Hanged at the Last Hurdle

Oksana had put out the customary Insta celebrating her win, a photo of her clearing the final hurdle, and as usual she had received a reply from her nemesis. 

Brock Spunkwell was the undisputed champion of men's hurdling, known for three things: his record-breaking wins, his colossal, bouncing crotch bulge, and his incessant, unapologetic misogyny. He was constantly belittling female athletes and taunting them with claims they could never match him, and his most frequent target, being the reigning women's Olympic hurdling champion, was Oksana.

"Nice ass!" was the extent of his congratulations. "Literally the only reason women's 'sport' exists - so men can watch you humiliate yourselves in sexy little briefs. You haven’t got what it takes to compete."

As always, the photo was him boastfully cupping his oversized bulge, his workout shorts straining to contain his huge balls which pushed his cock against the fabric making clearly discernible its thick, lengthy shaft and bulbous head. The testosterone practically oozed from the screen.

Oksana groaned and tossed the phone down to return to admiring her own reflection. 

Brock always reduced women to what they didn’t have, as if the absence of something hanging between their legs made them less capable. She shook her head. Still in her stretch, her hand and eyes returned once more to focus on the space between her own legs, nothing obscene, nothing dangling, just neat, tidy, and perfectly suited for what she did best.

"Dangling..." she said, suddenly straightening as an idea came to her. She picked up her phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

"Is that so?" she typed, smirking. "Because I think if you raced me wearing the same sexy little briefs, you wouldn't stand a chance... So how about it?"

"That'll do it..." she purred at her own genius. There's no way Brock’s pride would allow him to turn down her challenge.