“It isn’t over until it’s over, fucker.” Chris bumped my shoulder as he passed me, almost dumping me in the pool at the Natatorium. I’d say his expression was a mix of disappointment, determination, and more than a bit of a sneer. I said nothing, and I didn’t respond to the aggression. I’m not sure I would have felt or reacted differently if I’d been just below the cut-off line and he’d been just above it.
It’s not that I didn’t think I deserved my place on the U.S. Olympic men’s diving team. I thought I was the best diver in the United States, and I’d had stats from Stanford that made that at least arguable. But the trials here in Indianapolis hadn’t been the greatest for me, whereas Chris Fair had outdone himself. By my accounting, we’d come out equal in the trials stats—both on the cusp of being selected or not. The judges must have weighed in past performances, as I think was right, and they picked me over Chris.
I didn’t take Chris’ warning lightly that it wasn’t over yet, though. He’d been named an alternate when we’d met one last time in Indianapolis for the Olympic squad to start jelling, to get our training schedule, and to do a few dives for the coaches to look at and critique. And he’d been here, breathing down my neck as the guy who would be going to Rio if something happened and I didn’t make it. That brought a whole new meaning to him nudging me toward the side of the pool when he’d brushed by me.
He could have pinned his hopes on any of the other team members not making it, but he seemed extra resentful that I was on the team and he wasn’t. If there was going to be a “convenient” accident that worked in Chris’ favor, I was pretty sure it was going to be mine.
Chris had been a collegiate competitor of mine for three years, and we both felt the competition, and neither one of us had any love to give the other. I thought Chris was devious, and I—and others—were careful around him in competition. None of the guys put it past him to give us that nudge in passing that would make us slip, fall, and break something. I was sure, though, that, if it was going to happen, it would be me.
He certainly was still competing today. While we were going through some dives, Coach Wood had left the pool. I wanted to ask him something and sought him out in the office and locker room area of the Natatorium. I found him, but I pulled back from entering the office where I saw him on his back on a desk and Chris straddling his pelvis and riding his cock. I was shocked, but not surprised, by either of them. I knew Chris would do whatever he had to to get what he wanted, and Warren Wood had given me broad hints before that he wanted to fuck me. We too had a long history of being at the same meets, and he had heard that I was gay—which wasn’t all that uncommon among male divers—and that, if I liked a guy, I’d let him fuck me.
Wood of course couldn’t opening declare as gay, but swimmers knew it well enough to try to use it to get on his team. He put together championship teams. That’s why he was the U.S. Olympic swim team coach for Rio.
I didn’t particularly like Coach Wood. He had a good body for his age, but he was an arrogant son of a bitch, and those guys who did let him fuck them said he was rough and only cared about his own pleasure. And I’d never thought of going with Chris. He obviously was a bottom, like me, and he was a little shit.
I’d returned to the pool, and it was then, after a while, that Chris had come out and declared that he was still fighting for position.
I looked for Chris as the team was gathering at the Miami airport three weeks later to fly down to Rio for the opening of the summer Olympics, but he wasn’t there. There was no reason why he should have been there; alternates didn’t travel with the team as long as the team was intact. But I wouldn’t have put it past Chris to somehow have worked his way into the trip—just to be there and handy when something “accidentally” happened to a team member. I breathed a sigh of relief when we got on board the charter plane taking us and the men’s gymnastics team to Brazil and settled in to meeting some of the really hot guys on the gymnastics team. I quickly zeroed in on Pedro Gonzalez, a dark-complexioned hunk with great musculature.
But I shouldn’t have breathed that sigh of relief and I should have been on my guard rather than making eyes with Pedro after the third time he’d passed by my seat on the way back to his and had brushed my arm with his hand. I was still sharing meaningful mating looks with Pedro when Coach Wood came back, sat down in the seat facing mine, and reached over to put both of his hands on the seat arms on either side of me, essentially trapping me in place.
“I’ve been looking for you, Jason,” he said. “I think you and I have some business.”
“Business, I asked?” Even then I assumed he was talking about some sort of discussion of my diving.
“You know it was a close call on putting you on the team.”
“Yeah, Coach, I didn’t have the greatest trials, but I think my competition history stands up well.”
“There isn’t much distance between you and the alternates. If something were to happen to you—or if you became a discipline problem—I wouldn’t have any trouble at all changing you out for an alternate.”
“What you are saying, Coach?” I asked.
“I think you know what I’m saying, Jason. You need to continually earn your place on this team. You need to stop playing at teasing and avoiding me and decide you need to be a team player—a player on my team. I’m going forward to the head now. I think you will decide you need to go to the head in a minute or two yourself.”
I didn’t have any trouble understanding what he meant. I sat on the toilet in the closet-like airplane head, while Coach Wood hovered over me, his hands palmed against the bulkhead behind me, and I gave him a blow job to the point that he was engorged. Hard, he pulled me off the toilet and turned me to the bulkhead, with my hands replacing his on the bulkhead. His hands were busy fingering my ass and squeezing and separating my butt cheeks.
“Nice,” he muttered. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
I heard the snap of a rubber being pulled on and adjusted and then he forced his way inside me with his hard cock, giving me little time to adjust to him and laughing at my objecting groans. Saddled on my ass, his hands went back to the bulkhead in front of me, covering and trapping mine, and he cruelly fucked my ass to an ejaculation. I was no virgin, but neither was I accustomed to being taken this roughly, impersonally, and without a great deal of preparation.
Before we left the head, he said, “Athletes double up in the Olympic village, but coaches get singles. Your roommate isn’t going to be seeing much of you at night, Jason. If you want to hold your place on the team, you’ll be spending most of the nights in my bed.”
