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  “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.
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br />   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.

  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—tomorr
ow 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.

  Chapter Two

  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.