AmericasDarlings (3 page)

He bent the leg he was standing on, slowly, slowly, slowly, until our genitals lined up, displaying a feat of strength that made his muscles ripple in a most enticing manner.

His warm cock nudged me in my special place.

I opened for him.

Then, suddenly, in one bold movement, he was
in
me.

The mount!

I gasped. I clutched at him even as I prepared for the next move we’d be executing. Oh the
sweetness
of him! That delicious cock, filling me, feeling so good, so
right
, sending shivers down my legs and making my nipples throb. He touched my innermost parts and made me feel happy again. It was everything I’d been waiting for.

Gasping is allowed.

He clasped my hands, drew them high over our heads. We were still on tiptoe, still on one foot, still in the impossible
Slow Spin-Seeking Turtle
pose. Sex in this position is every bit as difficult as it sounds. My breasts were mashed against his chest. I felt him deep within me, gently moving, caressing, a conversation just between the two of us. My hips and buttocks swayed with his motion. He pulled me close, his long body against mine, and kissed me.
Oh!
I shuddered and broke eye contact for a second—only for a second, gasping. I hoped Coach Bob didn’t notice.

Points. Always points. I couldn’t let it happen tomorrow.

Kisses are allowed.

After the mount. Not before.

Rule number eight. Keep the audience enthralled.

We began the acrobatic portion of the routine. Moving as one, still tightly coupled, still gazing into each other’s eyes, as we’d been coached to do but which came so naturally, we shifted and realigned our limbs until we were low on the mat in the
Crouching Lion
position, me on top, riding him. A great position, one of my favorites. It looks wonderful—all arms and legs and asses—and feels wonderful too, but don’t try it unless you have plenty of experience and, perhaps, a spotter the first few times.

Please.

Benson smiled up at me, his lips parted. He liked it too.

One by one we moved through the acrobatic positions, enjoying them, enjoying ourselves. Which was good, because according to the International Standards of Sexual Gymnastics—which includes the Olympics—our floor routine had to include
eight
of them after the mount. The more difficult, the better. Lord knew the Russians would do some mind-blowing acrobatics. The Chinese too.

“Nice…” said Coach Bob. “Now for the dismount.” Then he slapped Benson on the butt.

Inside me, I felt Benson’s cock leap.

Bad boy, Benson.

Bad,
bad
boy. He liked Coach’s butt slaps every bit as much as I did. I’d have to tease him later.

The moments leading up to the dismount were the most difficult of all—if we were going to fall off the balance beam, so to speak, it would be
right now
. All it would take would be for his cock to slide out of me and entire points would be lost to the judges. It was the worst of the sexual malfunctions.

It had happened to us before.

Together, still coupled, Benson and I rose to our feet. We made it look easy, as we’d been trained to do. Only it wasn’t.

“Do me proud,” said Coach. He stepped away.

Rule number nine. Share your orgasm with the audience.

I’d been holding myself back and now it was almost time for release. My breath came in short, rapid bursts. I moaned aloud. I arched my back and—breaking eye contact, which was allowed for this one purpose—I looked toward the people watching us. There were plenty of people watching, even here, even during rehearsal, and I invited the audience to be part of my rapture. Benson’s body strained against mine, hot and urgent, his thighs moving in rhythm with mine, his cock dancing within me. A rush of blood filled me, warmed every pore of my body—if I could only wait a moment longer! This was what I was trained for! I could
do
it! Benson lowered his head and sucked my nipple then raised it again and sucked my lip. I held my breath, squeezing his cock as hard as I could with my powerful Kegel muscles.

He moaned.

Benson mashed his belly into mine. He pushed his cock further within me, further, further,
further
… Then, without missing a beat, he moved a hand over my stomach and let a finger touch my clit.

Oh! Oh!

Now
I
was the one moaning.

So close, so close!

Benson moved in me and I moved with him. He clutched me around the waist, holding me tight as his cock thrust faster and faster, wilder and wilder, his finger rubbing glorious circles on the most sensitive part of my body.

Now! Now!

In a rush of heat, in an orgiastic fog, we completed the dismount. Benson and I leaped apart from each other in back handsprings—still feeling the shivers of orgasm—and landed squarely on our feet, sticking the landing beautifully. Panting, both of us.

It was over.

We bowed to Coach Bob—tomorrow it would be a bow for the judges. We bowed to each other. Then we walked off the mat.

Steven, the team’s personal groomer, met us. “Nice job,” he said as he pulled two swabs from the kit he carried. “You’ll blow them away tomorrow.”