When I didn’t answer, he banged my head on the bulkhead and said, “I didn’t hear you say yes.” He banged my head again. “Oh, did that hurt? Maybe I need to give Chris Fair a call?”
“No, Coach, you don’t need to call Chris.”
“So, you’re going to be my fuck toy in Rio? Say it. Thank me for the opportunity.”
“Yes, thank you, Coach.”
It wasn’t that I was traumatized or anything. I fucked around, liked to be fucked, and was fucked a lot. It was mostly that I wasn’t attracted to Coach and his reputation was just what I had found—rough and banging his lay’s head against the wall a lot. I planned on getting what cock I could in Rio. That was as much a draw for going to the Olympics for me as was medaling. I just hadn’t planned on it being Coach’s cock I was getting.
* * * *
One of the perks of being on an Olympic team—and not one I’d thought about beforehand—was the pampering the athletes got for their bodies. I suppose professional athletes were used to it, but it certainly wasn’t what collegiate diving teams usually got.
The masseur’s name was Diego Cielo. He was Brazilian. The U.S. Olympic team didn’t go so far as to pay to bring an American down to give massages to its divers—it hired locally. Diego was one magnificent hunk. I was going hard lying on my belly on his massage table with just a skimpy towel over my buttocks before he even touched me with those sensuous and sensual greased-up hands.
He started off with just tight athletic shorts on, his bronzed, muscular torso and bulging biceps, with ropy veins running down his arms being oh so sexy even without taking into account the colorful, swirling sleeve tattoo that came down to embrace and cup his left pectoral muscle. Sensing early, though, that I went hard for him and would take his cock if he wanted to give me a full-body massage, the athletic shorts didn’t stay on for very long.
Before we got to the main event, and while I was still on my belly and the towel was still covering my butt, even though his hands had already been under the towel and on my hard cock and his lubed fingers had already been inside me, rubbing my prostate and giving me my first ejaculation, an attendant had come in and put a cardboard box on a counter within my view.
“Ah, good, now the games can truly begin,” I heard Diego mutter in that great South American accent of his.
“What do you mean? What’s in the box?” I asked.
In answer, he went over and opened the box. He took out a handful of condom disks in wrappers and dropped them on the massage table at my eye level. Each of the wrappers had the Olympic rings embossed on it.
“Rubbers,” I said.
“Yes, as you say, rubbers,” he answered. “For some, the coinage of the Olympics. I’m told that more are used at the games while they are in session than the whole world uses in a month. I believe it. You aren’t uncomfortable with me saying it, are you, Mr. Malloy?”
“No, that doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I makes me . . .”
“Horny?” Diego filled in.
“Yes, horny,” I answered.
“Ah, I thought so. You got hard for me quickly. You take men’s cocks, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, I take men’s cocks,” I answered.
“Is that what you would like from me? Would you like me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Turn over, and turn your head toward me,” he said.
When I’d done so, I found that he’d lost the athletic shorts and was in full, up-curved erection. He was presenting his cock to me and I opened my mouth to it. As I sucked on his cock, he stroked mine with a hand. Tentatively, I moved my right hand to his chest, running my fingers up his rib cage, stopping to trace the definition of each one, feeling him shudder at my touch. I ran the fingers over the swirls of color on his left breast, worshipping the perfection of him, and he flexed for me with a low groan, his pectoral muscle bulging out. His nipple puffed up at my touch. He reacted with a slight jerk when I pinched the nipple. I increased the pressure of the inside of my cheeks on his throbbing cock and he began to move it in a slow fucking motion. He had such slim hips and waist, rising to a bulging chest. He was a beautiful young man—years older than I was, but beautiful, hard bodied, berry brown, smooth skinned—even his groin and balls had been shaved. There was a tattoo of a red rose above and to the right of the base of his cock.
I arched my back and moved my left hand to cover his hand on my cock, urging him to squeeze harder, but he pulled the hand out from underneath mine, leaving me to stroke as he took my ball sack in his hand and squeezed and rolled my balls, which was just fine with me too. He reached over me and picked up one of the condom packets.
“I’m going to fuck you, aren’t I?” he murmured.
“Yes, please,” I answered.
He held up the condom packet for me to see. “Do you want me to open this?”
“Yes,” I answered, expelling his cock from my mouth, but only to teeth down one side of it and to suck in his ball sack.
He slit the packet open, took the condom disk out, and asked, “Do you want us to use this, you and I? Or do you want me to bareback you? I’m clean. We’re tested regularly.”
“I’m not,” I answered, with genuine regret.
“And you’ve been with men indiscriminately?”
“Oh, yes. Does that bother you?”
“Not in the least.”
I almost laughed as he placed the center of the disk on his bulb and rolled the rubber down the length of his shaft. The condom had the rings of the Olympic symbol embossed on the shaft.
“Turn back over,” he commanded, in a low, guttural voice. I moaned and trembled as I did so. He came up on the table, palmed my belly, and pulled me up to my knees. Then he thrust inside me, my channel already open from the attention his lubed fingers had given it, and fucked me like a dog. He was good, very good.
I was being fucked by the Olympic rings.
“You are loose, and you open up easily to the fingers. You have taken the fist before . . . and more than one man at once?”
“Occasionally. But you are big. I can feel you. You are bigger than most.” I knew he’d like to hear that. It was true nonetheless. And I knew he’d like that my voice sounded belabored when I answered him while he was stroking inside me.
“After I finish fucking you, you will take the hand? It will give you a good jack off. You’ve taken the fist before?”
“If you want to do that. Yes, it makes me come big.”
When he’d shot off, I was throbbing but only had come that once. He went up on his knees beside me on the table, pushing me down on my side. His left arm went around me, his hand clasping and squeezing the root of my cock, as he concentrated on how many of the lubed fingers of his other hand he could get in my ass.
