by Gail Bridges
We belonged here, didn’t we?
I wondered if any of the athletes I saw had won a medal. Had anyone heckled them? Told them they didn’t belong in the Olympics? Made them feel like throwing up and hiding in a dark cave the day before competition?
It wasn’t fair.
But the fresh air felt good. The walk was helping.
After a while, Coach Debbie gestured to a well-groomed path that veered from the main walkway. Thick with bougainvillea and other flowering vines, it had to be one of the twelve “secluded getaways” promoted in the orientation brochure. Sexual dalliances were heavily discouraged in all other public areas. This one would probably be mobbed.
“Let’s follow it,” Benson suggested, “Leah? What do you say?”
I nodded. Secluded was good. It was the middle of the day. Maybe no one would be there.
We walked single file on the narrow path, batting away branches, and found a lone bench nestled in the bushes. No one was there. It was the perfect place for three people who needed to be alone.
We plopped down and sat in silence. A bird twittered nearby. I clutched my knitting bag to my chest.
After a while, Coach Debbie slid next to me and patted my knee. “Honey, those freaks used to taunt me too, back when I competed. You can’t let it get to you.”
“I try not to.”
Benson sighed heavily. “Markham had to know it would screw with her mind.”
“And he didn’t care,” Coach Debbie said.
“Or maybe it was what he claimed. Anything for a good story.”
“Ratings, yes.”
“Asshole.”
Coach Debbie rested her head on the back of the bench. After a while she shifted and took a long look at me. “How are you?”
I didn’t answer. I kicked at the gravel in front of the bench.
“We should get going, I suppose,” she said after a moment.
I took her hand. “I don’t want to. Not yet.”
“Then let’s hang out for a while,” said Coach Debbie. “We don’t have anything scheduled until team dinner at six o’ clock and that’s three hours away.”
“Okay,” said Benson.
“My mother is coming to the dinner,” I said. “I can’t let her see me like this.”
Benson picked a flower from a vine. He must not have read the part of the orientation brochure that warned against picking flowers in the village. “My parents are coming too. And a bucketload of relatives.”
“And after dinner they’re going to take team photos,” said Coach Debbie.
“I can’t deal with all that just now,” I whispered.
Coach Debbie slid closer to me.
I let my bag slide to the ground and she put her arm around my shoulders. I rested my head on her warm neck. Benson scooted sideways then lay down across our laps, his long legs outstretched along the bench. He sighed, long and deep, and closed his eyes. It felt good to be there with them in the dappled Mexican sunshine. To be away from the team. Away from the crowds. To have this precious time to recover from the verbal attack. It felt really good.
I felt myself relax and I wasn’t even knitting.
I raised my head and smiled at Coach Debbie.
Then she kissed me. Full on the lips.
I gasped.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
I turned my face to her and kissed her back. “Do I look like I mind? I always wanted to couple with you again!”
“Me too,” said Benson, opening his eyes, watching us.
Coach Debbie swept a lock of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. “You did? You should have told me. I didn’t know you felt that way. Either of you.”
“Well, I do.”
“Me too,” said Benson again.
“Leah. Benson.” She laughed softly. “America’s Darlings. Did you know I always get a VO when I watch you two perform? Every single time. You do that to me. And I ought to know better. I’m your coach.”
“You’re much more than a coach, Debbie,” Benson said, “and you’re supposed to get a VO.” He chuckled. “Good thing coaches and athletes are allowed to practice together!”
“Expected to practice together,” Coach Debbie murmured.
I snuggled into her. “Just another thing that sets us apart from everyone else.”
Benson shifted on our laps.
He turned so that he lay on his back across our legs, his head resting on Coach Debbie’s lap. Slowly, deliberately, he slid a hand up Coach Debbie’s shirt.
She smiled and closed her eyes.
His hand roamed over her stomach.
I watched his every move, my mouth open the tiniest bit. I was feeling better already.
Coach Debbie arched her back. I arched my back.
Benson glanced at me and grinned as his hand worked its way over her hipbone.
She shivered.
I shivered.
He skimmed his hand lightly across her soft skin. He winked at me, knowing full well what he was doing to me. Then I realized he was doing this for me. Sweet, sweet Benson! He walked his fingers slowly across Coach Debbie’s rib cage as his eyes held mine. He caressed the skin around her navel, cupped a tight little breast, rolled her nipple between his fingers.
My fingers cupped cold, thin air. My fingers rolled nothing but each other.
Coach Debbie let out an almost silent “ooh!”
I did too.
“Hussy,” Benson whispered, grinning up at me.
A rush of heat spread through me.
Then he slid his other hand up my shirt.
Oh my. Oh my!
He rested his hand tenderly on my breast. It was familiar, comforting, warm. He rolled my nipple between his fingers, the way he knew I liked.
My leg jerked.
Benson’s hand moved under Coach Debbie’s shirt and she moaned.
I looked down at him, lying on his back with his arms up both our shirts, playing with our breasts. My Benson.