I spread my legs.

Deftly he wielded a swab—he used the blue ones on me, at my request, because I was convinced they were softer than the yellow ones—over my genitals and down my inner thighs, cleaning away sex juices and lubricant and sweat and Benson’s cum. It was over in seconds.

He did the same for Benson.

“Thanks,” I said and collapsed near the wall, still breathing heavily. I felt lightheaded—dizzy, drained—yet euphoric. I always felt that way after a dismount. Let’s be clear—after an
orgasm
. It had been a good rehearsal. A very good rehearsal. Not perfect but close enough. We were as ready for tomorrow as we would ever be.

Benson flopped down beside me, back to his regular self again. The stranger I’d just coupled with was gone. He ran a hand through his curly blond hair and frowned. “I screwed up the
Crouching Lion
, didn’t I?”

“No. You were fine.”

“Was not. Give me a kiss.”

“Why?”

“For tomorrow. A good-luck kiss.”

I kissed him. I needed all the luck I could get.

Two and a half hours later, showered, massaged, wearing our official parade uniforms, Benson and I were at the broadcast center in the very middle of the Olympic Village, waiting. In just over seven minutes we were scheduled for an interview with the Olympic News Network’s lead sportscaster, Ryan Markham.

Ryan Markham!

I would have to be sure to thank him for giving us our name.

Benson and I sat in the crowded green room with Coach Debbie. Also with us—their interview was scheduled fifteen minutes after ours—were the eight gold medal-winning men from the American rowing team. Absurdly good-looking, every one of them.

“Stop it,” said Benson, turning to me.

“Stop what?”

Coach Debbie put her hand on my knee. “You’re bouncing, honey. You must be nervous.”

“It’s annoying,” said Benson.

I stood up and walked to the windows on the far side of the room and looked down on the Olympic Village. I could easily see the Central Plaza and the lanes radiating from it—the Wagon Wheel, it was called—and that bizarre statue in its center. I made out the Oostif and our quarters. If I craned my head and peered to the left, I could see the gymnastics venue. In the distance, its trademark spires reaching toward the sky, hunkered the squat shape of the main Olympic stadium.

“Leah,” Coach Debbie said, coming to stand beside me, resting her hand lightly on the small of my back, “I think you and Benson will go all the way. I do.”

I turned to her.

“I think you’ll win the gold medal.”

“Really?”

She nodded. Her almond-shaped eyes regarded me, the lids half closed. The corners of her lips curled upward in a slight smile. Her hand moved to my butt.

My insides lurched.

I liked Coach Debbie. I liked her a lot.

She was ten years older than me, maybe more. I loved the graceful way she took me under her wing at times like this. She’d volunteered to walk with Benson and me to the broadcast center so we wouldn’t have to find it on our own. Or maybe—I bit my lip—I was being
managed
again. Coach Debbie was a relatively new addition to the team, having moved to Denver nine months earlier. I’d only practiced with her twice, several weeks ago, and she’d left me wanting more. Much more.

I would have loved to couple with her again.

I smiled back. “Thanks. But I don’t know about gold. Those Russians…”

“Those Russians can’t do what you and Benson do! Not even close. They don’t drive everyone crazy just from watching.” She frowned, thinking. “They don’t
become
their routine, like you do. You’re
good
, Leah.”

“Thanks,” I said again.

“Just don’t break eye contact.”

I sucked in my breath. “You saw that?”

“I did. So did Bob. Automatic deduction.” One side of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Just don’t do it tomorrow.”

“No. I won’t.”

She pointed to the bag slung over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Something for my nephew.”

“Your sister had her baby? When?”

“Last week! His name is Luke.” I slid the bag from my arm and pulled out knitting needles and a shapeless blue-and-green wad. “It’s a baby sweater. I mean, it will be, eventually. This is the back.”

“Cute.” She patted the piece of knitting then measured it with her outstretched hand. Her hand was bigger. “Who taught you to knit?”

“My mom. When I was just a kid.”

Coach Debbie fingered the knitting then picked up the green ball of fuzzy yarn and held it in her palm. “My mother wasn’t exactly the knitting type. I never learned. I wouldn’t have the patience for it anyway.”

I folded the tiny, soft square and tucked it back in the bag. “I do it to calm myself. To relax. Know what I mean?”

She nodded. “That’s good. We all need something like that. I read books.”

We stared out at the Olympic Village. There were more people on the pathways than there had been ten minutes ago.