“You want this, yes?” he asked.
“Yes, oh yes,” I answered, breathless. This was the Olympics. I’d come here to get it all.
Throwing my arms over my head and grasping the edge of the table as he got one, two, three, and then four fingers inside me, up to the knuckles, I groaned and moaned at the full penetration and stretching. He knew his bodies well; he knew I was well used and could take it.
“You’d be surprised how many Olympians like to be fisted,” he murmured.
At the moment I couldn’t give a shit what anyone else but me liked or was getting, and I yelped as his knuckles were sucked inside my sphincter ring. Mission complete—certainly as far as I was concerned—and I let him know that. Some guys could take it up to the forearm, but I wasn’t some guys. He stopped there, momentarily, giving me time to adjust to having a fist in my ass, as I panted and whimpered. Happily, his hands were not broad at the knuckles.
“God, I’m fucked,” I whispered.
“Yes, you are all mine now,” he murmured. “I have you by my fist. You’re doing fine. You’re beautiful and fine.”
When my trembling came under control, he set about massaging my prostate—making a comment about internal massage being as important as external—with his buried fingers and squeezing the base of my cock with the other hand until, with a cry, I shot my second load over the side of the table.
To give him greater access, I had raised and bent my right leg and set the foot down on the other side of his slim hips and he’d turned his pelvis toward me. When I had come, he withdrew his fingers and penetrated me again with his cock, sheathed in a second Olympic rings condom. I panted and moved my pelvis with the rhythm of the second fuck as he fucked me deeper and more slowly.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I murmured, breathing in shallow little bursts, clutching at the edges of the massage table, concentrating all of my attention on the thick shaft moving inside me, expertly finding and rubbing my prostate and then kissing the walls as it slowly penetrated deeper. Turning my face into his chest, I found his nipple, and sucked hard on it. He gasped, and I gasped as he quickly pulled his shaft back and then gasped again when he plunged in. Again and again and again. The master, moving methodically to his second ejaculation, announced with a “Shit, that’s good!”
This was a massage the likes of which I’d never had before.
“You like to be fucked, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered, wondering if he’d do it a third time. Ready for him if he did.
“You’ll do well here at the Olympics,” he said. “Prime meat, randy and cocky. And for you, many narcissistic men, in love with their own bodies and those of other men. And you have a great body and a dynamite face. You are flexible and can take a big cock. You’ll get all of the attention you can handle in the village. The only ones who won’t be interested are those limiting themselves to women and those who doped themselves into being eunuchs. They will be weeded out soon enough, though. Just don’t forget me. When you go to schedule another massage, remember the name Diego Cielo. I’ll give you more Olympic condoms then. You’ll need more by then.”
“Yes, of course I’ll ask for you.” I reached for his cock, but he already was climbing down from the table. A glance at the clock told me our session was over. In one fluid move from the table, Diego was pulling his shorts back on and sending the two condoms, bloated like slugs with his cum, in a perfect arc and into a nearby wastebasket. Just another Olympic guy massage session for him?
Gotta say it was memorable for me. They say about sex and Olympic athletes, “What plays at the Olympics, stays at the Olympics,” but I wanted to shout the cocking skills of this Diego guy to the treetops.
As I was leaving, he opened the box and scooped up a handful of condoms. Handing them to me, he said, “These are like gold in the Olympic Village. I think you will need these and even more. You are a highly sexed—and sexy—young man.” I glowed in the compliment. I wanted to say that he was nifty as could be at fucking to, but I’m sure he already knew that.
* * * *
The supply of condoms Diego gave me did last until the next time he massaged—and rode—me, but only because most of the men I went with provided their own. Diego had been right. As seriously as the athletes took their turn at sports competition, just as seriously did they take their sex orgies and in putting as many notches involving different nationalities on their gym bags as they could during the two weeks of the Olympics.
I saw so many Olympic rings condoms being rolled onto cocks before the cocks disappeared inside me or whatever guy was beside me at a party and being fucked at the same time that after a few days I couldn’t see the symbol anywhere without thinking of rubbers and hard shafts. News traveled fast in the Olympic Village and no news moved faster than information on who would take cock—and how well they took it. I must have established a good reputation for taking it, because I took a lot of it.
I had to bunk with a roommate, but that was taken care of for me. The dark-complexioned, hunky-bodied U.S. gymnast Pedro Gonzalez had gotten to whoever did the room scheduling and got me put in his room. Ten minutes after we had been shown to the room, he was mounted on my ass, fucking me. That was when we still had a supply of rubbers we’d brought with us. They didn’t last long. He was athletic, flexible, inventive, and demanding. I was flexible and game to have my body manipulated in this or that demanding position, as long as he could get his cock in my ass or my mouth. His very first position after the initial, wild, needy doggie fuck was what he called a flying eagle, with him sitting on the foot of the bed, feet on the floor, hands gripping my wrists, as, facing away from him, my body was cantilevered out over his knees, my legs streaming back around his hips, and Pedro pulling me on and off his cock.
I wasn’t there most nights—I was in Coach Wood’s bed—receiving rough but fairly standard fucking most of the nights. But we didn’t practice or compete all that many hours of the day, and there was time almost every day for Pedro to show me a new, demanding move.
He wasn’t possessive. He had grown friendly with an Israeli gymnast, with black curly hair, one who didn’t shave his body as most gymnast did and therefore stood out a bit more than most of them as a sexy man. Pedro and Moshe fucked me together, usually with Moshe under me, his dick buried up in my ass and Pedro taking various flexible poses above and behind me, stroking inside me on top of Moshe’s cock.
Apparently there weren’t that many men at the Olympics who would take doubles because my dance card quickly filled up with requests for this specialty.
