Viktoria came to a stop cooly at the edge of the pool next to Jake, aware he had been watching her. Normally quite shy, Viktoria didn’t even blush.
Jake slipped beneath the lane divider and re-emerged with his body flush against hers. Viktoria felt something brush against her legs. Maybe the rumors are true?
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Jake?”
“Might be. But how do I know I’m not dreaming right now?”
Jake felt Viktoria’s nipples on his chest and her soft breasts gently bobbing against him. He swam forward, pinning her to the bottom step of the pool ladder.
“What about you, Viktoria? Got any dreams I can make come true?”
“I’m starting to think you’re the only man who can.”
Jake’s hand slipped between Viktoria’s legs. She’s wet, even for someone in a pool. He rubbed her clit with his thumb while he worked two fingers into her. Her head bent back as her back arched and her nipples met Jake’s eager mouth.
Viktoria needed both hands to stroke Jake. She barely believed her luck. Jake was the unicorn of men, a mythical beast she didn’t know existed outside of her fantasies. Viktoria’s hunger could not be satiated by two fingers any longer. She needed Jake to fill her with both of his dicks.
He positioned her just on the edge of the ladder and plunged into her. He gripping the ladder rail and placed his feet on the pool wall to reach the perfect angle. Viktoria gasped in ecstasy. She’d never felt so full, so complete.
She wrapped her legs tightly around Jake to pull him deeper inside. The sight of her D cup tits bouncing in his face and the feeling of her tight, wet, warm holes sent Jake over the edge.
With one final thrust, Jake and Viktoria came together. They clung to each other, trying to catch their breaths. They wanted to make this moment last forever.
Slowly, Jake carried Viktoria up the ladder. They collapsed together on the floor laughing. Viktoria put her head on Jake’s chest.
“Promise me something, Jake?”
“Of course.”
“Please don’t pinch me - if I’m dreaming I don’t want to ever wake up.”
Pairs Routine
The first time they had sex--no, scratch that, the first time they made love, Michelle proved that she could worship the ground Eric walked on. She knelt at the temple of Eric and she whispered prayers with her fingers, her tongue, whole center. He was soft and slow and gentle and they all but gazed deeply into each other's eyes as they came simultaneously.
It was loving, it was sweet, it was so textbook "Michelle and Eric," known throughout the figure skating world for their sweet, romantic routines, that Michelle was sure their fans could have written the script themselves.
It was okay.
It was five years ago.
"You're a little shit, you know that?" she sneered, jerking him upwards by his hair.
They'd figured some shit out since then.
With his wrists tied behind his back, he was unable to support himself, so his scalp burned as it took his weight. He tried to scream, but didn't manage much noise against the gag shoved in his mouth. She ripped the fabric out.
"Tsk, tsk, Eric. You know the rules," she chided. "If you're a bad little boy and make any noise, you get in trouble."
"I'm sorry," he whispered, hoarse.
"I'll let it slide this time, because I love you," but when she was like this, love was a tool used by the strong against the weak, a weapon of abuse, "but if you make any noise someone might hear, while I'm touching you, you don't get to come."
He didn't trust his voice, so he nodded in agreement.
"Good," she said, licking dry lips. She shoved him back on the bed and pushed his legs open, one idly stroking his already-hard dick, the other rubbing her own clit.
The silence she always demanded applied only to him. As she pushed him into her, she let out a low, shuddering moan. It burned, but God help him, it felt so good. He could feel blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline surging through his body at the first hint of pain, at the first hint of something to perform. This was a routine, and on the ice he was the strength, but here he was weak against her, who needed little effort to keep him pressed to the mattress, his hands long asleep from the tightness of the rope and the weight of his body pressing against them.
The more she rocked against him, the slicker they became, so the harder she gripped his hips to compensate, her thumbs digging into his flesh, sure to leave matching bruises. It took all he had not to whimper each time she brought her weight slamming down hard, and he rolled his head up to the ceiling, biting his bottom lip hard. She bent her head down towards his face, he thought to kiss him, but she licked his lip, and just as he registered the drop of his blood cherry-bright against the softer pink of the tip of her tongue, she came, wordless, and he focused on not coming himself, not before she allowed. He could be good.
She fell onto the mattress, silent for several long moments, while he could think of nothing but blood pounding in his dick. "You were so well-behaved," she said, as she recovered. "Not even a peep. I think that deserves a reward, don't you? I suppose I'll let you come."
There was nothing gentle about the way she sucked him. Like she was the predator, and he was the prey. Like he was Nancy Kerrigan and she was Shane Slant. Like she was him and he was his flawless Salchow leap. His orgasm didn't gently spread to his extremities, like it did in the early days, nor with a strong pulsating beat like at night when he would stroke his own dick in order to practice coming without even a hitch in his breath. No, she ripped his orgasm out of him, like his heart had taken up thundering residence between his legs and she was tearing it out with her teeth.
