AmericasDarlings (2 page)

My heart raced.

We waved at each other from across the gym, grinning. We’d spent time together last year after the Internationals in Moscow. What
fun
I’d had with him! Five minutes after meeting, we’d found ourselves working furiously on floor routine elements. He’d praised my strong, toned pussy. I’d praised his stamina and his agility. He’d demonstrated his signature move, a thing that had to be experienced to be believed. Then I’d demonstrated
my
signature move and he’d come so hard and for so long that he’d just about knocked us over. And—this clinched it for me—he’d laughed in utter delight. After practice he’d taken me out for tea. And then we’d gone to his apartment and spent the next eighteen hours with our bodies locked together, practicing some more.

Well, maybe not eighteen hours, but you know what I mean.

I fondly remembered his sculpted body, his remarkable legs, his energy and playfulness. The little escapade kept me happy for days.

I hoped we’d have time for more later.

My mouth watered at the thought.

The Chinese team was to our right. They huddled together, heads down, listening to their coach, seriousness oozing from them. From where I sat, I could see the tight asses of the men, the narrow shoulders and taut breasts of the women, the strength of their bodies. The Chinese performances were always stunning. Technically astounding. Perfect in almost every way. They made me hold my breath in anxiety and in arousal and I had to remind myself that
they weren’t perfect
. The Chinese sexual gymnastics team—according to Coach Debbie, our choreography expert—fell flat on artistic interpretation.

And that, of course, was where Benson and I came in. We’re America’s Darlings because we’re all about artistic interpretation—and we’re
damn good
at it.

I moved to the mat and started my warm-up routine. Stretches. Sit-ups. Vagina-toning Kegels. The chatter died out as one by one my fellow athletes got down to business. From across the building came the murmur of foreign voices, but I barely noticed. Benson plopped down next to me and began to stretch his long legs. He did the splits, his face a picture of concentration, then switched to a side split.

Forget Dmitri. I had
Benson
to look at.

Coach Bob and Coach Debbie wandered among us, touching an elbow, adjusting a knee, perfecting the lines of our bodies. Coach Bob stopped at my side. He sighed loudly, theatrically. “Leah. Leah. How many times have I told you to tuck
in
your butt?”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said. It was an old joke—my butt was fine. I was doing sit-ups and my butt wasn’t even involved. “Won’t do it again.”

He laughed. Then he stepped back, clapped his hands and whistled. “Everyone! Listen up!”

All heads turned toward him.

“We have one day, folks.
One day.
We need to have everyone ready—more than ready! You all with me?”

We nodded.

“In case you haven’t heard—we’re the hottest ticket in town!”

We cheered.

“They’re scalping our tickets for ten times the stated value—do you hear me?”

“Yes!”

“They want to see some hot athletic sex.
And you’re going to give it to them!
”

“Yes!”

“We’re new. We’re exciting. We’re going to put on a helluva show!”

“Yes, Coach! Yes!”

“Tomorrow is our big day. Leah and Benson!” He turned his piercing gaze on us. “Soraya and Jim!” He turned to them. “Floor exercise at two o’ clock tomorrow. We’re counting on the four of you. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” we said in unison, “got it!”

“Naomi and William! Gretchen and Tanya!” He spun to face the four contortionists on the team. “You’ll be on right after them. Get yourselves in gear. Get those bodies twisted. You’re on at four fifteen.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Coach Bob clapped his hands. “Still with me, everyone? Good. Now pay attention. Coach Debbie is passing out team uniforms.”

We cheered. The uniform design had been kept secret from us.

“Don’t be morons,” he added. “Make sure the one you get is for your event.
Please.
”

Coach Debbie, standing in the middle of the mat, held up a handful of packets. They were no larger than decks of cards. Our uniforms! She began tossing them into our midst, her long hair swaying from side to side with each throw.

I grabbed one. The tiny package wasn’t mine. I traded with Naomi for a floor exercise uniform. I had no intention of being a moron.

Coach Debbie opened the last package and held the contents high over her head. “See this, everyone? Make sure you don’t miss the American Flag emblems. Each packet has two.”

