Iran in USA

"It isn't over until it's over, fucker." Chris bumped my shoulder as he passed me, almost dumping me in the pool at the Natatorium. I'd say his expression was a mix of disappointment, determination, and more than a bit of a sneer. I said nothing, and I didn't respond to the aggression. I'm not sure I would have felt or reacted differently if I'd been just below the cut-off line and he'd been just above it.

It's not that I didn't think I deserved my place on the U.S. Olympic men's diving team. I thought I was the best diver in the United States, and I'd had stats from Stanford that made that at least arguable. But the trials here in Indianapolis hadn't been the greatest for me, whereas Chris Fair had outdone himself. By my accounting, we'd come out equal in the trials stats—both on the cusp of being selected or not. The judges must have weighed in past performances, as I think was right, and they picked me over Chris.

I didn't take Chris' warning lightly that it wasn't over yet, though. He'd been named an alternate when we'd met one last time in Indianapolis for the Olympic squad to start jelling, to get our training schedule, and to do a few dives for the coaches to look at and critique. And he'd been here, breathing down my neck as the guy who would be going to Rio if something happened and I didn't make it. That brought a whole new meaning to him nudging me toward the side of the pool when he'd brushed by me.

He could have pinned his hopes on any of the other team members not making it, but he seemed extra resentful that I was on the team and he wasn't. If there was going to be a "convenient" accident that worked in Chris' favor, I was pretty sure it was going to be mine.

Chris had been a collegiate competitor of mine for three years, and we both felt the competition, and neither one of us had any love to give the other. I thought Chris was devious, and I—and others—were careful around him in competition. None of the guys put it past him to give us that nudge in passing that would make us slip, fall, and break something. I was sure, though, that, if it was going to happen, it would be me.

He certainly was still competing today. While we were going through some dives, Coach Wood had left the pool. I wanted to ask him something and sought him out in the office and locker room area of the Natatorium. I found him, but I pulled back from entering the office where I saw him on his back on a desk and Chris straddling his pelvis and riding his cock. I was shocked, but not surprised, by either of them. I knew Chris would do whatever he had to to get what he wanted, and Warren Wood had given me broad hints before that he wanted to fuck me. We too had a long history of being at the same meets, and he had heard that I was gay—which wasn't all that uncommon among male divers—and that, if I liked a guy, I'd let him fuck me.

Wood of course couldn't opening declare as gay, but swimmers knew it well enough to try to use it to get on his team. He put together championship teams. That's why he was the U.S. Olympic swim team coach for Rio.

I didn't particularly like Coach Wood. He had a good body for his age, but he was an arrogant son of a bitch, and those guys who did let him fuck them said he was rough and only cared about his own pleasure. And I'd never thought of going with Chris. He obviously was a bottom, like me, and he was a little shit.

I'd returned to the pool, and it was then, after a while, that Chris had come out and declared that he was still fighting for position.

I looked for Chris as the team was gathering at the Miami airport three weeks later to fly down to Rio for the opening of the summer Olympics, but he wasn't there. There was no reason why he should have been there; alternates didn't travel with the team as long as the team was intact. But I wouldn't have put it past Chris to somehow have worked his way into the trip—just to be there and handy when something "accidentally" happened to a team member. I breathed a sigh of relief when we got on board the charter plane taking us and the men's gymnastics team to Brazil and settled in to meeting some of the really hot guys on the gymnastics team. I quickly zeroed in on Pedro Gonzalez, a dark-complexioned hunk with great musculature.

But I shouldn't have breathed that sigh of relief and I should have been on my guard rather than making eyes with Pedro after the third time he'd passed by my seat on the way back to his and had brushed my arm with his hand. I was still sharing meaningful mating looks with Pedro when Coach Wood came back, sat down in the seat facing mine, and reached over to put both of his hands on the seat arms on either side of me, essentially trapping me in place.

"I've been looking for you, Jason," he said. "I think you and I have some business."

"Business, I asked?" Even then I assumed he was talking about some sort of discussion of my diving.

"You know it was a close call on putting you on the team."

"Yeah, Coach, I didn't have the greatest trials, but I think my competition history stands up well."

