Iran in USA

He wasn't possessive. He had grown friendly with an Israeli gymnast, with black curly hair, one who didn't shave his body as most gymnast did and therefore stood out a bit more than most of them as a sexy man. Pedro and Moshe fucked me together, usually with Moshe under me, his dick buried up in my ass and Pedro taking various flexible poses above and behind me, stroking inside me on top of Moshe's cock.

Apparently there weren't that many men at the Olympics who would take doubles because my dance card quickly filled up with requests for this specialty.

And then there were the hours in which it rained and all of the outdoor competitions were suspended. I would lay on my bed, on my back, with my legs bent and spread, and a succession of hung, cut athletes would come and go from our room, going between my legs and coming in my channel—and then arcing those condoms emblazoned with the Olympic rings expertly into the waste bin. Everyone was keyed up at the Olympics. Everyone wanted to release tension. Many were virile and oversexed. Many of the men athletes were narcissists and worshipped not only their own bodies but also those of other men. Most men were tops. Not that many were willing, seeking bottoms. When it rained in Rio, I could count on spending a lot of time on my back, with my legs open, and my channel filled with a thrusting cock sheathed in a condom with the Olympic rings emblazoned along the shaft. I wouldn't be surprised if I left Rio with the shape of the rings transferred to my inner passage walls.

These rainy-day events—and I don't want to claim that it rained all that often during the day at the Rio Olympics—led to a challenge game between Pedro and me. We didn't have room maid service in the Olympic Village. Fresh sheets and towels would be left by our door every third day, there were cleaning implements and a sweeper in a hall closet if we needed them, and we were responsible for emptying our own trash cans down a chute at the end of the hall. Pedro and I designated one of our trash cans for condom discarding and nothing else and we didn't empty that can until the end of our stay. I bet Pedro I could fill the trash can just from condoms used with me and he bet I couldn't. Even though he did what he could to fill it, he won the bet—but not by much. I didn't quite get the trash can filled. Granted, it was a pretty big can.

Even with all those men, though, I wasn't being overtaxed. My goal was to find one who stretched me to the point of splitting, who held me, panting heavily completely in his filling possession, and who I'd remember for a week as I hobbled around bowlegged. Surely among all these hunky Olympians I could find the god of the cock.

Pedro and I grew close. I had graduated that year at Stanford. He had graduated the year before from Michigan State and had taken an advertising job with an athletic sports gear company in Denver. I'd received an offer from the same company. We started talking about me taking that job and the two of us rooming together in Denver. The opportunity was looking good. Pedro had a beautiful body and he was hung. He also was liberal about partying but was good about cleaning up afterward. Neither of us were slobs or clean nuts to an irritating degree. We got on well together.

Our events weren't scheduled on top of each other's. He got me tickets to the gymnastics and I got him tickets to the diving competitions.

It was while I was watching the first night of Pedro's competitions that I first saw Ari Askami. He was sitting next to my masseur, Diego Cielo, across the gymnastics arena. It was Askami, in fact, who first caught my attention. First was his height. I couldn't tell if the guy was standing up or sitting down over there he was so tall. And then it was the breadth of him, his chest and bulging shoulders causing him to impinge into the space of the guys sitting on either side of him. It was just this first impression of massive size, because my gaze drifted off to the right of him, where I saw Diego. Diego had seen me too, and was waving. My attention then went to the floor exercises, where Pedro was performing—and doing very nicely.

When I looked back to Diego, he was in conversation with the massive guy sitting beside him. They were looking over toward me rather than down on the floor at the action. I then saw that the massive guy was old—maybe in his forties—and ugly as sin, with a displaced nose. He was bald. No interest there, so my attention went back to the great bodies on the gymnasts as they performed on the bars and the floor, the vault and the horse.

Next thing I knew, Diego was lowering himself into the empty seat beside me.

"See that guy across the way, the one who was sitting with me?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered, neutrally, not wanting to indicate any interest, because I had none in the guy.

"He's big stuff here. He's coach of the Iranian Greco-Roman wrestling team now, but he's a four-time gold winner himself. Three golds—Greco-Roman, shot put, and javelin—in 1996 and Greco-Roman in 2000. Heavy weight."