“Hey, babe,” he whispered.
“Hey,” I answered, smiling.
Coach Debbie reached across me to rest her hand on Benson’s shorts, right on his enlarged cock. I worked my own hand under his butt, that butt I knew so well. I kneaded it. I rubbed my finger over his asshole. He made a low sound. He strained on our laps, writhing in slow motion, his hands clenching and unclenching at our chests.
Dear, dear Benson.
He wasn’t my boyfriend, but oh, how I loved him.
I relaxed, finally, into my lovemates. We lounged on that bench, taking our time, making each other feel good as the sun shone down on us. Distant voices murmured and laughed. A bird called out from a nearby tree.
How sweet it was.
And how different—oh so different from practice!
Benson moved in time to the ministrations of our hands. His eyes were closed, his brow lightly furrowed. Coach Debbie worked her hand into his shorts, folded her hand around his cock. He squirmed in pleasure. She moved her hand up and down, up and down, as I found his ball sac and gently cradled it in my hand, flicking his asshole with my pinkie. His hand clenched on my breast, sending an electric current through me. He moaned. I looked down at his dear face, so open, so vulnerable. I knew he was close. He was right on the precipice, this close to orgasm, in complete control. We were so connected that the closer he got, the closer I got.
Could Coach Debbie tell?
“Now, now, now!” Benson gurgled, curling around us, almost into the fetal position, almost sliding off our laps. “Holy shit!”
“Did you like that, Benson?” whispered Coach Debbie.
“God, yes.”
“What do you think, Leah? Did he like it?”
“I’d say he liked it. Yeah.”
“Benson.”
He gazed up at her, eyes straining to focus. He blinked.
“What should we do for our little Leah?”
He took a deep breath. “Well… she has this thing she likes…”
&n
bsp; My heart quickened. What thing? What thing? I liked a lot of things!
“Go on,” said Coach Debbie.
“Tell her to pull down her shorts.”
She kissed me. “Pull down your shorts, Leah.”
The people at the far end of the path, the crowds on the other side of the hedges and trees—they faded to nothing. Besides, who was I, an exhibitionist by trade,to object to sex in public? I tugged my shorts down, slid my buttocks toward the edge of the bench, almost tipping poor Benson off my lap.
I was already wet.
“Now tell her to spread her legs…”
She kissed me again, with tongue. “Spread your legs,” she said wetly.
Trembling, I did.
“Go on, Benson—tell me what I should do to her,” said Coach Debbie, “Should I couple with our little Leah? Should I fuck her?”
He gazed up at me. “No. Not yet.”
Bastard!
He considered. “Hmm. Tell Leah to touch herself,” he said finally. “Tell her to dip her finger in her cunt. Tell her to swish it around and get it dripping wet—then tell her to roll her hot little clit under her finger.”
Coach Debbie nibbled on my lip. “Do what he said. Do it now.”
I rushed to obey. I arched my back, caressing my hot little clit. I moaned.
“Now tell her to suck your tit.”
“You heard him,” Coach Debbie said in a throaty voice, lifting her shirt.
I found her nipple and latched on, sucking for dear life, diddling myself.
“Now tell her to find your hand.”
I found her hand.
“Now make her guide your hand to her pussy. Yes, Like that. Now make her shove two—no, three!—of your fingers inside of her!”
Coach Debbie leaned in to me, my hand on hers, her probing fingers touching me, entering me, feeling my interior landscape. They inched their way toward my most tender spots, pushing their way in—at my prompting, at my direction—to the places that made me writhe in ecstasy.
She kissed me again, hard.
My mouth fell off her breast. I pressed her hand into me as deeply as I could.
“Oh! Oh! Oh…!” I moaned.
I tilted my face toward the sky and lifted my hips off the bench as wave after orgasmic wave rolled over me. A solitary bird—a crow perhaps—flew across my field of vision. My eyes tracked its voyage from one tree to another as her beautiful fingers danced inside me.
The best orgasm ever. I swear.
Well, the best orgasm ever on a public bench while using someone else’s hand.
I let out the breath I’d been holding, almost a whistle. The world was right again. I was whole again. I slumped over, resting on Coach Debbie. Sweet Coach Debbie. Now I really liked her. Really, really liked her. I smiled a secret little smile hidden in her shoulder.
Benson laughed softly. “What do you think, Debbie? Did our little Leah like that?”
“I believe she liked it just fine, Benson.” Coach Debbie touched me deep inside, her fingers moving in me, a delicious farewell. Then slowly, tenderly, she withdrew her hand and rested it on my belly, my hand still on top of hers.
“Just fine?” I sputtered. “Are you insane? That was…unreal!”
Benson gave my breast a friendly pat. “Of course it was. We’re pros.”
I grinned.
Benson grinned back. “Leah. Shall we show Debbie what America’s Darlings can do? Debbie’s had enough VOs on our behalf. Should we give her a real orgasm?”
