missing the first few spurts in the hysteria of having been part of a rare moment in the show’s history. As they shouted, Marvin’s big cock sprayed a milky fluid in jets that splattered from the lower cuff of the mitt, up the palm, and to the rounded top edge.

Marvin’s load wasn’t as thick, but the shots sprayed like a shower nozzle, spreading little dots and bubbles of cum out from the central flow. The front of the mitt took the blast perfectly, Morgan handling the wild, powerful sprays of sperm like a champ, making sure as much as possible soaked the big soft chinchilla fur mitt, and what did not ended up squarely overshooting to on her cuff.

Marvin rocked back and forth in the chair, almost convulsing with the force of his spurts. The flurry of semen kept up as the shot clock dinged past seven. The crowd’s cheers hadn’t let up, the sound of some trying to keep up was mixed with the general passionate cries of adulation. Many were too excited over the 10 second time to count along with the shot clock.

Streams of fluid shot past nine and then finally ten before his last half spurt looped out. Morgan caught it just on the edge of her wrist between the mitt and her blue fox cuff. Marvin just sagged in the chair, nearly passed out from the force of his orgasm.

Brandy smirked. “Wow, folks, made the 10 Second Club… but nobody… nobody beats the mitt!”

Morgan again held up the second mitt, this one appeared soaked more evenly, with a broad, rich splatter pattern that darkened the entire inner surface of the oversized mitt from top to bottom, coupled with brighter white lines visible only in the middle. Spots and dots of the wider splatter pattern occupied the edges, as they did the blue fox cuff below it.

The basket arrived from above the stage and Morgan slid the mitt off her hand and into it.

“Show us what’s on the board!” Brandy called out, throwing her hand out to the ounce indicator, which suddenly flashed: 10.91OZ.

“Oh, Marv, so close! You had the spurts but were a little thin, but from the looks of that mitt, you don’t regret trying!” Brandy turned from Marvin and addressed the camera directly, “Our final contestant is up after these messages… What’s his secret weapon? Find out when we cum back!”

* * *

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IV.

“Welcome back!”

Richard sat atop the sable chair at the top of the platform, a particularly smug look on his face while Brandy stood beside him, her microphone hovering over her big jugs. The long hairs of the fuchsia dyed fox bolero jacket fluttered visibly from the rush of the studio’s air conditioning, keeping the set nice and cool for the ladies.

“Well, Dick… time to reveal your 'secret weapon’ so everyone at home can find out how you plan to resist the advances of the lovely and talented Miss Goodchild and her fresh, new chinchilla mitt.” Morgan held up the fresh mitt to a few cheers. Someone in the audience shouted, “We love you Morgan!”

Brandy tilted the mic down towards Richard, who looked directly into the camera as he spoke. “I’ve been against the fur industry all my life, you fur whore! Fur is disgusting to me, and I guarantee your mitt doesn’t interest me in the least!”

The crowd booed. Brandy rolled her eyes to the camera, then she bent down next to Richard. “Now, Dick… I’m certainly not going to argue with you about the fur whore thing, that was pretty insightful of you…” she said with an amused smile on her lips. Brandy then tilted forward, moving those same lips closer to Richard’s cheek. “You may not have seen this show before, but you aren’t the first to roll in here with that kind of attitude.” Brandy extended her arm, the big round cuff of her soft fox bolero jacket brushing across Richard’s chest. Her big tits came to sit atop the armrest, the massive globes of perfectly sculpted flesh parked just inches above his torso and framed by the fluffy fox jacket on either side.

Richard shook his head, “Doesn’t matter, I’m going to win your dirty money and donate it all to the anti-fur mo- movement.” The hesitant stutter came as Brandy’s slow motions over his chest with her fox cuff edged slightly lower, and she shifted her position to bring the dark, deep depths of her amazing cleavage closer to Richard.

“Really… Dick? That would be so very disappointing…” Brandy purred, eyes flicking lower to where the committed animal right’s activist’s cock, flaccid to this point, began to grow. “Do you want to disappoint me… Dick?”

“Ye- yes- I’m afraid s- so.”

Brandy picked up Richard’s left hand and placed it on her right tit, just over the partially visible areola where her tube top cut a pink line across her giant bust. Richard gasped.

“Doesn’t this whore look so pretty in my soft… soft… fur coat, Dick?”

“Ye- I mean- no- No, of course n- not.”

Richard was fully erect now, his foot long cock towering between his thighs, which quivered along with the rest of his body at Brandy’s touch. Brandy never touched it, as that was against the rules of the game. The rest of him, though, was fair game for the huge round barrel muff sized cuffs of her fuchsia dyed fox bolero jacket.