And then there were the hours in which it rained and all of the outdoor competitions were suspended. I would lay on my bed, on my back, with my legs bent and spread, and a succession of hung, cut athletes would come and go from our room, going between my legs and coming in my channel—and then arcing those condoms emblazoned with the Olympic rings expertly into the waste bin. Everyone was keyed up at the Olympics. Everyone wanted to release tension. Many were virile and oversexed. Many of the men athletes were narcissists and worshipped not only their own bodies but also those of other men. Most men were tops. Not that many were willing, seeking bottoms. When it rained in Rio, I could count on spending a lot of time on my back, with my legs open, and my channel filled with a thrusting cock sheathed in a condom with the Olympic rings emblazoned along the shaft. I wouldn’t be surprised if I left Rio with the shape of the rings transferred to my inner passage walls.
These rainy-day events—and I don’t want to claim that it rained all that often during the day at the Rio Olympics—led to a challenge game between Pedro and me. We didn’t have room maid service in the Olympic Village. Fresh sheets and towels would be left by our door every third day, there were cleaning implements and a sweeper in a hall closet if we needed them, and we were responsible for emptying our own trash cans down a chute at the end of the hall. Pedro and I designated one of our trash cans for condom discarding and nothing else and we didn’t empty that can until the end of our stay. I bet Pedro I could fill the trash can just from condoms used with me and he bet I couldn’t. Even though he did what he could to fill it, he won the bet—but not by much. I didn’t quite get the trash can filled. Granted, it was a pretty big can.
Even with all those men, though, I wasn’t being overtaxed. My goal was to find one who stretched me to the point of splitting, who held me, panting heavily completely in his filling possession, and who I’d remember for a week as I hobbled around bowlegged. Surely among all these hunky Olympians I could find the god of the cock.
Pedro and I grew close. I had graduated that year at Stanford. He had graduated the year before from Michigan State and had taken an advertising job with an athletic sports gear company in Denver. I’d received an offer from the same company. We started talking about me taking that job and the two of us rooming together in Denver. The opportunity was looking good. Pedro had a beautiful body and he was hung. He also was liberal about partying but was good about cleaning up afterward. Neither of us were slobs or clean nuts to an irritating degree. We got on well together.
Our events weren’t scheduled on top of each other’s. He got me tickets to the gymnastics and I got him tickets to the diving competitions.
It was while I was watching the first night of Pedro’s competitions that I first saw Ari Askami. He was sitting next to my masseur, Diego Cielo, across the gymnastics arena. It was Askami, in fact, who first caught my attention. First was his height. I couldn’t tell if the guy was standing up or sitting down over there he was so tall. And then it was the breadth of him, his chest and bulging shoulders causing him to impinge into the space of the guys sitting on either side of him. It was just this first impression of massive size, because my gaze drifted off to the right of him, where I saw Diego. Diego had seen me too, and was waving. My attention then went to the floor exercises, where Pedro was performing—and doing very nicely.
When I looked back to Diego, he was in conversation with the massive guy sitting beside him. They were looking over toward me rather than down on the floor at the action. I then saw that the massive guy was old—maybe in his forties—and ugly as sin, with a displaced nose. He was bald. No interest there, so my attention went back to the great bodies on the gymnasts as they performed on the bars and the floor, the vault and the horse.
Next thing I knew, Diego was lowering himself into the empty seat beside me.
“See that guy across the way, the one who was sitting with me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, neutrally, not wanting to indicate any interest, because I had none in the guy.
“He’s big stuff here. He’s coach of the Iranian Greco-Roman wrestling team now, but he’s a four-time gold winner himself. Three golds—Greco-Roman, shot put, and javelin—in 1996 and Greco-Roman in 2000. Heavy weight.”
“I could tell the heavy weight part,” I answered. “1996. That was Atlanta, wasn’t it? The year of the bomb?” That’s what I said, but the year 1996 was more significantly telling me the guy was at least forty. He stood up now, as he’d been watching Diego talking to me, and he pointed at us from across the area. The guy must be closer to seven feet tall than six and closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. He had a beer belly on him, and, although he was bald, his tattooed shoulders showing in his athletic T were hairy and hair cascaded over the V neckline of the T. Pretty gross, I thought, among all of these young cut bodies in the arena—in the stands as well as on the floor.
“His name is Ari Askami,” Diego continued. “He has a problem and I’ve been telling him about you—about what you’ll take. There aren’t many who can take him, but he’s horny. He wants to fuck you.”
“I don’t think so, Diego, thanks. But he doesn’t look like anything I would be interested in. And I’m having no trouble getting it here in Rio.”
“I’m not surprised—but I think you’d be surprised. Here, he gave me a ticket to give you for the Greco-Roman events whether or not you’re interested. I think you’d be interested. There are some real hunks in that event.” And, with that—after handing me the ticket—Diego left me and my attention went back to the floor. Pedro was on the vault, and, once again, did a magnificent job of it.
He was so euphoric that night that he fucked me good in various athletic positions, including a variation of his spread eagle specialty, where I was pitched out over the foot of the bed like a ski jumper in flight, standing on my toes on the floor, legs spread, and he grasped my wrists, bowing my torso back to him, the two of us kissing, as he crouched between my spread legs and pistoned my channel with his cock. What Pedro lacked in length and thickness, he made up for in inventive technique. I had a platform dive that launched in a similar position to this and thereafter I thought of Pedro fucking me when I took off into that dive.