"I could tell the heavy weight part," I answered. "1996. That was Atlanta, wasn't it? The year of the bomb?" That's what I said, but the year 1996 was more significantly telling me the guy was at least forty. He stood up now, as he'd been watching Diego talking to me, and he pointed at us from across the area. The guy must be closer to seven feet tall than six and closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. He had a beer belly on him, and, although he was bald, his tattooed shoulders showing in his athletic T were hairy and hair cascaded over the V neckline of the T. Pretty gross, I thought, among all of these young cut bodies in the arena—in the stands as well as on the floor.

"His name is Ari Askami," Diego continued. "He has a problem and I've been telling him about you—about what you'll take. There aren't many who can take him, but he's horny. He wants to fuck you."

"I don't think so, Diego, thanks. But he doesn't look like anything I would be interested in. And I'm having no trouble getting it here in Rio."

"I'm not surprised—but I think you'd be surprised. Here, he gave me a ticket to give you for the Greco-Roman events whether or not you're interested. I think you'd be interested. There are some real hunks in that event." And, with that—after handing me the ticket—Diego left me and my attention went back to the floor. Pedro was on the vault, and, once again, did a magnificent job of it.

He was so euphoric that night that he fucked me good in various athletic positions, including a variation of his spread eagle specialty, where I was pitched out over the foot of the bed like a ski jumper in flight, standing on my toes on the floor, legs spread, and he grasped my wrists, bowing my torso back to him, the two of us kissing, as he crouched between my spread legs and pistoned my channel with his cock. What Pedro lacked in length and thickness, he made up for in inventive technique. I had a platform dive that launched in a similar position to this and thereafter I thought of Pedro fucking me when I took off into that dive.

Diego was right about an interest in watching the Greco-Roman gladiators going at each other, so I used the ticket he gave me to attend a Greco-Roman wrestling event. Not surprisingly, the Iranian team was contesting and Ari Askami, their coach, was strutting up and down the sidelines as they wrestled. He saw me as soon as I entered the small venue and added some "chest up" to his strut. It didn't help much. More impressive were his wrestlers, in their strange and revealing one-piece suits with the scoop back and front and the droop in front that leaves nothing to the imagination about their genital equipment. I looked back at Askami. He had even more of a droop at the crotch than either of his wrestlers did. Diego had told me he was super hung. That was enticing, but the rest of the package wasn't.

The Iranians were very well equipped and I honed into watching two in the 84--96 KG class, the one just below the heavyweight class that Askami had competed in in his Olympics. Given what Diego had told me about Askami's "problem" and what I might be in a position to do for him, I was somewhat curious what he'd look like in one of those wrestling costumes with the drooping genital sack, but the rest of him just grabbed my interest away.

According to the program, the two wrestlers who turned me on were Shahrokh Heshemi and Kuonarie Shahnazi, both with dark, curly hair, thuggish, but handsome faces, and hairy barrel chests that their costumes didn't even begin to hide. They both won each round of their matches during the two-hour competition, and both advanced to the next round. Both also looked up at where I was sitting and smiled when Ari Askami pointed me out in the stands. They stood—more like crouched—in a semicircle pointed toward me, leaning into each other, Askami in the middle, arms around each other's shoulders, baskets pronounced and pulling down on the wrestler's costumes and Askami's athletic shorts. Askami, the coach, was probably giving his boys wrestling pointers, but all three of them took time to pick me out in the stands with their eyes, to mumble to each other as they looked at me, and to smile knowingly and snigger. I went hard at thinking of the possibilities in a foursome.

I stood to give the two wrestlers a good look at me. I did what I could to erase the coach in my mind. I wouldn't have thrown either of the young wrestlers out of bed—even if it weren't obvious that once they'd come into my bed, both their size and their wrestling skills would dictate that they could have whatever they wanted.

I would have happily given them anything they wanted.

My thoughts kept going back to those two in the next two days as I practiced from the opening of my own competition. On the first day of my dive qualifications, Shahrokh and Kuonarie were in the stands, watching, and obviously cheering me on. I hadn't given them tickets and the place was packed. They had to have gone out of their way to get tickets. I did very well that day and advanced to the next round. The two Iranians waited around for me to shower and dress and leave and were standing at the entrance to the venue when I walked out. There were no real preliminaries.

