Iran in USA

After about five minutes and already on the second cigarette, he began working his cock up again with his hand. Massively erect once more after not much more than ten minutes since his last ejaculation, he stood from the chair; crushed out his third cigarette on the wood desk top; rolled on another condom; removed the ball gag, saying he wanted to hear my responses now; moved into position between my spread and trussed legs; and fucked me again.

I took him more easily this time, although with much babbling and crying out, both in terms of begging for mercy and begging for the fuck. There was less pain, more pleasure. I quickly went to a high, concentrating on the massive cock inside me, closing my eyes and thinking of the man attached to it as only a motor. Sighing, almost with regret, as the cock withdrew, holding my breath in anticipation, almost begging for it, as it held, and then screaming as it penetrated deep again, each time a new revelation of how thick, long, and possessing it was. Each time fearing it would split me, but when it didn't, soaring to the heights and dancing on the clouds—earning the gold medal of taking it. Taking him, managing him, listening to him groan in pleasure.

As he fucked me, I involuntarily, instinctively set my pelvis in motion, fucking him back. He laughed and grabbed my hips, pistoning me harder and thus moving me a step back in the pain department, having to adjust to his more vigorous fuck. Each time I adjusted more to him, he upped his game with me, always keeping me on the edge of breaking. I found being on the edge but not going over exhilarating, but I appreciated the danger of becoming addicted to that.

He fucked me a fourth time, with a fifteen-minute interval of sitting, smoking, staring at me, before he was finished with me. I was beyond exhaustion. I held my breath as he contemplated taking a fifth go at me. He tried, but he didn't manage it. He made an effort to harden his cock with his hand again, but his shaft had had enough. I knew that it was only reaching the point of his failure to get hard again that had made him stop. And I knew that would be the case as well if he ever got his hands on me again. He took it as a personal affront that he couldn't get it up a fifth time. I took it as a monstrous miracle that he had gotten it up four times.

While he tried to get it up, he moved around me. I closed my eyes tightly so that I couldn't see the grossness of his bloated body. He moved his hands all over my body, eventually arriving, with a well-greased hand, at my dick and balls. He squeezed and rolled my balls, and I moaned for him. He stroked my cock with the greased hand and I hardened for him. He released the pressure on the cock, and I involuntarily took over the stroking, thrusting and withdrawing my cock in the loose sheath of his fist. He laughed and I came for him. Ugly and as demanding as he was, I was his. We both knew it. But it hadn't made him hard. He slapped my cock with a snort and went back to straddling his chair, smoking a cigarette with one hand, and trying to harden himself with the other.

Unsuccessful, he snorted and stood up from his chair, and I breathed more easily, thinking the session had come to a close. He couldn't get it up again. But I could tell he was mad he couldn't get up again, and when he leaned over and came up with the can of lard, I began to hyperventilate, understanding that he wasn't finished with me after all. He made me look as he greased up his right hand, and then I writhed and objected from behind my ball gag to no avail as he leaned over me between my legs, grabbed me by the chin with one hand to hold my head in place for him to watch my facile expressions, and started to work his greased right hand into my channel. I took the fist fuck easier this time, having been opened up to the maximum by his earlier anal play.

His free hand went back to my cock. My balls were aching. I had no more cum to give him, but still he started stroking my cock, and, embarrassingly, I hardened. He set a rhythm of opening and closing his fist inside me in coordination with the stroking of my cock. Once more he let the hand on the cock go loose. Once more I moved my hips, taking over the stroking inside the loose sheath his fist provided. Once more he laughed at his control over me, his victory over my body.

I didn't have any more cum to give him—or at least thought I didn't—but he wasn't content with stopping until I was moving my hips in perfect rhythm to the opening and closing of his fist inside my passage and had given him a weak ejaculation. He wasn't the only one whose peter was petered out.

The wrestlers had fucked me for an hour and fifteen minutes. Ari Askami fucked me twice that long—for two and a half hours. Iran had invaded the USA for four hours. Iran had ravished the USA, and Iran had disengaged as the conqueror.

