AmericasDarlings (11 page)

The door clicked shut.

He flicked my nipple again. “Who was it, Leah? Who hurt you? Was it Dmitri?”

I looked down at my pale breast, still cradled in his large, tanned hand.

“Yes. Dmitri bit me,” I whispered, “and Alexi. And Nina. All of them used their teeth on me.”

“Damn them!” He began to pace, fury wafting from his every pore. “They know better. They’d
never
do that to one of their Russian teammates. Never!”

It was true.

I knew it was true.

But they’d done it to me.

I was a sexual expert! How could I have missed
this
? When Dmitri had sucked on my neck a little too hard. When my back had ached too much when he and Alexi were going at me. When I’d felt fingernails rake my leg in the darkness. Why hadn’t I figured it out? The knowledge hit me full force. The Russians had marked my body—bruises, tooth marks, slaps, hickeys, scratch marks and who knew what else—the day before competition,
and they’d known what they were doing
.

And I’d had
fun
while they were doing it.

They’d used me.

I put my face in my hands. How could I have been so stupid? I had refused to see what was happening and it was so obvious in retrospect! There’d been warnings, but I had hadn’t heeded them. I’d been desperate, convinced I couldn’t survive without the fun, the sex, the comfort I craved.
Why
hadn’t I figure out what they were doing after that very first bite? Damn it! The Russians had probably planned the whole thing right in front of me! They’d probably laid their plans from the very beginning, when all that incomprehensible Russian had been floating over my head and I’d just been sitting there in Dmitri’s lap smiling at everybody.

Willful oblivion. That’s what it was.

I should have seen it.

I cried out, anguished.

Coach Bob pulled up another chair and sat down next to me. “Come here,” he said, “Let me hug you.”

I collapsed into his warm lap, my face a mess, tears flowing, and my coach enfolded me in his strong arms. Coach Debbie and Benson crouched at my side, touching me on the shoulders, caressing my neck, patting my back, rubbing my thighs, their attention anchoring me as the world threatened to slip away. There was no way to deny it. I’d enjoyed every single moment with the Russians as they’d marked me and tried to disqualify me from competition.

Maybe I
was
as screwed up as Vincent van Gogh.

Coach Bob shifted. He worked something from his pocket—I recognized the rule book by its blue cover—and flipped pages. He held the book at arm’s length and began to read. “An athlete shall have no broken skin, lacerations, eruptions, or infections. An athlete shall have no actively bleeding injuries that will compromise his or her performance or be dangerous to others in competition. An athlete shall make known all potential disqualifying injuries to his or her coach, who shall then make said injuries known to Olympic personnel for further review.” He snapped the book shut. “There you go. I’ve looked at you and decided you’re fit.”

I stifled a sob.

I didn’t
feel
fit. Not at all.

Maybe the Russians had achieved their objective after all.

Maybe they
had
forced me out. If my body wasn’t bleeding, my self-confidence certainly was.

“I didn’t mean to!” I wailed, my voice muffled by Coach Bob’s trousers. “We were playing—I swear! I thought they were
nice
! They didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want them to! I thought Dmitri liked me! I really did…”

Coach Bob slid the rule book back into his pocket then held me again. He let out a long sigh, a whistle almost, through his front teeth. “They do, Leah. They like you fine. They just don’t want you to win.” He patted me on the back, gentle now.

I was a pathetic excuse of a gymnast.

Not only had I been willfully oblivious, I was an abysmal judge of character.

Coach Debbie, still crouching beside me, drew out a slim beige bottle and started to reapply concealer.

“Debbie’s got it right,” Coach Bob said. “According to the rules you can cover unbroken skin and blemishes with this stuff. Thank God you’re not bleeding! If you were I would’ve had to call in Dr. Chung. She would have scratched you from competition. I had to see you first! You understand, don’t you? I had to be sure you weren’t hurt too badly.”

I smelled his aftershave.

“Look at me, Leah.”

I peered up at him, feeling broken.

He took my chin in his hand, leaned over, kissed me. “I still love you, Leah. We
all
still love you.”

Was he managing me? Well, let him.