I tore my packet open and located the stamp-sized emblems.

“Stick them on your upper right arm and on your left thigh, just like the illustration shows. Make sure they’re straight. Once they’re on, they’ll stay for the duration.”

Soraya and I checked one another, making sure our emblems were straight. Then we pressed the tiny flags onto each other. Soraya’s fingers brushed my breast. “I should’ve stuck that on your boob! Right on top. A
much
better place for it.”

I swatted at her. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Too late, honey.”

I took four satiny items from the packaging, shook them out and held them up. Like always, I marveled at how tiny they were. Scraps, really. One size fits all. I loved the swirling colors, a deep-blue that was almost purple and a saturated red that was almost maroon—altogether different than the solid-blue uniforms we’d been practicing in. Excited voices from my teammates echoed my approval of the new color scheme. The fabric shimmered in the Oostif’s lights. No sparkles or sequins though. Sharp-edged discs of metal are not particularly vagina- or penis-friendly.

“Are we supposed to put these on now?” asked Benson.

“I guess,” I said, not really listening. My attention was drawn to the Russian team. They’d paired up and had started practicing in earnest. Dmitri and Nina were at opposite sides of a floor mat, preparing for their mount. “Benson. Look at
them
.”

Benson, Soraya and I watched the Russians start their routine. We watched them pose for one another. Watched them circle each other on the mat, their eyes never leaving each other’s face. Watched their beautifully executed first pass—in official jargon, the tease—as they came together and wrapped their bodies around each other, touching their genitals against each other but not completing the coupling. A tease indeed—a beautiful, full-of-promise thing, just as a tease was meant to be performed. Even without the music, their routine was breathtaking, their tall, narrow bodies lithe and poetic.

I bit my lip.

Much more and I’d have a VO of my own.

“They’re
good
,” whispered Benson. He had an erection.

“We’re better,” I whispered back, “aren’t we?”

He ran his fingers through his wavy blond hair. “Yeah.”

Coach Bob clapped his hands. “Leah. Benson. You’re up.
Why aren’t you dressed?
Get dressed!”

I pulled my uniform top over my head and patted the inch-wide piece of fabric into place around my neck, making sure the “V” fell between my bare breasts. Then I swiped the “stickum” applicator on my skin to keep the “V” in place. Now for the uniform bottom. I bit my lip—sometimes I had a hard time finding the front. I tugged the uniform bottom over my thighs, my hips then smoothed the narrow elasticized band around my waist. It echoed the lines of the uniform top, complete with a small “V” that pointed downward toward my pubic mound and my neatly trimmed, light-brown pubic hair. Everything below the band was bare except for the ankle cuffs I slipped over my feet.

I was dressed.

Benson was dressed too. His uniform matched mine, except he had no neck band. The colors set off his pale skin. His erection was gone of course. It was all about control, just like our coaches always said.

We were ready.

Coach Bob motioned impatiently at us. “Okay, guys, take your places. Start with
Wood Nymph
. No music. You’ve got to imagine it.” He clapped his hands again. “The rest of you! What are you looking at? Get your jollies elsewhere. You’ve got your own work to do!”

Wood Nymph!

My favorite of our routines!

It wasn’t the most difficult of the three—that would be
Amazon Queen
, which we were saving for our final round
.
Nor was
Wood Nymph
the least demanding—that would be
Bathing Beauty
, a proven crowd-pleaser Coach Bob had slated to be tomorrow’s Olympic debut performance
.
But I loved
Wood Nymph
all the same
.
Its charm captivated me every time, a tight-rope play between the characters that sucked me in and took me over.

It made me shiver in anticipation.

I patted the “V” of my uniform top, straightening non-existent wrinkles, watching my coach. Favorite routine or not, Coach Bob had seen some small flaw in
Wood Nymph
that needed to be addressed.

Benson and I stood at opposite corners of the mat, striking our opening poses. I pulled my hips in tight. I lifted my chin. I extended a leg and pointed the toes. I thrust my breasts toward my waiting lover—for it was a love story we were acting out—and crossed my hands over my pubic region, a damsel both flirtatious and demure.