"There isn't much distance between you and the alternates. If something were to happen to you—or if you became a discipline problem—I wouldn't have any trouble at all changing you out for an alternate."

"What you are saying, Coach?" I asked.

"I think you know what I'm saying, Jason. You need to continually earn your place on this team. You need to stop playing at teasing and avoiding me and decide you need to be a team player—a player on my team. I'm going forward to the head now. I think you will decide you need to go to the head in a minute or two yourself."

I didn't have any trouble understanding what he meant. I sat on the toilet in the closet-like airplane head, while Coach Wood hovered over me, his hands palmed against the bulkhead behind me, and I gave him a blow job to the point that he was engorged. Hard, he pulled me off the toilet and turned me to the bulkhead, with my hands replacing his on the bulkhead. His hands were busy fingering my ass and squeezing and separating my butt cheeks.

"Nice," he muttered. "I've been looking forward to this."

I heard the snap of a rubber being pulled on and adjusted and then he forced his way inside me with his hard cock, giving me little time to adjust to him and laughing at my objecting groans. Saddled on my ass, his hands went back to the bulkhead in front of me, covering and trapping mine, and he cruelly fucked my ass to an ejaculation. I was no virgin, but neither was I accustomed to being taken this roughly, impersonally, and without a great deal of preparation.

Before we left the head, he said, "Athletes double up in the Olympic village, but coaches get singles. Your roommate isn't going to be seeing much of you at night, Jason. If you want to hold your place on the team, you'll be spending most of the nights in my bed."

When I didn't answer, he banged my head on the bulkhead and said, "I didn't hear you say yes." He banged my head again. "Oh, did that hurt? Maybe I need to give Chris Fair a call?"

"No, Coach, you don't need to call Chris."

"So, you're going to be my fuck toy in Rio? Say it. Thank me for the opportunity."

"Yes, thank you, Coach."

It wasn't that I was traumatized or anything. I fucked around, liked to be fucked, and was fucked a lot. It was mostly that I wasn't attracted to Coach and his reputation was just what I had found—rough and banging his lay's head against the wall a lot. I planned on getting what cock I could in Rio. That was as much a draw for going to the Olympics for me as was medaling. I just hadn't planned on it being Coach's cock I was getting.

* * * *

One of the perks of being on an Olympic team—and not one I'd thought about beforehand—was the pampering the athletes got for their bodies. I suppose professional athletes were used to it, but it certainly wasn't what collegiate diving teams usually got.

The masseur's name was Diego Cielo. He was Brazilian. The U.S. Olympic team didn't go so far as to pay to bring an American down to give massages to its divers—it hired locally. Diego was one magnificent hunk. I was going hard lying on my belly on his massage table with just a skimpy towel over my buttocks before he even touched me with those sensuous and sensual greased-up hands.

He started off with just tight athletic shorts on, his bronzed, muscular torso and bulging biceps, with ropy veins running down his arms being oh so sexy even without taking into account the colorful, swirling sleeve tattoo that came down to embrace and cup his left pectoral muscle. Sensing early, though, that I went hard for him and would take his cock if he wanted to give me a full-body massage, the athletic shorts didn't stay on for very long.

Before we got to the main event, and while I was still on my belly and the towel was still covering my butt, even though his hands had already been under the towel and on my hard cock and his lubed fingers had already been inside me, rubbing my prostate and giving me my first ejaculation, an attendant had come in and put a cardboard box on a counter within my view.

"Ah, good, now the games can truly begin," I heard Diego mutter in that great South American accent of his.

"What do you mean? What's in the box?" I asked.

In answer, he went over and opened the box. He took out a handful of condom disks in wrappers and dropped them on the massage table at my eye level. Each of the wrappers had the Olympic rings embossed on it.

"Rubbers," I said.

"Yes, as you say, rubbers," he answered. "For some, the coinage of the Olympics. I'm told that more are used at the games while they are in session than the whole world uses in a month. I believe it. You aren't uncomfortable with me saying it, are you, Mr. Malloy?"

"No, that doesn't make me uncomfortable. I makes me . . ."

"Horny?" Diego filled in.

"Yes, horny," I answered.