“Don’t worry about the interview,” Coach Debbie said after a minute.

“I’m not.” It was almost true. Kind of.

“We’ve given Ryan Markham a press release. He knows what he can and can’t get into. You’ll do fine.”

Then it was time.

Coach Debbie took my knitting bag. She gave us a thumbs-up. “Do me proud!”

Benson and I followed the studio manager—according to his badge, his name was
Ricardo Garcia Lopez
—into the recording studio. Ricardo led us into a well-lit room and told us where to sit. He stood back and looked at us and then at the camera then he tugged my seat a smidgeon to the right. He asked Benson to take off his baseball cap. He asked me to unzip my windbreaker. Then he spritzed both of us with water.

“
Perfecto
,” he said, nodding, “like you just performed sex.”

I blinked tiny droplets from my eyelids.

Ricardo laughed. “Sex! My
abuelita
—my grandmother—she would turn in her grave. Public sex in Mexico!
Dios mio!
” He pretended to fan himself and swoon.

A bell chimed.

Ricardo’s eyebrows shot up. “One minute! You are good?”

Benson took my hand, nodded.

I squirmed. Maybe I didn’t want to do this after all.

Ricardo looked us over. “Ryan Markham, he has surprise for you. So you know.”

A surprise? What surprise?

Ryan Markham entered in a rush from a door I hadn’t noticed. A bathroom? He plunked himself down in his chair, which was set very precisely at an angle to our own, then messed with his shirt. He looked flushed. “Sorry,” he said, “ate something bad for lunch. Mexico!” He laughed. “
Ouch.
”

Benson groaned in commiseration. Who
wasn’t
worried about bad water? You’d think that in this day and age we’d have our intestinal issues all worked out, wouldn’t you? But those pesky little waterborne bugs in warm climates are devilishly resistant to attempts to control them, like malaria had been a century ago. We’d been strictly warned to drink only bottled water.

Ryan took a deep breath. “Almost ready. Just act natural—you’ll be fine. Ricardo will give us the five-second countdown then we’ll be live.”

I took my hand from Benson’s and tried to rub the sweat off my palms. It made no difference. They were just as wet as before. I clasped them in my lap. I swallowed.

This never got easier.

Benson and I had done—how many interviews? Eight? Ten?—in the past few months and you’d think I would be used to it by now. I wasn’t. Every interview was as if it were my very first. I closed my eyes and counted to six. It was as far as I got.

Ricardo clapped his hands.

I opened my eyes.

Ricardo began a backward count. When he got to “one” he gave us a thumbs-up.

The cameras whirred.

Ryan sat up even straighter, stared at the main camera and began to speak in his famous, well-modulated voice. “Welcome to the Olympic broadcasting center. I’m Ryan Markham with ONN and here with me today I have sexual gymnasts Leah Collins and Benson White. You may know them as America’s Darlings. Welcome!”

“Thank you,” said Benson.

“Nice to be here,” I said.

Ryan smiled. “You’ve come a long way from the mountains of Colorado.”

Benson cleared his throat. “We’re very excited to be at the Olympics.”

My knee jumped. I put my hand on it. “Yeah. We are.”

“America’s Darlings.” Ryan leaned forward. “Love the name! So tell me.
Do you really have sex?
”

That was always the first thing they asked even if they knew the answer. It never failed.

“Yes,” I said, “we do.”

Benson nodded. “It’s all real.”

“Incredible,” said Ryan. “It looks impossible! Some of those moves look like they could tear you apart.”

I smiled. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

Ryan shook his head. “May I ask you something personal? Are you and Benson a couple? Or do you only
perform
together?”

They all asked that question too.

“Leah and I are friends. Very close friends. We care about each other. But she isn’t my girlfriend.”

“And he isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Do you
have
a boyfriend?” Ryan asked me, one eyebrow raised in his trademark look.

I laughed. “Not right now. We’ve been too busy. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

“That’s the truth!” said Benson.

Ryan turned to him. “So if she were to have sex with someone else, you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. We have sex with other people all the time. It’s part of our training.”

Ryan shuffled the papers on his lap. “Sex with other people. With
lots
of people. It’s a good thing we have those smart anti-STD medicines, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Benson. Then he launched into the prepared spiel we all knew by heart. He spoke of SEXIX—the newest anti-STD medicine—that all of us were on. He spoke of the excellent sexual medical care provided by our team doctor, Doris Chung. He spoke about compulsory birth control measures for both male and female athletes, about sexual health outreach programs.

He did an excellent job. It made me squirm.