I couldn't walk when he let me off the bed. And I couldn't talk either. If I'd still had my tonsils, he would have face fucked them out of me.

"Good. It was very good," he said. "I will use you again. Diego was right that you could take it. I will test you more next time. We will see what the limits are to what you will take."

I was barely conscious and there was a ringing in my ears competing with the effort to hear what he said. But I heard and moaned deeply. I didn't answer him, though. He threw me over his shoulder and carried me out to the common living room, where both of the younger Iranian wrestlers were waiting, playing with their cell phone.

"Take him back to his dorm," Askami growled and then left.

As they were lifting me up, Shahrokh smiled and said, "He fucked you good, didn't he?"

I was overcome, trying to figure out how to keep my legs spread and be able to walk a straight line at the same time. "Yes, he fucked me good," I managed with a hoarse voice.

I didn't walk back to my dorm, I was hustled back there, supported by a laughing and joking Iranian wrestler on either side of me. I was delighted that someone thought this was a lot of fun. Pedro was in the room when they carried me in and dropped me on my bed on my back. I slung my arm over my eyes to blot out the world, and raised and spread my legs.

"I'd leave him alone for a couple of days," Kuonarie said to Pedro before he left.

"You OK?" Pedro asked.

"No, I'm dead," I answered. "Can you soak a washcloth in cold water for me."

"Move your arm so I can put this on your head," he said when he came back with the washcloth.

"I don't want it on my head. Pull my shorts off. Put it on my ass."

"Holy shit, what have you had up there?" Pedro asked as he viewed the diameter of my asshole.

"An Iranian nuclear missile. A really fat one," I answered wearily. "I got invaded, occupied, and pillaged."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Ask me next week, when I can walk and shit again."

* * * *

On the night of the finals in diving, I was there. I wasn't watching; I was competing in the finals. This was a minor miracle, I thought, and I only wished that Chris Fair could see that I was here—that I was here, the last American still in the competition. At the top of the platform on my first dive of the evening, I looked down at Coach Wood, standing just below me. I gave him the finger. It was while I was brushing my hand off on the hip of my Speedo and he probably didn't see it as giving him the finger—I certainly hoped no one else in the venue saw it. But I knew I'd done it. And he knew that I'd broken with him. I didn't need him anymore, and now I was the only one he had in the competition. I'd given him the finger for real the previous evening when the finalists were announced, and I'd refused to sleep in his bed that night. Fuck him now. Even if I came in tenth, it was better than anyone else on the U.S. team. And it was indisputably clear that I had earned this berth on the team—over Chris.

I'd slept with Pedro, celebrating with him his bronze star on the rings. I should have just slept and saved my energy for today, but I couldn't deny him his celebration. He fucked me in one of his favorite soaring eagle positions. I thought of that as I walked out to the edge of the platform. My first dive would start that way—pushing my chest forward, stiff-arming my arms straight back, taking flight off the platform. This was my worst dive. Not so today. I got very good marks. I was still in the hunt.

Others had come to watch. The Iranian wrestlers, Shahrokh and Kuonarie, were there in the eastern stands, cheering for me, laughing with each other. Shahrokh had a gold medal around his neck; Kuonarie a silver. Good for them. They had worked me over well. I'd thoroughly enjoyed them, and they were fully synchronized. They were right to want to share their men. If I wasn't leaving Rio tomorrow . . .

Pedro had come, his bronze medal around his neck. He was sitting in the western stands. He could have left the day before yesterday, but he'd stayed. He'd stayed to give me support. We already were talking about what sort of apartment in Denver would suit us both. He'd get a raise from the sporting goods firm for his bronze. It would be great if I could match that. But I was lucky to have made it thus far—not to have shot it all down with a bad soaring eagle dive.

Diego had come too. The massage sessions with him had been glorious fucks. I still had a good supply of Olympic-rings condoms. I could hand them out as party favors when I got home. We had exchanged addresses. I was content with moving in with Pedro, but we had an understanding. If Diego ever visited the States as he said he wanted to, I'd be getting one of those massages of his—and he could have whatever he wanted from me.