Diego was right about an interest in watching the Greco-Roman gladiators going at each other, so I used the ticket he gave me to attend a Greco-Roman wrestling event. Not surprisingly, the Iranian team was contesting and Ari Askami, their coach, was strutting up and down the sidelines as they wrestled. He saw me as soon as I entered the small venue and added some “chest up” to his strut. It didn’t help much. More impressive were his wrestlers, in their strange and revealing one-piece suits with the scoop back and front and the droop in front that leaves nothing to the imagination about their genital equipment. I looked back at Askami. He had even more of a droop at the crotch than either of his wrestlers did. Diego had told me he was super hung. That was enticing, but the rest of the package wasn’t.
The Iranians were very well equipped and I honed into watching two in the 84–96 KG class, the one just below the heavyweight class that Askami had competed in in his Olympics. Given what Diego had told me about Askami’s “problem” and what I might be in a position to do for him, I was somewhat curious what he’d look like in one of those wrestling costumes with the drooping genital sack, but the rest of him just grabbed my interest away.
According to the program, the two wrestlers who turned me on were Shahrokh Heshemi and Kuonarie Shahnazi, both with dark, curly hair, thuggish, but handsome faces, and hairy barrel chests that their costumes didn’t even begin to hide. They both won each round of their matches during the two-hour competition, and both advanced to the next round. Both also looked up at where I was sitting and smiled when Ari Askami pointed me out in the stands. They stood—more like crouched—in a semicircle pointed toward me, leaning into each other, Askami in the middle, arms around each other’s shoulders, baskets pronounced and pulling down on the wrestler’s costumes and Askami’s athletic shorts. Askami, the coach, was probably giving his boys wrestling pointers, but all three of them took time to pick me out in the stands with their eyes, to mumble to each other as they looked at me, and to smile knowingly and snigger. I went hard at thinking of the possibilities in a foursome.
I stood to give the two wrestlers a good look at me. I did what I could to erase the coach in my mind. I wouldn’t have thrown either of the young wrestlers out of bed—even if it weren’t obvious that once they’d come into my bed, both their size and their wrestling skills would dictate that they could have whatever they wanted.
I would have happily given them anything they wanted.
My thoughts kept going back to those two in the next two days as I practiced from the opening of my own competition. On the first day of my dive qualifications, Shahrokh and Kuonarie were in the stands, watching, and obviously cheering me on. I hadn’t given them tickets and the place was packed. They had to have gone out of their way to get tickets. I did very well that day and advanced to the next round. The two Iranians waited around for me to shower and dress and leave and were standing at the entrance to the venue when I walked out. There were no real preliminaries.
“You dive well,” Kuonarie said after they introduced themselves. “You have great body.”
“Thanks. You two have great bodies too. I saw you wrestle.”
“We know,” Shahrokh chimed in. Then right to the reason they’d stayed around. “We saw you watch us and we both wanted to fuck you. We hear you take cock. Two men’s cock at once sometimes. As much an orgy that Rio Olympics are, we find it hard to find lays we can share.”
“We like to share men,” Kuonarie interjected. “We have good cocks.”
“We fuck you good, yes?” Shahrokh took his turn.
“The two of us together, yes? You come with us now. We fuck you good. We fuck you now?”
They looked like puppy dogs, panting with their tongues hanging out, wagging their tails. What could I say?
“Yes, OK,” is what I said.
They didn’t lie. They fucked me together in their shared room in the village—and they both had good cocks. Not great cocks, but good enough, ideal for double penetration, long but not appreciably thick. And they were experienced in taking a man together. They fucked me standing up in the middle of their room, between the two single beds, me sandwiched between them, with my knees hooked on Shahrokh’s hips. One of the beds intrigued me a bit. They’d rigged restraints coming down from the ceiling over the bed at the corners, but not directly over the bed—spaced out a good two feet on each side.
After some preliminary frotting and sucking with me sandwiched between the two tall, hunky Iranians, me facing Shahrokh and Kuonarie embracing me from behind—both playing me with their hands and eventually both finding my hole with greased fingers and working together to open me up, Shahrokh, in a guttural voice, instructed me to climb his hips with my legs. I did this, and Kuonarie, from in back, helped guide Shahrokh’s cock, sheathed with the omnipresent Olympic rings rubber, to and into my hole. When he was in deep and had bounced me on his cock for a minute or two to get us going, Kuonarie penetrated me from behind with his own Olympic rings-sheathed cock and we were off to the races, the two of them working together expertly to ensure that I had one cock thrusting up into me as the other withdrew and then the reverse.
It was as good a DP as I’d ever gotten. These two had had a lot of practice at it.
I came quickly, after which I found that the restraints over the bed were exactly for what I thought they might be for. In just a few swift moves, they had me trussed, lying on my back on the bed, both my arms and my legs raised and spread, trapped by the restraints hanging from the ceiling. My buttocks was thrust up by a vinyl-covered angle pillow. The room was equipped to support just what they were going to do with me.
For the next hour they had their way with me, individually and, in the end, together again. While one was fucking me in the ass, the other was face fucking me. And, eventually, for a grand finale, Kuonarie worked his way under me and entered my ass with his cock from below, while Shahrokh crouched over me and fucked me from above.
They were both hunks, full of humor and smiles, enjoying themselves but making sure I was enjoying myself as well. And I did. I enjoyed myself—right up to the point where they were dressing but hadn’t released me, and the door opened and Ari Askami walked in, flicking a goodawful long and thick rubber dildo on his forearm.
He also brought in a ball gag and had it on me before I knew what was happening. Now all I could do was strain at the restraints, produce muffled screams through the ball gag, and bite into the rubber ball. I did plenty of that before he exhausted me, almost hyperventilating when he stripped, his body still pudgy, hairy, and past its prime and his face still thuggish ugly, but revealing the longest, thickest cock I’d ever seen. It was as thick as a man’s wrist and stood out straight nearly a foot, red, angry, from his pubic thatch, pushing out under the undercurve of his beer belly. I looked at the thick, long dildo and then at the thicker, longer erection of the man, and prayed that he’d use the dildo on me first—thinking that the wrestlers together hadn’t opened me up enough.