“Fascinating, simply fascinating,” said Ryan, shifting in his seat to look directly into the camera. He smirked. “But I know all the men out there have another question. As do I.” He chuckled. “Benson—this question is for
you
.”

Benson leaned forward. He knew exactly what was coming.

“We’re men,” said Ryan, “
We like sex.
”

“So do women,” I said, interrupting.

“Of course, of course! But we men—sometimes our private parts don’t cooperate. Sometimes things get…deflated, so to speak. Especially under pressure.” He leaned forward. “Benson, I sure would like to know how you sexual athletes avoid disaster!”

He knew the answer. He had to. The whole world did.

Benson grinned. “It’s all in the training. Mind over matter. We’re taught from a young age to have exquisite control over our bodies and that includes the penis.” He looked at me. “And the vagina, of course.”

“And the orgasmic response,” I added.

“And being able to perform on demand.”

“And being able to stop on a dime if necessary.”

“And to do it all over again in half an hour. Or in three minutes.”

I nodded. “We take a special vitamin to keep our libido up.”

“It allows for multiple orgasms,” said Benson, “for men.”

“Yes. I know about Vitamin S,” said Ryan. “Too bad it’s still so expensive the general population can’t afford it.”

I bet he can afford it
, I thought.

“The government provides it free to athletes. But the price is coming down,” said Benson, nodding.

I leaned forward. “Vitamin S is the reason it took so long for us to be accepted into the Olympics. They had to make sure we weren’t doping.”

Ryan’s head turned from one of us to the other. “Yes, yes, of course. But even with Vitamin S, you still have to make love in front of
judges
. In front of
cameras
. That’s a boatload of pressure! Wow.”

Benson laughed.

“The rest of us could learn something from you! Like if there’s a black market for Vitamin S. Ha!” Ryan shuffled the papers on his lap. “On to the next question. What can you tell me about the history of your sport?”

It was my turn to give a speech. “It all started with rhythmic gymnastics. The Russians especially. They sparked a revolution. They were tall and slim and graceful. They took ballet lessons. Most of all, they
worked the audience
.”

“Ah. Like you do.”

“Yes. We’re trained to work the audience. Those early rhythmic gymnasts brought something new to the games. Sexuality.”

“Sexuality? But they didn’t have sex in their routines!”

“No. But those girls were amazing. People responded to their sexual resonance.”

Benson jumped in. “Sexual resonance. Exactly. That’s what sexual gymnastics is all about.”

“It’s what we work so hard to create.”

“It’s a special kind of sexuality that invites the viewer
in
.”

“As opposed to pornography,” I went on, “which titillates some people but horrifies an equal number.”

Ryan looked thoughtful. “Sexual resonance. I assume that leads to VOs?”

“It has
everything
to do with VOs.”

“Vicarious orgasms,” said Benson helpfully, “in case your viewers don’t know.”

Ryan looked flustered. “Yes, yes. We know. Thank you.”

“And here we are,” I said, spreading my arms.

“At your first Olympic Games!” said Ryan, “It’s a landmark indeed. History in the making. Congratulations to all of you. What do you think? Are the Russians still dominant?”

I frowned. “They’re good.”

“But we’re better,” said Benson.

“You’re America’s Darlings,” said Ryan. “America has faith in you.” Then Ryan looked directly into the camera. His face changed. “For those of you who have just joined us, we are speaking of sex—sex in the Olympics. As you know, this has sparked controversy.”

Bullshit!
I thought, frowning.
There’s no controversy! It’s all made up! Benson says everyone is laughing at those protesters!

They are…right?

“ONN has a special treat for you, our viewers,” Ryan went on. “We’ve invited Marion Lewis of the Anti-Pornography League to join us in the studio.” He smiled broadly. “We’re going to hear
both
sides of the story!”

What?

Both sides of the story? There
aren’t
two sides! What the
hell
?

My pulse throbbed at my temples.

The door behind Ryan Markham opened. Benson and I turned as one, gaping.

And there she was.

The protester from that morning and from the night before, the woman who’d yelled such horrible things at me. Marion Lewis from the Anti-Pornography League. Joining
our
interview. She stalked right by me and Benson, ignoring us, and sat down in a chair to the left of Ryan Markham. They shook hands.

“Welcome to the show,” said Ryan, “this is going to get interesting.”

“I’m just doing my part to keep the Olympics clean,” Marion said loudly, shooting a dark look toward Benson and me. “We’re working very hard to keep smut out of future games.”