"You dive well," Kuonarie said after they introduced themselves. "You have great body."

"Thanks. You two have great bodies too. I saw you wrestle."

"We know," Shahrokh chimed in. Then right to the reason they'd stayed around. "We saw you watch us and we both wanted to fuck you. We hear you take cock. Two men's cock at once sometimes. As much an orgy that Rio Olympics are, we find it hard to find lays we can share."

"We like to share men," Kuonarie interjected. "We have good cocks."

"We fuck you good, yes?" Shahrokh took his turn.

"The two of us together, yes? You come with us now. We fuck you good. We fuck you now?"

They looked like puppy dogs, panting with their tongues hanging out, wagging their tails. What could I say?

"Yes, OK," is what I said.

They didn't lie. They fucked me together in their shared room in the village—and they both had good cocks. Not great cocks, but good enough, ideal for double penetration, long but not appreciably thick. And they were experienced in taking a man together. They fucked me standing up in the middle of their room, between the two single beds, me sandwiched between them, with my knees hooked on Shahrokh's hips. One of the beds intrigued me a bit. They'd rigged restraints coming down from the ceiling over the bed at the corners, but not directly over the bed—spaced out a good two feet on each side.

After some preliminary frotting and sucking with me sandwiched between the two tall, hunky Iranians, me facing Shahrokh and Kuonarie embracing me from behind—both playing me with their hands and eventually both finding my hole with greased fingers and working together to open me up, Shahrokh, in a guttural voice, instructed me to climb his hips with my legs. I did this, and Kuonarie, from in back, helped guide Shahrokh's cock, sheathed with the omnipresent Olympic rings rubber, to and into my hole. When he was in deep and had bounced me on his cock for a minute or two to get us going, Kuonarie penetrated me from behind with his own Olympic rings-sheathed cock and we were off to the races, the two of them working together expertly to ensure that I had one cock thrusting up into me as the other withdrew and then the reverse.

It was as good a DP as I'd ever gotten. These two had had a lot of practice at it.

I came quickly, after which I found that the restraints over the bed were exactly for what I thought they might be for. In just a few swift moves, they had me trussed, lying on my back on the bed, both my arms and my legs raised and spread, trapped by the restraints hanging from the ceiling. My buttocks was thrust up by a vinyl-covered angle pillow. The room was equipped to support just what they were going to do with me.

For the next hour they had their way with me, individually and, in the end, together again. While one was fucking me in the ass, the other was face fucking me. And, eventually, for a grand finale, Kuonarie worked his way under me and entered my ass with his cock from below, while Shahrokh crouched over me and fucked me from above.

They were both hunks, full of humor and smiles, enjoying themselves but making sure I was enjoying myself as well. And I did. I enjoyed myself—right up to the point where they were dressing but hadn't released me, and the door opened and Ari Askami walked in, flicking a goodawful long and thick rubber dildo on his forearm.

He also brought in a ball gag and had it on me before I knew what was happening. Now all I could do was strain at the restraints, produce muffled screams through the ball gag, and bite into the rubber ball. I did plenty of that before he exhausted me, almost hyperventilating when he stripped, his body still pudgy, hairy, and past its prime and his face still thuggish ugly, but revealing the longest, thickest cock I'd ever seen. It was as thick as a man's wrist and stood out straight nearly a foot, red, angry, from his pubic thatch, pushing out under the undercurve of his beer belly. I looked at the thick, long dildo and then at the thicker, longer erection of the man, and prayed that he'd use the dildo on me first—thinking that the wrestlers together hadn't opened me up enough.

He did use the dildo on me—cruelly—and I writhed and panted and objected unsuccessfully through the ball gag. Eventually, exhausted, open to the dildo so that I was taking its greased slide without effort and with a good deal of pleasure, I settled down, moving my pelvis with it, meeting it thrust for thrust, waiting for the cock I knew was to follow.

But that wasn't the next act. He crouched over me, capturing my eyes with his, muttering that he wanted to see my response, bringing his ugly face to mine for the garlic on his breath to nearly knock me out. Just when I thought he'd thrust his cock inside me, something else entered me. His heavily greased fingers. He grabbed my chin with his free hand and held my face still, looking into his, giving him every change of my expression as, slowly, he added more greased fingers. My eyes popped open and I bit down on the ball gag as his knuckles breached the sphincter muscle. And I writhed under him and gave him muffled screams as he went in up to the wrist—and almost passed out when he opened his fist and spread his fingers inside me.