He did use the dildo on me—cruelly—and I writhed and panted and objected unsuccessfully through the ball gag. Eventually, exhausted, open to the dildo so that I was taking its greased slide without effort and with a good deal of pleasure, I settled down, moving my pelvis with it, meeting it thrust for thrust, waiting for the cock I knew was to follow.
But that wasn’t the next act. He crouched over me, capturing my eyes with his, muttering that he wanted to see my response, bringing his ugly face to mine for the garlic on his breath to nearly knock me out. Just when I thought he’d thrust his cock inside me, something else entered me. His heavily greased fingers. He grabbed my chin with his free hand and held my face still, looking into his, giving him every change of my expression as, slowly, he added more greased fingers. My eyes popped open and I bit down on the ball gag as his knuckles breached the sphincter muscle. And I writhed under him and gave him muffled screams as he went in up to the wrist—and almost passed out when he opened his fist and spread his fingers inside me.
I’d been fist fucked before, but not to his depth and thickness—never before with the whole hand up to the wrist inside me. But I was now. He was inside me, I was well greased up, and, miraculously, I was opening to him as I’d never known would be possible.
He started to fist fuck me. My passage slowly stretched open and accommodated him. I’d never experienced this before. The pain overshadowed the pleasure—especially the emotional high that I was taking it—but there was enough pleasure that he was lifting me up to the clouds, and, when he released my chin, moved his hand down my torso, and grasped my cock, I gave him an explosion of an ejaculation. This was new, unexplored territory for me. This is what I’d dreamed about in coming to Rio—well, beyond competing for a medal. I’d heard the stories of the sex in the Olympic Village and how it added to one’s experience and capabilities. Couldn’t add much more exotic experience than this. I was collecting the gold medal of “taking it.”
My ejaculation was his signal to remove his fist and replace it with his impossibly long and thick cock. The fist had expanded my walls for the first five inches, but he wasn’t much more than half way inside me with the cock when he reached that mark—and he kept on sinking, his bulb pressing and making me yield him a wider passage as he sank into me. He grabbed my butt cheeks and pulled my buttocks up off the surface of the bed and spread the cheeks, giving him as much access as possible. I also spread my legs as much as I could to take it.
I felt his belly pressing at mine, his coarse pubic hair mingling with mine, as he bottomed inside me and held. He held and held as we both felt my inner passage walls open to him, caressing his cock, my muscles undulating over his throbbing and veined monster cock. And then he began to pump me and I lost all contact with anything in this world but concentration on where that monster shaft was and what it was doing. I’d been panting before, but I panted more heavily now, and whimpered, and groaned and moaned deeply as his stroking increased in intensity.
When he came, he collapsed on top of me, painfully pressing me into the bed. He pulled the ball gag out of my mouth, causing my moan to become more audible, and brought his face down to mine. I turned my head to the side to avoid his mouth coming into contact with mine, and sobbed. His lips went to the hollow of my throat, and he kissed and then nipped me there. At the same time his hands came up and put the ball gag in again.
At the moment I sobbed in relief that it was over and that I had survived it. In retrospect, I marveled that I had taken the dildo and the fist and then the monster shaft and that I had walked along the clouds as never before, given him a fuller and stronger ejaculation than I’d ever given a man before. Not, however, as full and strong as his. I had known from the explosive expansion of the condom bulb inside me when he had come and then was surprised by a second and third shudder and pressing on my inner walls. When he pulled the Olympic-rings-embossed condom off his cock after he’d stood up from me, I was amazed at how much cum it held.
Surprisingly—alarmingly—he was still monstrously erect. He came around to the side of the bed, removed the ball gag, and forced his cock in my mouth, making me suck him even larger. Then I moaned as I watched him roll another condom on and then he replaced the ball gag and was crouched over me again, entering me again, sliding deep inside me, my walls once more grudgingly giving way to him, and started to stroke. He came, removed the condom, made me suck him.
“The nuts too,” he commanded, and, eyes watering, I swallowed and rolled, one after the other, his balls in my mouth. They were too big to ingest together.
When he was satisfied, he backed up, sat in a chair he reversed before sitting in it, and lit up a cigarette he took off of one of the desk of one of the wrestlers. He sat there, naked, his flaccid cock nearly reaching the floor at the back of the chair, his ball sack hanging low, his eyes glued to me as I was bound to the bed, trussed up like a pig on a spit. He said nothing. He just sat there regaining his libido.
I lay there, my eyes darting around the room, looking for release, but always going back to him and to that long, thick cock of his. In awe that it had been inside me—all of it. Mentally checking myself for damage. My passage walls still throbbed and I was sore—from stretching and chafing, not splitting, thank god—but there was something else. I was proud to have taken the cock. There were moments coming back to me of being on a soaring high as the cock forced its consuming slide inside me. It was frightening and glorious all at the same time. Part of me wanted release and escape from this ogre. Part of me wanted him inside me again, reaming me larger, making me fit him for a mutually satisfying fuck.
After about five minutes and already on the second cigarette, he began working his cock up again with his hand. Massively erect once more after not much more than ten minutes since his last ejaculation, he stood from the chair; crushed out his third cigarette on the wood desk top; rolled on another condom; removed the ball gag, saying he wanted to hear my responses now; moved into position between my spread and trussed legs; and fucked me again.