He'd been so exhausted from skating he cried, he'd cut himself and even as a teenager broken an ankle that had taken years to spring back from, but there was no pain like this. No pain, because it was wrapped up in pleasure and then pain again, and he knew if he let even the slightest crack in his armor show, she'd take it out on him next time tenfold and he wasn't even sure he didn't want her to. He reveled in it.
But then he crossed over the line where it was too much for even him. If his voice didn't work, she'd keep at it forever and maybe he'd go crazy in his head or something, but luckily for him, his whispered "Lutz Jump" was loud enough for her to hear and she stopped.
As he caught his breath, she untied his hands. He shook them a few times to wake them up, and that was a pain/pleasure in and of itself. By the time they didn't just feel like limp meat at the end of his wrists, he settled down onto the bed next to her. He curled into her one sweat slick leg slung over his, a lazy hand on her breast.
He could read the question in her eyes, so he kissed her. A gentle kiss between them, now. "Fuck, Michelle," he murmured against her lips. "That was amazing."
"You're perfect," she said.
"So are you," he replied.
Undercover
If she never had to use a skeleton key ever again, it'd be too soon. Sneaking around the International Hotel had seemed like a dream come true at the time, a way to get up close and personal with hot athletes from all over the world, but as Amelia prepared to supply the last few bottles of Ambrosia water, she was ready for this day to be done.
She knocked on the hotel room door. Dressed in her housekeeping outfit, if anyone opened the door, she was prepared to talk about how the bottles of water were compliments of the hotel, but she got no reply. So into the room she went.
The room was empty, silent. Looking around, she couldn't tell who it belonged to, no obvious sport or even nationality touches. She set up the water bottles with a little "Compliments of Ambrosia Water! Have A Great Games!" card.
She was so tired, and the athlete bed looked so much more comfortable than her own, a glorified cot in a dingy hotel on the outskirts of the village. She sat down on the edge for just a moment, sinking into the mattress. She knew she shouldn't, but it was just so tempting, and she laid back, scooting so her head was on the pillow.
Pea
ce. That was what she felt. In the security of the room, she could finally relax for the first time since arriving at the games.
But her security was shattered as a moan leaked through the walls. Now that she heard it, she couldn't help but notice the rhythmic squeaking, undoubtedly from a bed just on the other side of the wall. She smiled to herself. The formula was working. Athletes couldn't contain themselves, couldn't keep themselves from fulfilling their greatest sexual desires.
Just the thought of it made her turned on. She found her hands roaming, her legs spreading. She lifted the skirt of her maid's uniform and slid a hand into her panties. She thought back to the athletes she'd seen from afar.
And in her mind, her hand was no longer her own. It belonged to Dimitri Roalf, the dark-haired skiier with muscular abs and a wicked smile. Dimitri rubbed her clit, growling guttural Russian syllables.
Marco Martinez, a curler from Mexico. She could barely keep her eyes open during her pre-mission briefing on curling, but for the close up shot of Marco in her dossier, his strong fingers and rippling forearms. Marco slipped one of his fingers inside her, then two--
She could feel Bryan Flash's gorgeous lips on her neck, Tim Zheng taking her nipple between his fingers. The athletes coupling on the other side of the wall, and it was like they were with her, an orgy in stereo.
She imagined all of these beautiful, firm, glistening men. They brought her to the edge of orgasm until she couldn't take it anymore and then they still kept touching her, until her legs were shaking and her will weak. Her orgasm was so all encompassing, so powerful, that she forgot they weren't there with her, their names a benediction--DimitriMarcoBryanTimDimitriMarcoBryanTimDimitriMarcoBryanTim...
And then it was even too much for her, too much pleasure and too much pain, and she had to take her hands away, and that moment of disconnect was just as intense as anything she had felt.
She knew she shouldn't remain on this bed. Knew at any moment she could be discovered. And even though she wasn't entirely sure discovery wasn't what she really wanted, as soon as she was confident her legs could hold her again, she stood, smoothing her dress back in place.
All this was a fantasy. But it didn't have to remain so.
On her way out the door, she grabbed a water bottle and took a sip of Ambrosia. She wasn't going to be left out of the fun.
Last Chances
Jacqueline Rouge had missed a triple-axel in her routine during practice three weeks ago, and since then she'd thought of nothing else. She'd made every one since then, but still it haunted her from the moment she woke up until the moment she fell asleep, the memory of her body betraying her, the heavy feeling of momentum doing something unexpected, the chill of the ice penetrating the flimsy protection of her tights.
She was twenty-six years old. No woman had ever won a figure skating medal in the Global Games past that, the judges favoring the younger, prettier girls with their smooth skin and lithe bodies. This was it. If Jacqueline fucked up her routine tomorrow, this was it. She'd never take home gold, be forever consigned to the footnotes of history, a passing mention for the bronze she'd taken home five years ago.