The second dive, the back one-and-a-half somersault tuck, had been the best dive I'd ever done in my life and it was scored accordingly. Miraculously, I was at the top of the leader board now, and just one more dive to go.

I looked up at the top of the stands, at the entrance on the north side, directly in front of me, when I'd climbed to the platform for my last dive. I was doing a handstand falling into a forward somersault pike. It was my best dive, my most impressive one visually. It was a dangerous dive; you had to push out far enough not to hit your head on the board in doing the forward somersault. It required total concentration and steady control. It was my last dive. It was all or nothing now, my last chance at gold.

When I looked at the top of the north stands I saw him, though. Ari Askami—looking massive and dumpy. Impressive, though, as he had his four gold medals from earlier Olympics around his neck. I was disconcerted. He'd come to watch me dive. But he'd worn his medals. He was making a statement. I wanted a medal. He had four and they all were gold. He was saying he owned me. He had had me. He had possessed me fully, fucked me totally, only letting me go when he was done with me.

He had sent a message via Diego that he wanted me again, but I hadn't responded.

I tried to tear my eyes away from him as I walked to the end of the platform, but he controlled me. He was smirking and I was trembling. Would I even be able to get up into a handstand without collapsing.

Later, standing on the second rung of the award blocks, I didn't care that they were playing the French national anthem, not the one for the United States. When the silver medal was placed around my neck, I kissed it and lifted it up for everyone to see. I hadn't come here for gold; I'd come here to be an Olympian—and, yes, because I'd heard the Olympics was a veritable fuck palace. I'd certainly verified that. My last dive had been near perfect. I had no regrets. I'd done is as well as I ever had. The French guy had just been a little better. Good for him.

The awards finished, I felt keyed up, randy. I wanted to celebrate in a big way. people were leaving, but not everyone was moving. Coach Wood was standing by the pool, all puffed up. If he'd had cigars, I think he'd have been handing them out. He was looking directly at me. I knew exactly what he wanted—that he wanted to celebrate my silver too. He wanted to have his chance to tell me that he had made me.

Pedro was patiently standing in the west stands, smiling and looking at me proudly. He'd say nothing about his bronze medal against my silver. He'd just be happy for me.

In the east stands, Diego stood near the top. He'd told me he'd be happy to give me a massage after the diving competitions win or lose. I knew that he would massage all of the tension away from me and give me a divine celebratory fuck. Several rows below him, the Iranian wrestlers were pushing each other around and giving wolf whistles. They also were pointing down at me and applauding. They were celebrating with me already. They'd give me a good time, I knew, if I walked over to them.

And then I did start walking. I walked around the pool, barefoot and in a Speedo topped by an Athletic T-shirt, and up the aisle of the west stands, toward where Pedro Gonzalez was standing. As I walked, people parted for me, giving me a straight, unimpeded path. They smiled at me and whispered their congratulations. I was a minor god, if only for the moment. I took Pedro's hand when I reached him, both of us wanting me to lean in for a kiss, but there still being too many people milling around the venue, more than a few watching me, because I had a silver medal around my neck.

"Hi," I said.

"You did it."

"Yes, we did," I answered, gesturing to the bronze medal around his neck.

"Let's go back to the room and—"

"Tonight. Tonight we'll celebrate royally, Pedro," I said. "But for now, there's something I have to do—something I badly need."

He looked into my eyes and understood. We'd talked about it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. This is the Olympics. I came here for an Olympian experience. It will be all right, I'm sure."

"Then do it."

I turned, descended the aisle to the pool, and then walked around to the north stands and up. Ari Askami was standing, one hand fondling his four gold medals, and the other one cupping his package. His eyes were boring into me, commanding me to come to him. When I reached him, he took my elbow in a vice grip.

"You will come with me to my room and you will take it all," he growled.

"Yes, I want it all," I said, lowering my eyes in willing, trembling in anticipation, submission.