I took him more easily this time, although with much babbling and crying out, both in terms of begging for mercy and begging for the fuck. There was less pain, more pleasure. I quickly went to a high, concentrating on the massive cock inside me, closing my eyes and thinking of the man attached to it as only a motor. Sighing, almost with regret, as the cock withdrew, holding my breath in anticipation, almost begging for it, as it held, and then screaming as it penetrated deep again, each time a new revelation of how thick, long, and possessing it was. Each time fearing it would split me, but when it didn’t, soaring to the heights and dancing on the clouds—earning the gold medal of taking it. Taking him, managing him, listening to him groan in pleasure.
As he fucked me, I involuntarily, instinctively set my pelvis in motion, fucking him back. He laughed and grabbed my hips, pistoning me harder and thus moving me a step back in the pain department, having to adjust to his more vigorous fuck. Each time I adjusted more to him, he upped his game with me, always keeping me on the edge of breaking. I found being on the edge but not going over exhilarating, but I appreciated the danger of becoming addicted to that.
He fucked me a fourth time, with a fifteen-minute interval of sitting, smoking, staring at me, before he was finished with me. I was beyond exhaustion. I held my breath as he contemplated taking a fifth go at me. He tried, but he didn’t manage it. He made an effort to harden his cock with his hand again, but his shaft had had enough. I knew that it was only reaching the point of his failure to get hard again that had made him stop. And I knew that would be the case as well if he ever got his hands on me again. He took it as a personal affront that he couldn’t get it up a fifth time. I took it as a monstrous miracle that he had gotten it up four times.
While he tried to get it up, he moved around me. I closed my eyes tightly so that I couldn’t see the grossness of his bloated body. He moved his hands all over my body, eventually arriving, with a well-greased hand, at my dick and balls. He squeezed and rolled my balls, and I moaned for him. He stroked my cock with the greased hand and I hardened for him. He released the pressure on the cock, and I involuntarily took over the stroking, thrusting and withdrawing my cock in the loose sheath of his fist. He laughed and I came for him. Ugly and as demanding as he was, I was his. We both knew it. But it hadn’t made him hard. He slapped my cock with a snort and went back to straddling his chair, smoking a cigarette with one hand, and trying to harden himself with the other.
Unsuccessful, he snorted and stood up from his chair, and I breathed more easily, thinking the session had come to a close. He couldn’t get it up again. But I could tell he was mad he couldn’t get up again, and when he leaned over and came up with the can of lard, I began to hyperventilate, understanding that he wasn’t finished with me after all. He made me look as he greased up his right hand, and then I writhed and objected from behind my ball gag to no avail as he leaned over me between my legs, grabbed me by the chin with one hand to hold my head in place for him to watch my facile expressions, and started to work his greased right hand into my channel. I took the fist fuck easier this time, having been opened up to the maximum by his earlier anal play.
His free hand went back to my cock. My balls were aching. I had no more cum to give him, but still he started stroking my cock, and, embarrassingly, I hardened. He set a rhythm of opening and closing his fist inside me in coordination with the stroking of my cock. Once more he let the hand on the cock go loose. Once more I moved my hips, taking over the stroking inside the loose sheath his fist provided. Once more he laughed at his control over me, his victory over my body.
I didn’t have any more cum to give him—or at least thought I didn’t—but he wasn’t content with stopping until I was moving my hips in perfect rhythm to the opening and closing of his fist inside my passage and had given him a weak ejaculation. He wasn’t the only one whose peter was petered out.
The wrestlers had fucked me for an hour and fifteen minutes. Ari Askami fucked me twice that long—for two and a half hours. Iran had invaded the USA for four hours. Iran had ravished the USA, and Iran had disengaged as the conqueror.
I couldn’t walk when he let me off the bed. And I couldn’t talk either. If I’d still had my tonsils, he would have face fucked them out of me.
“Good. It was very good,” he said. “I will use you again. Diego was right that you could take it. I will test you more next time. We will see what the limits are to what you will take.”
I was barely conscious and there was a ringing in my ears competing with the effort to hear what he said. But I heard and moaned deeply. I didn’t answer him, though. He threw me over his shoulder and carried me out to the common living room, where both of the younger Iranian wrestlers were waiting, playing with their cell phone.
“Take him back to his dorm,” Askami growled and then left.
As they were lifting me up, Shahrokh smiled and said, “He fucked you good, didn’t he?”
I was overcome, trying to figure out how to keep my legs spread and be able to walk a straight line at the same time. “Yes, he fucked me good,” I managed with a hoarse voice.
I didn’t walk back to my dorm, I was hustled back there, supported by a laughing and joking Iranian wrestler on either side of me. I was delighted that someone thought this was a lot of fun. Pedro was in the room when they carried me in and dropped me on my bed on my back. I slung my arm over my eyes to blot out the world, and raised and spread my legs.
“I’d leave him alone for a couple of days,” Kuonarie said to Pedro before he left.
“You OK?” Pedro asked.
“No, I’m dead,” I answered. “Can you soak a washcloth in cold water for me.”
“Move your arm so I can put this on your head,” he said when he came back with the washcloth.
“I don’t want it on my head. Pull my shorts off. Put it on my ass.”
“Holy shit, what have you had up there?” Pedro asked as he viewed the diameter of my asshole.
“An Iranian nuclear missile. A really fat one,” I answered wearily. “I got invaded, occupied, and pillaged.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Ask me next week, when I can walk and shit again.”
* * * *
On the night of the finals in diving, I was there. I wasn’t watching; I was competing in the finals. This was a minor miracle, I thought, and I only wished that Chris Fair could see that I was here—that I was here, the last American still in the competition. At the top of the platform on my first dive of the evening, I looked down at Coach Wood, standing just below me. I gave him the finger. It was while I was brushing my hand off on the hip of my Speedo and he probably didn’t see it as giving him the finger—I certainly hoped no one else in the venue saw it. But I knew I’d done it. And he knew that I’d broken with him. I didn’t need him anymore, and now I was the only one he had in the competition. I’d given him the finger for real the previous evening when the finalists were announced, and I’d refused to sleep in his bed that night. Fuck him now. Even if I came in tenth, it was better than anyone else on the U.S. team. And it was indisputably clear that I had earned this berth on the team—over Chris.