The hands—Coach Debbie’s and Benson’s and Coach Bob’s too—redoubled their efforts, patting me and fondling me, proving the truth of his words. Someone’s hand slid between my legs and rested warmly on my inner thigh. Someone else cupped my breast. Someone kissed my neck. A finger lingered on my pussy, trying to gain entry. I spread my legs, just a little—helpful as always. They
did
love me. I sucked in a long breath. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t expire right there, right then, right in front of them. Maybe, just maybe, I’d be all right.

“You’re still my little darling,” Coach Bob said softly, for my ears only. “Your mother won’t change that.” He kissed me again. The finger in my pussy made itself known.

Him.

I blinked. My insides lurched. Since when had his kisses been so…
sweet
?

It all came back.

Meeting him for the first time when I’d entered his sexual gymnastics program at the age of eighteen. Being drawn in by his magnetism, his powerful character, his commanding voice. How wonderful, how transforming, to couple with him! How thrilling to practice with one of the world’s best lovers! I’d lived for our daily practices, when I’d take his cock into me like it was made of pure gold. I’d basked in his praise. I’d hung on his every word. Those first years, I’d been on fire. In his care I’d blossomed.

And in his care I’d begun to fall apart.

They’d told me I was acting…bizarrely.

I hadn’t believed it. I’d found my passion, my art! I hadn’t believed anything was wrong with me—how could there be? My friends and coaches and my mother were seeing things that weren’t there! They were making things up! They were being mean and unfair when they said I was acting peculiar. I hadn’t believed any of it. I believed in one thing only, the joy of creating and performing acts of beautiful sex.

And I was good at it.

For four years—until he’d paired me with Benson two years ago—Coach Bob had been my mentor, my guide, my muse. He’d even had a pet name for me. He’d called me his “little darling”. I remembered something else too. It had been Coach Bobwho’d helped Ryan Markham to coin the name “America’s Darlings”.

How had I forgotten that?

Now here I was, Coach Bob’s one-time favorite, his former little darling, lying with my face so close to his cock that I could feel its hard length under me, my body quivering with need, wondering if he enjoyed coupling with my mother as much as he had once enjoyed it with me.

What did he call
her
?

Oh my God.

I was jealous, just like she’d said.

“Leah?”

“Damn you,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to drag me away from breakfast in front of an audience.”

He rested his head on my shoulder. I felt his warm breath on my cheek. “You’re right. I could have been more discreet. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, Bob,” echoed Coach Debbie, “you shouldn’t have.”

Even I understood that he’d forgotten the “Leah rules”.

“I was frantic!” said Coach Bob, and he certainly did sound frantic. “You’re Leah Collins! You’re my best gymnast! I created you! You’re probably the best gymnast in the world. And for all I knew you were terribly injured!”

I reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m okay.”

“I thought maybe you’d screwed yourself out of the Olympics.”

“I’m going to compete. A few bruises aren’t going to stop me.”

“You understand why I had to take a look, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I did understand.

I understood that my night out had cost me a lot more than I’d ever dreamed possible—it had almost cost me the Olympics themselves.

But I was still there!

I’d been cleared by my coaches to compete. They still loved me. Benson still loved me. All was not lost. I took a long, shuddering breath and sat up. The caressing hands withdrew. Coach Debbie was done doctoring me. I moved to pull my shirt over my head but Coach Bob stopped me. He held out his hands. “Not yet. You can’t go yet. There’s something you and Benson need to do first.”

Benson and I looked at each other.

“Damage control,” said Coach Bob, sounding more like himself. “Undress, both of you.”

We got naked.

Coach Bob frowned then motioned for us to stand in front of him. “You’ll have to do this without your uniforms.
Wood Nymph
. Seventh position—transition to eighth. I foresee a problem. Debbie, keep your eyes peeled. Leah, you’ll be doing
Courtesan Treat
, right? And Benson—you’ll be moving into
Raging Volcano
.”

We nodded.

“Do it. Let me see.”

It took us a moment to get ourselves arranged just so, to get Benson’s cock into me just right, to get ourselves into position. Any gymnast can tell you it’s no easy thing to start a routine in the middle and we were no exception. We finally got it together—and then—and then—Benson put his entire weight on me as he grabbed my back right in the middle of my bruise.

“Ow!” I shrieked, crumpling, folding into myself.