"Ah, I thought so. You got hard for me quickly. You take men's cocks, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes, I take men's cocks," I answered.

"Is that what you would like from me? Would you like me to fuck you?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Turn over, and turn your head toward me," he said.

When I'd done so, I found that he'd lost the athletic shorts and was in full, up-curved erection. He was presenting his cock to me and I opened my mouth to it. As I sucked on his cock, he stroked mine with a hand. Tentatively, I moved my right hand to his chest, running my fingers up his rib cage, stopping to trace the definition of each one, feeling him shudder at my touch. I ran the fingers over the swirls of color on his left breast, worshipping the perfection of him, and he flexed for me with a low groan, his pectoral muscle bulging out. His nipple puffed up at my touch. He reacted with a slight jerk when I pinched the nipple. I increased the pressure of the inside of my cheeks on his throbbing cock and he began to move it in a slow fucking motion. He had such slim hips and waist, rising to a bulging chest. He was a beautiful young man—years older than I was, but beautiful, hard bodied, berry brown, smooth skinned—even his groin and balls had been shaved. There was a tattoo of a red rose above and to the right of the base of his cock.

I arched my back and moved my left hand to cover his hand on my cock, urging him to squeeze harder, but he pulled the hand out from underneath mine, leaving me to stroke as he took my ball sack in his hand and squeezed and rolled my balls, which was just fine with me too. He reached over me and picked up one of the condom packets.

"I'm going to fuck you, aren't I?" he murmured.

"Yes, please," I answered.

He held up the condom packet for me to see. "Do you want me to open this?"

"Yes," I answered, expelling his cock from my mouth, but only to teeth down one side of it and to suck in his ball sack.

He slit the packet open, took the condom disk out, and asked, "Do you want us to use this, you and I? Or do you want me to bareback you? I'm clean. We're tested regularly."

"I'm not," I answered, with genuine regret.

"And you've been with men indiscriminately?"

"Oh, yes. Does that bother you?"

"Not in the least."

I almost laughed as he placed the center of the disk on his bulb and rolled the rubber down the length of his shaft. The condom had the rings of the Olympic symbol embossed on the shaft.

"Turn back over," he commanded, in a low, guttural voice. I moaned and trembled as I did so. He came up on the table, palmed my belly, and pulled me up to my knees. Then he thrust inside me, my channel already open from the attention his lubed fingers had given it, and fucked me like a dog. He was good, very good.

I was being fucked by the Olympic rings.

"You are loose, and you open up easily to the fingers. You have taken the fist before . . . and more than one man at once?"

"Occasionally. But you are big. I can feel you. You are bigger than most." I knew he'd like to hear that. It was true nonetheless. And I knew he'd like that my voice sounded belabored when I answered him while he was stroking inside me.

"After I finish fucking you, you will take the hand? It will give you a good jack off. You've taken the fist before?"

"If you want to do that. Yes, it makes me come big."

When he'd shot off, I was throbbing but only had come that once. He went up on his knees beside me on the table, pushing me down on my side. His left arm went around me, his hand clasping and squeezing the root of my cock, as he concentrated on how many of the lubed fingers of his other hand he could get in my ass.

"You want this, yes?" he asked.

"Yes, oh yes," I answered, breathless. This was the Olympics. I'd come here to get it all.

Throwing my arms over my head and grasping the edge of the table as he got one, two, three, and then four fingers inside me, up to the knuckles, I groaned and moaned at the full penetration and stretching. He knew his bodies well; he knew I was well used and could take it.

"You'd be surprised how many Olympians like to be fisted," he murmured.

At the moment I couldn't give a shit what anyone else but me liked or was getting, and I yelped as his knuckles were sucked inside my sphincter ring. Mission complete—certainly as far as I was concerned—and I let him know that. Some guys could take it up to the forearm, but I wasn't some guys. He stopped there, momentarily, giving me time to adjust to having a fist in my ass, as I panted and whimpered. Happily, his hands were not broad at the knuckles.

"God, I'm fucked," I whispered.

"Yes, you are all mine now," he murmured. "I have you by my fist. You're doing fine. You're beautiful and fine."