I’d slept with Pedro, celebrating with him his bronze star on the rings. I should have just slept and saved my energy for today, but I couldn’t deny him his celebration. He fucked me in one of his favorite soaring eagle positions. I thought of that as I walked out to the edge of the platform. My first dive would start that way—pushing my chest forward, stiff-arming my arms straight back, taking flight off the platform. This was my worst dive. Not so today. I got very good marks. I was still in the hunt.
Others had come to watch. The Iranian wrestlers, Shahrokh and Kuonarie, were there in the eastern stands, cheering for me, laughing with each other. Shahrokh had a gold medal around his neck; Kuonarie a silver. Good for them. They had worked me over well. I’d thoroughly enjoyed them, and they were fully synchronized. They were right to want to share their men. If I wasn’t leaving Rio tomorrow . . .
Pedro had come, his bronze medal around his neck. He was sitting in the western stands. He could have left the day before yesterday, but he’d stayed. He’d stayed to give me support. We already were talking about what sort of apartment in Denver would suit us both. He’d get a raise from the sporting goods firm for his bronze. It would be great if I could match that. But I was lucky to have made it thus far—not to have shot it all down with a bad soaring eagle dive.
Diego had come too. The massage sessions with him had been glorious fucks. I still had a good supply of Olympic-rings condoms. I could hand them out as party favors when I got home. We had exchanged addresses. I was content with moving in with Pedro, but we had an understanding. If Diego ever visited the States as he said he wanted to, I’d be getting one of those massages of his—and he could have whatever he wanted from me.
The second dive, the back one-and-a-half somersault tuck, had been the best dive I’d ever done in my life and it was scored accordingly. Miraculously, I was at the top of the leader board now, and just one more dive to go.
I looked up at the top of the stands, at the entrance on the north side, directly in front of me, when I’d climbed to the platform for my last dive. I was doing a handstand falling into a forward somersault pike. It was my best dive, my most impressive one visually. It was a dangerous dive; you had to push out far enough not to hit your head on the board in doing the forward somersault. It required total concentration and steady control. It was my last dive. It was all or nothing now, my last chance at gold.
When I looked at the top of the north stands I saw him, though. Ari Askami—looking massive and dumpy. Impressive, though, as he had his four gold medals from earlier Olympics around his neck. I was disconcerted. He’d come to watch me dive. But he’d worn his medals. He was making a statement. I wanted a medal. He had four and they all were gold. He was saying he owned me. He had had me. He had possessed me fully, fucked me totally, only letting me go when he was done with me.
He had sent a message via Diego that he wanted me again, but I hadn’t responded.
I tried to tear my eyes away from him as I walked to the end of the platform, but he controlled me. He was smirking and I was trembling. Would I even be able to get up into a handstand without collapsing.
Later, standing on the second rung of the award blocks, I didn’t care that they were playing the French national anthem, not the one for the United States. When the silver medal was placed around my neck, I kissed it and lifted it up for everyone to see. I hadn’t come here for gold; I’d come here to be an Olympian—and, yes, because I’d heard the Olympics was a veritable fuck palace. I’d certainly verified that. My last dive had been near perfect. I had no regrets. I’d done is as well as I ever had. The French guy had just been a little better. Good for him.
The awards finished, I felt keyed up, randy. I wanted to celebrate in a big way. people were leaving, but not everyone was moving. Coach Wood was standing by the pool, all puffed up. If he’d had cigars, I think he’d have been handing them out. He was looking directly at me. I knew exactly what he wanted—that he wanted to celebrate my silver too. He wanted to have his chance to tell me that he had made me.
Pedro was patiently standing in the west stands, smiling and looking at me proudly. He’d say nothing about his bronze medal against my silver. He’d just be happy for me.
In the east stands, Diego stood near the top. He’d told me he’d be happy to give me a massage after the diving competitions win or lose. I knew that he would massage all of the tension away from me and give me a divine celebratory fuck. Several rows below him, the Iranian wrestlers were pushing each other around and giving wolf whistles. They also were pointing down at me and applauding. They were celebrating with me already. They’d give me a good time, I knew, if I walked over to them.
And then I did start walking. I walked around the pool, barefoot and in a Speedo topped by an Athletic T-shirt, and up the aisle of the west stands, toward where Pedro Gonzalez was standing. As I walked, people parted for me, giving me a straight, unimpeded path. They smiled at me and whispered their congratulations. I was a minor god, if only for the moment. I took Pedro’s hand when I reached him, both of us wanting me to lean in for a kiss, but there still being too many people milling around the venue, more than a few watching me, because I had a silver medal around my neck.
“Hi,” I said.
“You did it.”
“Yes, we did,” I answered, gesturing to the bronze medal around his neck.
“Let’s go back to the room and—”
“Tonight. Tonight we’ll celebrate royally, Pedro,” I said. “But for now, there’s something I have to do—something I badly need.”
He looked into my eyes and understood. We’d talked about it. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. This is the Olympics. I came here for an Olympian experience. It will be all right, I’m sure.”
“Then do it.”
I turned, descended the aisle to the pool, and then walked around to the north stands and up. Ari Askami was standing, one hand fondling his four gold medals, and the other one cupping his package. His eyes were boring into me, commanding me to come to him. When I reached him, he took my elbow in a vice grip.
“You will come with me to my room and you will take it all,” he growled.
“Yes, I want it all,” I said, lowering my eyes in willing, trembling in anticipation, submission.