The frustrating part was that she was good. She was amazing. Ever since last year when she fired that skeezeball coach John Bedding, whose fingers always lingered too long against her sensitive inner arms while correcting her form, she'd only gotten better and better, and this routine was an expression of all of her passion, all of her skill, and all of her being as a woman.
Which is why it was so frustrating to be cooped up in her hotel room like this, thinking about tomorrow. Fretting, dreading, this day she had worked so hard for and should by all rights be enjoying. She drained an entire bottle of water as she paced, worrying the paper wrapper attached to the bottle until it fell off in tatters.
She couldn't take it anymore. So warm and feeling like she was about to vibrate out of her skin, she made the decision. One last practice. Surely there was ice around here somewhere, where she could strap on her blades and skate all of the nervous energy out of her body. At the very least, she had to get out.
"Where ya headed?" she heard as she locked her door. She spun around to find him standing behind her, arms folded across his impressively muscled chest.
Bryan Flash. The All-Star center for the U.S. hockey team.
"Gotta find some ice," she said.
"Is that smart?" he asked. "Isn't your event tomorrow?"
"Since when have I done the smart thing?"
"Ooh," he replied, clutching his chest as if shot. "You wound me, Jackie."
"Jacqueline," she replied curtly. "You've lost that privilege."
Truth be told, sometimes when she was alone, she remembered that night.
They'd met on the commercial shoot for this year's games, his first. It was always easy to tell the new athletes by the way they strutted around the village, eyes held high, full of confidence that their competitors couldn't want the glory nearly as bad as they did.
And Bryan fit the mold, flirting with every makeup girl, production assistant, and photographer he could rest his eyes on. But he'd chosen Jacqueline, recognized that same drive in her, the determination to dominate the ice. But the same determination that brought them together would be the same thing that made a relationship between them impossible.
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and walked away, leaving Bryan behind in the hallway. "Wait!" he called after her. "Maybe I'll come with you."
She wanted to say no. She wanted to make Bryan Flash leave her alone.
And yet...
Droplets still clung to his lower lip from his last gulp from his water bottle, glistening in the impersonal light of the hall. She suddenly imagined herself standing on her tiptoes, reaching up and gently licking those droplets away. One of his strong hands threading through her hair, the other on her lower back, supporting her as she leaned into him...
She shook her head. What was wrong with her tonight?
"Fine," she replied. "But we're going to the ice," she stressed.
"I love the ice," he replied with a devilish grin.
By the time they got to the locker room, Jacqueline felt like she was coming out of her skin. She tried to unzip her gym bag, but her fingers couldn't cooperate, nor her eyes. It was like they were glued to Bryan. He looked up and caught her gaze.
She couldn't take it any longer. She crossed the distance between them, and suddenly, everything felt right. She slid her hands under his shirt, his stomach warm against her cool fingers. He raised his arms to help her remove his shirt, his impressive abs on full display. Still her favorite part of his body was his arms, hard with muscle and covered in tattoo ink, full sleeves all the way down to his wrists. She traced one of the curls with the tip of her tongue, but he put his hand under her chin and lifted her mouth up to his.
His lips tasted like sunlight, like the last gasp of summer.
Kissing Bryan was like a skating routine. Slow at first, graceful, but gradually picking up in speed and power. Before she knew it, they were kissing hard and fast, Bryan stripping her clothes off with surprising efficiency. She'd been naked in locker rooms before all her life, but not like this. Not so charged up, so hot.
She shoved him against the locker, and if anything her surprising show of strength seemed to turn him on even more. Against her leg, she could feel his dick through the fabric of his jeans, so she reached down and undid the button. She slid her hand under the elastic waistband of his boxers, her fingers just barely brushing him. He exhaled against her skin, his whole body shuddering.
"I want you," he said, and some distant part of her mind observed how surprised she was that she wanted him, with matching ferocity to what his voice betrayed.
She pulled down his pants, dipping down with them until she was kneeling in front of him. She licked her lips, before taking the length of him in her mouth. She tongued long, careful strokes, her lips tight against him.
She pulled away. “I don’t know,” she repl
ied, and the look on his face was near-incredulous, that she would resort to good old-fashioned blue balling this far in. She smiled at his misunderstanding. “Seems like I should be getting some enjoyment out of this.”
He looked prepared to perform the simultaneously quickest and most thorough oral sex of his life, but to his relief, she positioned herself against him, the skin of her inner thigh brushing his cock. He let out a shuddering exhale, and so was already breathless when she lifted herself onto him.
“Feel good?” she asked.
“Oh—” was all he managed to choke out.
They rocked together against the lockers, and she arched her back as he reached up to touch her breasts. Everything about this felt right. Everything felt perfect. They fit together, and she wasn't sure why she had resisted for so long. His hands roamed up and down her sides, light touches that almost tickled, if they didn't feel so good. Her hands remained planted in place, gripping the muscles of his arms.
Cold Sports, Hot Bodies: A Collection of Erotic Short Stories Page 2