I'd been fist fucked before, but not to his depth and thickness—never before with the whole hand up to the wrist inside me. But I was now. He was inside me, I was well greased up, and, miraculously, I was opening to him as I'd never known would be possible.

He started to fist fuck me. My passage slowly stretched open and accommodated him. I'd never experienced this before. The pain overshadowed the pleasure—especially the emotional high that I was taking it—but there was enough pleasure that he was lifting me up to the clouds, and, when he released my chin, moved his hand down my torso, and grasped my cock, I gave him an explosion of an ejaculation. This was new, unexplored territory for me. This is what I'd dreamed about in coming to Rio—well, beyond competing for a medal. I'd heard the stories of the sex in the Olympic Village and how it added to one's experience and capabilities. Couldn't add much more exotic experience than this. I was collecting the gold medal of "taking it."

My ejaculation was his signal to remove his fist and replace it with his impossibly long and thick cock. The fist had expanded my walls for the first five inches, but he wasn't much more than half way inside me with the cock when he reached that mark—and he kept on sinking, his bulb pressing and making me yield him a wider passage as he sank into me. He grabbed my butt cheeks and pulled my buttocks up off the surface of the bed and spread the cheeks, giving him as much access as possible. I also spread my legs as much as I could to take it.

I felt his belly pressing at mine, his coarse pubic hair mingling with mine, as he bottomed inside me and held. He held and held as we both felt my inner passage walls open to him, caressing his cock, my muscles undulating over his throbbing and veined monster cock. And then he began to pump me and I lost all contact with anything in this world but concentration on where that monster shaft was and what it was doing. I'd been panting before, but I panted more heavily now, and whimpered, and groaned and moaned deeply as his stroking increased in intensity.

When he came, he collapsed on top of me, painfully pressing me into the bed. He pulled the ball gag out of my mouth, causing my moan to become more audible, and brought his face down to mine. I turned my head to the side to avoid his mouth coming into contact with mine, and sobbed. His lips went to the hollow of my throat, and he kissed and then nipped me there. At the same time his hands came up and put the ball gag in again.

At the moment I sobbed in relief that it was over and that I had survived it. In retrospect, I marveled that I had taken the dildo and the fist and then the monster shaft and that I had walked along the clouds as never before, given him a fuller and stronger ejaculation than I'd ever given a man before. Not, however, as full and strong as his. I had known from the explosive expansion of the condom bulb inside me when he had come and then was surprised by a second and third shudder and pressing on my inner walls. When he pulled the Olympic-rings-embossed condom off his cock after he'd stood up from me, I was amazed at how much cum it held.

Surprisingly—alarmingly—he was still monstrously erect. He came around to the side of the bed, removed the ball gag, and forced his cock in my mouth, making me suck him even larger. Then I moaned as I watched him roll another condom on and then he replaced the ball gag and was crouched over me again, entering me again, sliding deep inside me, my walls once more grudgingly giving way to him, and started to stroke. He came, removed the condom, made me suck him.

"The nuts too," he commanded, and, eyes watering, I swallowed and rolled, one after the other, his balls in my mouth. They were too big to ingest together.

When he was satisfied, he backed up, sat in a chair he reversed before sitting in it, and lit up a cigarette he took off of one of the desk of one of the wrestlers. He sat there, naked, his flaccid cock nearly reaching the floor at the back of the chair, his ball sack hanging low, his eyes glued to me as I was bound to the bed, trussed up like a pig on a spit. He said nothing. He just sat there regaining his libido.

I lay there, my eyes darting around the room, looking for release, but always going back to him and to that long, thick cock of his. In awe that it had been inside me—all of it. Mentally checking myself for damage. My passage walls still throbbed and I was sore—from stretching and chafing, not splitting, thank god—but there was something else. I was proud to have taken the cock. There were moments coming back to me of being on a soaring high as the cock forced its consuming slide inside me. It was frightening and glorious all at the same time. Part of me wanted release and escape from this ogre. Part of me wanted him inside me again, reaming me larger, making me fit him for a mutually satisfying fuck.