Benson lost his balance and his left shoulder crashed to the floor. Or rather it would havecrashed to the floor but for Coach Bob’s quick move to save him.

Benson gasped. “Leah! I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I said and it was almost the truth. Kind of. “Just took me by surprise is all.”

Coach Bob scowled at me. “God
damn
. That’s exactly what I thought would happen! We
cannot
allow this to happen during competition.” He turned to Coach Debbie. “You have to re-choreograph this part for them.”

She frowned. “Dreadful idea, right before a competition…but, yes. I agree. No way around it. We can’t switch routines.” She stood back, regarding us. “Are you okay, Leah?”

I nodded, rubbing my back. There was concealer on my hand.

“Good. Then get back into position.”

Coach Debbie waited until we were coupled again, Benson carefully not resting his weight on my back this time. His thighs trembled with the effort of maintaining this awkward position without me to support him. His cock moved in me, withdrawing just a little.

I frowned.

“Don’t worry about that,” Coach Debbie said, “we’ll fix it.”

She paced around us once, twice, three times. She ran her hands lightly over our cool skin, over my flanks and down the curve of my butt, across Benson’s muscular back and around to his belly and down, down, down to where he and I were joined. She peered closely at us, studying our bodies and how they were connected, studying our current position and envisioning the position we were about to move into, working out how best to achieve the transition between them.

Then she went to work rearranging us. She pulled Benson’s knee up three inches. She rotated my hips to the left, which also shifted my feet just a little. She placed my arm in a slightly different position on Benson’s chest then pulled Benson’s legs farther apart so that his pelvis came into tighter contact with me. His cock stirred inside me again, nestling further back inside my pussy, feeling quite a bit more secure.

“That looks good,” said Coach Bob.

Coach Debbie nodded then placed her hands around Benson’s hips. “Okay. Let’s do this. Benson, your hands must land on Leah’s butt—right
here
”—she touched me—“instead of on the small of her back. Do you see? At my mark, I want you to transition to your eighth position. I’ll spot you.”

We did as Coach Debbie instructed, shifting our bodies, trying to remember her exact instructions. Ours was an art where mere inches—fractions of inches, even—made all the difference, where the smallest mistake could send us toppling to the ground. Benson’s face was white with concentration as we finally settled into the eighth position. I’m sure mine was too.

“It works, but
damn
you two look awkward!” said Coach Bob, “Do it again.”

Coach Debbie turned to him. “They’ll get it. They’re pros. This is where all those hours of practicing come in. If anyone can do it, they can.” Then she touched my arm. “Leah. Your elbow dropped. It ruins the lines of your body if you don’t hold it in the correct place.”

“That’s what I keep telling her!” said Coach Bob with a grunt. “She doesn’t listen.”

Coach Debbie clapped her hands. “Okay! Do it again.”

Twelve practice runs later, she pronounced us ready. “What do you think, Bob?”

Coach Bob regarded us thoughtfully as we stood panting in front of him. “I agree. They look good. No one will be able to tell we changed it. Leah—did you feel any pain?”

“Not a bit.” It was true.

“Good. Benson, you’re satisfied you won’t hurt her?”

Benson looked at me. “Yeah. We’re good. We practiced that fear right out of me.”

“Okay. That’s enough then. Benson, get Leah out of here. Take her for a walk. Take her to that ridiculous sculpture where all you kids hang out. Whatever. Just get her to relax, will you? She’s wound up too tight.”

“Sure,” said Benson, looking at me.

“Be at the arena at ten o’clock. That’s when we’ll all meet. You’ve got an hour. No longer. No more practicing—she needs to rest. And don’t be late, hear?”

“We won’t.”

Quickly we dressed. Our coaches watched us.

“Grab a muffin and an orange juice on the way out,” said Coach Bob. “You need to eat, both of you.”

“We will,” said Benson.

“You’ll do fine,” said Coach Debbie, opening the door. She kissed me quickly as I moved to pass through.

I smiled at her, genuinely grateful for the help she’d given us, then Benson and I left the bathroom. He took my hand. Dining hall noise washed over me and I knew that Coach Bob was right. I needed to get away. I held tight to Benson as we wound our way back through the dining hall, feeling my teammates’ gazes on our backs. We grabbed muffins and orange juices as we passed the buffet then headed for the door.