When my trembling came under control, he set about massaging my prostate—making a comment about internal massage being as important as external—with his buried fingers and squeezing the base of my cock with the other hand until, with a cry, I shot my second load over the side of the table.

To give him greater access, I had raised and bent my right leg and set the foot down on the other side of his slim hips and he'd turned his pelvis toward me. When I had come, he withdrew his fingers and penetrated me again with his cock, sheathed in a second Olympic rings condom. I panted and moved my pelvis with the rhythm of the second fuck as he fucked me deeper and more slowly.

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I murmured, breathing in shallow little bursts, clutching at the edges of the massage table, concentrating all of my attention on the thick shaft moving inside me, expertly finding and rubbing my prostate and then kissing the walls as it slowly penetrated deeper. Turning my face into his chest, I found his nipple, and sucked hard on it. He gasped, and I gasped as he quickly pulled his shaft back and then gasped again when he plunged in. Again and again and again. The master, moving methodically to his second ejaculation, announced with a "Shit, that's good!"

This was a massage the likes of which I'd never had before.

"You like to be fucked, don't you?"

"Yes," I whispered, wondering if he'd do it a third time. Ready for him if he did.

"You'll do well here at the Olympics," he said. "Prime meat, randy and cocky. And for you, many narcissistic men, in love with their own bodies and those of other men. And you have a great body and a dynamite face. You are flexible and can take a big cock. You'll get all of the attention you can handle in the village. The only ones who won't be interested are those limiting themselves to women and those who doped themselves into being eunuchs. They will be weeded out soon enough, though. Just don't forget me. When you go to schedule another massage, remember the name Diego Cielo. I'll give you more Olympic condoms then. You'll need more by then."

"Yes, of course I'll ask for you." I reached for his cock, but he already was climbing down from the table. A glance at the clock told me our session was over. In one fluid move from the table, Diego was pulling his shorts back on and sending the two condoms, bloated like slugs with his cum, in a perfect arc and into a nearby wastebasket. Just another Olympic guy massage session for him?

Gotta say it was memorable for me. They say about sex and Olympic athletes, "What plays at the Olympics, stays at the Olympics," but I wanted to shout the cocking skills of this Diego guy to the treetops.

As I was leaving, he opened the box and scooped up a handful of condoms. Handing them to me, he said, "These are like gold in the Olympic Village. I think you will need these and even more. You are a highly sexed—and sexy—young man." I glowed in the compliment. I wanted to say that he was nifty as could be at fucking to, but I'm sure he already knew that.

* * * *

The supply of condoms Diego gave me did last until the next time he massaged—and rode—me, but only because most of the men I went with provided their own. Diego had been right. As seriously as the athletes took their turn at sports competition, just as seriously did they take their sex orgies and in putting as many notches involving different nationalities on their gym bags as they could during the two weeks of the Olympics.

I saw so many Olympic rings condoms being rolled onto cocks before the cocks disappeared inside me or whatever guy was beside me at a party and being fucked at the same time that after a few days I couldn't see the symbol anywhere without thinking of rubbers and hard shafts. News traveled fast in the Olympic Village and no news moved faster than information on who would take cock—and how well they took it. I must have established a good reputation for taking it, because I took a lot of it.

I had to bunk with a roommate, but that was taken care of for me. The dark-complexioned, hunky-bodied U.S. gymnast Pedro Gonzalez had gotten to whoever did the room scheduling and got me put in his room. Ten minutes after we had been shown to the room, he was mounted on my ass, fucking me. That was when we still had a supply of rubbers we'd brought with us. They didn't last long. He was athletic, flexible, inventive, and demanding. I was flexible and game to have my body manipulated in this or that demanding position, as long as he could get his cock in my ass or my mouth. His very first position after the initial, wild, needy doggie fuck was what he called a flying eagle, with him sitting on the foot of the bed, feet on the floor, hands gripping my wrists, as, facing away from him, my body was cantilevered out over his knees, my legs streaming back around his hips, and Pedro pulling me on and off his cock.

I wasn't there most nights—I was in Coach Wood's bed—receiving rough but fairly standard fucking most of the nights. But we didn't practice or compete all that many hours of the day, and there was time almost every day for Pedro to show me a new, demanding move.