Beware the Coach

They held there for a few minutes, both panting. Ken felt the Russian going hard inside him again, though. Without further preliminary, the significantly larger and much more powerful Russian grasped Ken at the waist, pulled off the table, and rotated his body so that Ken was draped on Tsarevich's front, his head down to the floor—but at the level of the Russian's groin.

"Show me you can do the splits. Put your legs in the splits position." Ken complied. "Now suck my cock and do a good job of it." Ken complied. And he gasped and moaned and groaned as Tsarevich attacked his cock, balls, and hole with his mouth.

Tsarevich fucked Ken for several minutes from the back, his cock buried up in Ken's hole and his hands palming Ken's pecs, holding the young man's body close into his. Ken had an arm stretched back and around the Russian's neck, and they had their faces turned to each other in a kiss.

And then Tsarevich fucked Ken more athletically, with Ken suspended off to the side of a massage table, his arms behind him, supporting him on top of the table, and the Russian standing and facing him, holding Ken close into his body, with Ken's legs hooked on the Russian's hips, while the Russian fucked him in slow, deep strokes and the two watched the effect of what was happening to them in the other's eyes.

Then it was back to the Russian standing, with Ken draped in front of him, Ken's legs bent back to twist around the Russian's thighs, and Tsarevich immobilizing Ken's arms in a full Nelson hold.

Tsarevich creamed Ken's channel there, having fucked Ken bareback with the declaration that as long as he was being coached by the Russian, no other man would be inside Ken. Ken had already spent his load twice by that time.

The Russian laid Ken on the massage table again, saying, "You did well. Yes, I think I will take you on."

Ken didn't have much time to celebrate, though, because Tsarevich went on to say, "Before we fuck again, you must be hairless. There will be no hair on you other than on your head. We may keep the shoulder-length hair for the androgynous look. Or we may not. But the rest of the hair. It goes. I shave you now."

"Yes, master," Ken answered in a tired voice of surrender. "Anything you want to do to me."

It all got saved: pits, the dusting under the pecs and down to the belly, the pubes, the forearms and calves. Even the rim of his asshole. Tsarevich held Ken's cock as he shaved in the privates, and Ken ejaculated for the third time.

They were in their second fuck session when Jim Wilton and Chad Culbertson heard them from the locker room. Ken was standing sideways next to the massage table, his right leg raised and resting on the table, his body twisted around to the left, as the Russian, standing behind him and fucking him from behind had both hands clutching Ken's throat. The Russian was pounding him hard and deep.

"Yes, yes, yes. Like that. But deeper, harder. Fuck me harder! I'm gonna cum! Shit, you're gonna fuckin' split me in two!" Ken was crying out.

* * * *

I sat back on my haunches just inside the backdoor of my specially configured van and smoked a cigarette as I watched Chad Culbertson look at me with both fear and arousal in his eyes. I'd just finished eating out his ass and sucking his cock dry after tying him off. His hole was gaping open for me—and twitching. He wanted me inside him. His back was on a low, carpet-covered cube I kept in the back of the van for the purpose of putting a man's ass at a good angle for my penetration.

His arms were pulled over his head, with his wrists tied off on an anchor behind the front seat. His long, elegant legs were split straight out from his body, with his ankles tied to anchors on the side walls of the vehicle.

His ass was twitching, causing the dildo I had stuffed in his ass to wave at me. His ball gag was going to muffle any sound getting beyond the van walls where I'd parked it in a lot a quarter of the way up Pike's Peak, deserted at night because anyone would have to be suicidal to be tooling around the switchback curves of the top half of that mountain at night.

I had explained everything I was going to do. He had said he wanted it—that he'd do anything to get a coach who would put him on a winning track again. I'd even made him crown my cock with the condom. And I'd taken cell phone shots of him doing it. I wasn't going to get into the type of trouble Sergey was headed toward—not being able to approve that the skaters were willing to trade fucking for training.

Putting out the cigarette, my cock ready because I'd been jerking off while I smoked, I came off my haunches, crouched my way to him, grasped and spread his butt cheeks, pulled the dildo out, skewered him with my own hard cock, and pumped him vigorously to an ejaculation. Once inside him, I let loose of his buttocks and worked his cock with one hand and his nipples with the other, as he writhed as he could under me and did what he could to respond to me vocally through his ball gag.

After I gave him a rest from both of us ejaculating, I unbound him, but only to bind him again, belly down, with his nice long legs tied together around the thighs and calves and tied off at the anchor behind the front seat, his body inclined toward the floor of the van at the near end of the cube. His arms were stretched out to the side and tied off on the inner walls of the van.

Mounting his ass in reverse, I fucked him facing the front of the van. When I felt myself ready to blow, I pulled out of him, slipped the condom off, came around to his head, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, relieved him of the gag, came on his face, and made him clean my cock with his mouth.

While I was fucking him, I made a decision. He wanted a higher level coach so badly that he was willing to do this. I would have liked to fuck him more conventionally and passionately, but I was testing him—testing how far he would go.

He apparently would go wherever a coach wanting to trade fucking for training wanted to go.

I felt bad. Sandra Elerby wasn't up at the Broadmoor Hotel. I had no idea where she was. I was going to dump him here on the mountain and let him find his own way back—arriving too late to undermine my son's campaign to sign with Sergey Tsarevich.

But I was being a heel. The guy wanted this chance so much. And he was good. He was really good. I hadn't been lying in any of the things I said he needed to correct—all minor—to be champion class—or at least a contender if he could stay on his feet during a program when it counted.

I sat and held him, both of us crouching on the cube, until he stopped trembling.

"I'm as good at what you need as Sandra Elerby is," I whispered. "You're good, really good. I can help make you great. You let me fuck you when I want to, I'll take you back to Tokyo and train and enter you without expense to you. What do you say?"

"Yes . . . master," he whispered back.

It wasn't disloyalty to Ken. I thought that Sergey could make Ken the gold medalist that Chad couldn't quite become. But I'd do everything I could to get him there. I'd make sweet love to him every day, and he'd be all the more advantaged to be half a world away from that bitch of a mother he had.