The crowd remained completely silent as this transpired. Brandy pulled back slightly as the long hairs of fox nearly brushed the huge tower of flesh. Her expression communicated how she thought it rather unkind of the universe to bless a douchebag like this with such an impressive piece of fur fucking equipment.

“Dick… Dick… Dick… don’t you know? You’re never gonna-”

“BEAT”

“THE”

“MITT!”

The audience and Morgan Goodchild were both on cue. The chinchilla mitt descended directly down the underside of Richard’s foot long shaft as the countdown clock flashed in the background.

“ONE-”

“HOLY FUCK!”

The first syllable of the audience’s customary count and the additional ones uttered from Richard’s gasping throat coincided with a thick spurt of jism flashing from the uncut glans and streaming directly into the cuff of Morgan Goodchild’s blue fox coat.

Morgan, caught off guard and expecting another challenge, gamely adjusted, tilting the huge spurting dick back into the mitt where it continued to furiously blast hard white streaks of cum. The fat shaft throbbed as it delivered a second nasty, sticky wad of cum directly into the palm of the chinchilla fur mitt, then another, and another.

“FOUR”

The audience was also catching up as the shot clock flashed.

“FIVE”

Richard’s head craned back almost to a ninety-degree angle, folding his neck as far as he could, both from the pleasure and the humiliation carried out to millions upon millions of viewers of the world’s most popular game show.

“SIX”

Richard’s next burst went wild, a huge streamer of dickpaste that curved across the top of the mitt, around the huge round blue fox cuff of Morgan Goodchild’s blue fox, then climbed the sleeve, carving a big white line up the arm of the coat nearly to the collar.

“SEVEN”

Richard’s body contracted back then thrust forward, desperately wanting to slam the chinchilla muff harder and harder as his next jet wetly slapped another big, juicy white line up the sleeve of the tall blonde’s blue fox coat, this one wrapping around the huge collar near Morgan’s ear.

“EIGHT”

The following spurt finally showed some weakness, this one looping a wide creamy line across the edge of the chinchilla mitt, part of it oozing inside and gumming up Morgan’s wrist and palm.

“NINE”

Another blast to the mitt, which was a white, soggy mess by this point, the gray colors of the fur on the palm indistinguishable under a thick white shell of glutinous sexual effluent.

“TEN”

That thick shell only got thicker another mucilaginous wad landed atop the rest while Richard’s heaving body calmed itself.

“ELEVEN”

The shot clock froze as the final loop of ooze made its way into thoroughly destroyed chinchilla mitt and Richard collapsed back into the sable chair, gulping air in great deep breaths.

Morgan held up the mitt, and turned a bit show the additional stains on the arm of the bulky blue fox coat. They traversed from the muff-sized cuff right up to the collar, just inches from her world famous features. Brandy, who had remained in close proximity to the now-wayward AR activist rose to her full platform assisted height, making a show of clapping with the crowd.

The basket appeared for the final time, and Morgan dropped the latest mitt casualty into it.

“This is it, folks, can our lapsed AR friend beat Drake’s score? Bring the ounces, baby!” Brandy called out, throwing her arm towards the readout. It flashed: 13.04OZ.

“We have a winner!”

The crowd went wild with cheers. Richard appeared passed out in the chair, oblivious to it all. “I’m sure Richard will be pleased when he wakes up, especially when we remind him that the winning 1 million dollar gift certificate to the Beat the Mitt fur vault has no cash value!”

Brandy walked over to Morgan Goodchild and ran her finger under one of Richard’s long white spunk stains. “Then again, Dick might not be all that disappointed after all.”

Brandy took up a position very close to Morgan, their fox coats meshing together as she did the usual show closer while busty girls in white fur nurses uniforms arrived to cart Richard off behind them. “I’d like to thank our guest celebrity stroker, Morgan Goodchild and remind you to tune in tomorrow on guest stroker week when Janet Collins will be in the studio. Until then, remember to save up your semen for next episode of BEAT THE MITT!”

As the credits began to roll, Brandy wrapped her arm around Morgan, tilted her back, and kissed her long and deep while the crowd roared.

* * *

Tiffany blinked slowly as the dream receded, mind cataloging various sensations, the most urgent of which was the broad, soggy one around her lower torso. Rising up a little to get a view over the mountainous globes of her huge mammaries, she found the partially flaccid hose of her fifteen inch cock in a giant puddle of steaming white nutpaste that covered her stomach, thighs, and, for additional insult to injury, the already destroyed black fox barrel muff she’d ravaged before dozing off.

The massive puddle ended a few inches beyond her midsection in most directions, spreading out across the eighty-thousand dollar chinchilla bedspread upon which she’d dozed off.

Tiffany shrugged, lay back down against the still dry, ultra soft chinchilla pillow her back, and dozed off again, hoping for another, equally pleasant dream…