Benson’s pose complemented mine.

I peeked at him. Like every time we performed, as soon as we took our poses he no longer looked like himself. Everything changed in an instant. His stance, the way he held himself, the expression on his face—everything. I loved this moment—it was magic, the transformation. It was as if I didn’t know him at all, as if he were no longer my dear friend Benson, whom I’d known for years, who ate diet pizza with me cross-legged on my bed, who helped to fold my freshly laundered clothes because he loved the soft warmth of them, who coupled with me when I was feeling low just so he could see me smile again.

That
Benson was gone.

Taking his place was a stranger. A stranger enchanted by a vision of my female loveliness. A stranger ready to do anything to attract the woman he wanted. A beautiful stranger whose muscles stood out in sexy definition and whose naked, growing cock waited like a prize for me and for me alone.

If you asked me, I would say he was the vision of loveliness. My heart quickened.

“At my count,” said Coach Bob. “One. Two. Three. Start!”

I imagined the music in my head. I’d heard it so many times, it wasn’t hard. Neither did I have to think about the nine cardinal rules of sexual gymnastics—they were so ingrained in me that I hadn’t actively thought about them for years. But they were always there, just the same.

Rule number one. Start slow, end fast.

Rule number two. Whenever possible, do not break eye contact with your partner.

It was time to begin the tease.

My gaze never leaving Benson’s, I extended my leg, keeping it straight with toes pointed, pulling it slowly toward my chest with my arm in one long, graceful movement. I lifted it higher, higher,
higher
, until my toes pointed toward the ceiling. Now I was in the
Calling Stork
pose, doing a standing splits with my genitals bared for all to see.

Everyone, that is, except for my paramour. I’d carefully positioned myself so
he
couldn’t see a thing.

Rule number three. Keep him wanting.

Rule number four. Make the audience join his desperation. Make them want it as much as he does.

Our moves were perfectly choreographed. Whatever I did, he echoed. Whenever I made a move toward him, he did the same. When I gave him carefully rationed glimpses of myself, his appreciation showed in his growing erection. When we were so close we could touch—but didn’t—when we circled one another, creating a field of desire, when I finally allowed his cock to graze my belly, flick my buttocks, rub my mound, touching but not yet coupling,
that
was what sexual gymnastics was all about.

And I loved it.

Rule number five. You are making love to the audience. Do not forget it.

Rule number six. Make them wait for it.

But I had to wait too! And waiting was so hard, so hard. I’m human! I want it! Just like anyone else. By the end of the tease I was so ready for the mount—for the first coupling of a routine—that I had to force myself to pay attention to what I was doing or I could have found myself dashing across the mat to throw myself at Benson.

But I must not.
I could not.

Gold medals rely on self-control and I was determined to earn a gold medal.

“Your elbow, Leah!
Elbow!
How many times must I repeat myself?”

I felt Coach Bob’s hand move my left elbow upward a fraction, which changed the alignment of my shoulder, my neck, my body—heck, that elbow even threw my innocent pussy out of alignment! But I made the adjustment and didn’t miss a beat. The routine must go on. Nothing must cause us to stop in mid-routine,
nothing
, no matter what happened. You’ve seen a gymnast fall off the balance beam during competition? It’s dreadful. You know her heart is breaking, but she gets right back on the beam and goes on.

Well, that’s what we have to do too.

So even though Coach was messing with my elbow, correcting me, I didn’t allow him to throw me off my game. I didn’t quit. I was, like I said, burning with desire for Benson. I had eyes only for him. I was doing the
Slow Spin
, my face a mere inch from his, and Benson was doing its opposite, the
Seeking Turtle
. Me on tiptoe, with one leg in the air, and him too, one leg in the air, his cock so close, so close, touching, probing. We
ached
for one another!

Oh! The agony!

Rule number seven. Make it worth the wait.

Coach Bob slapped me on the butt. I almost came.

Gazing at each other, Benson and I leaned inward. My nipples brushed his chest. His breath came in shallow pants. “Hey, babe,” he whispered. Each and every time, just as we’re about to do the mount, he says it. I love him for it.

“Hey,” I whispered back.