“Yes! Yes!” said Coach Debbie. “Please!”
I leaned over and gave her a quick kiss in answer.
Benson tugged at the waistband of Coach Debbie’s shorts. She hitched them down over her hips, freeing her lovely dark bush. Her face was flushed.
“Yum,” he whispered.
He nudged her legs apart then even farther apart. Then he reached his hand between her legs and spread her womanly folds to bare her glistening pussy, her waiting clit. I leaned over, watching. Then Benson ruined the view by turning on his side and burying his face in her crotch. She let out one sharp, strangled shriek. Her hips moved. Her thigh muscles rippled. Her face went slack. She rested her hands on his head, which moved in tiny, sweet jerks.
I couldn’t take my eyes away. Not that I wanted to.
Oh my.
Sweet Coach Debbie!
I leaned over, hiked up her shirt again, licked her nipple and took good part of her breast into my mouth. Then I sucked for all I was worth, rolling her hard little nipple around with my tongue.
“Oh…Leah…oh…oh…” she moaned quietly, “and Benson! Fuck, that feels good…”
His head moved between her legs.
I put a hand on top of hers—it was still damp with my juices—and together we wove our fingers through Benson’s hair.
I slurped and lapped at her breast, panting. A gush of wetness flooded my shorts. My insides clenched.
Again?
It was happening again?
And then I was a lost cause, because Benson—still at work on Coach Debbie—slid his hand into my shorts and slowly, delightfully, wiggled three fingers all the way up inside me.
I liked me some finger action—and he knew that.
As Benson had said only a few minutes before, holy shit.
Holy shit!
I exploded.
Coach Debbie and I came at the exact same time, writhing, our hands intertwined, our bodies plastered to each other from shoulder to ankle, my mouth still on her, and Benson’s too. I could feel her tremors.
I wanted it never to end.
“Ow,” Benson said a moment later, ending it. “My hair. You’re pulling my hair.”
I giggled, giving the nipple in my mouth a goodbye lick. Carefully I extricated my hands from the tangles Coach Debbie and I had created on Benson’s head. “Sorry. Oops.”
He rested his cheek on her thigh.
We stayed like that, draped over one another, holding hands, until our breathing returned to normal. We still didn’t move. After a while, Coach Debbie tugged her shorts up. Benson licked his lips and sat up. I straightened my shirt. Reclaimed my bag. Stretched my legs.
“Wow,” Benson said, “just, wow.”
Coach Debbie ran her fingers through her hair. “That was public sex,” she said, catching her breath and trying not to laugh. “If that awful woman wanted public sex, she should’ve seen us just now.”
“You know what?” I said. “You and Benson cured me of the curse of that woman. We damn well belong here at the Olympics!”
Benson regarded me. “Really? You’re okay now?”
I stood up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I looked down at Benson and Coach Debbie and grinned. “Those Russians will never know what hit ’em. America’s Darlings are back!”
* * * * *
It was later that night, much later.
The adventure on the bench was but a memory.
Soraya and I let ourselves into our shared room, throwing ourselves facedown onto our beds without bothering to take off our shoes.
I reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. “I’m too exhausted to sleep.”
“You always are.”
I tilted the lampshade so it wouldn’t shine directly into my eyes. “It’s true though.”
“Only because you push yourself too hard.”
“Of course I push myself too hard! How else am I going to get a medal?”
She didn’t answer.
I sighed. It was a conversation we’d had before. I changed the subject. “Did you like the team supper? Did Jim?”
“Yeah, we did. The entertainment was great—I don’t know how those Mexican ladies can do those traditional dances while wearing twenty-five pounds of skirts!”
“It wasn’t twenty-five pounds.”
“And I loved meeting everyone’s families.”
“Me too.” I adjusted the pillow under my head. “Did you know Benson has fifteen people with him?”
&nbs
p; “Jeez. I only have four.”
Neither of us mentioned that I only had my mother.
“The food was good,” I said.
“Yeah.” She made a face. “But I ate too much. I shouldn’t have had that third serving of whatever-it-was for dessert!”
“Flan.”
“Right. Flan.” She rolled onto her back. “Hey. Coach Bob slapped your mother on the butt after dinner. I saw it. She just about jumped out of her skin!”
I laughed. “I know.”
“And I loved the family members’ toasts. Your mom is a hoot!”
“Yep. Funny lady.” I turned to her. “Soraya. Did you know she showed me a video of Constance giving birth? Right there at the table, during dinner? Blood and gore and all! Can you believe it? Coach Debbie watched too. And Naomi.”
“Jeez,” she said again.
“I cried.”
“Everyone cries when they see birth videos. I would’ve too.”
“But I wanted to be there when he was born! He was early!”
“You’ll see him in two weeks. You’re lucky your mom is doing her best to include you.”
We fell silent.
“I mean it. You’re lucky she’s here, Leah.”
Soraya was right. I thought about my mom, how she showered me with love, how proud of me she was—even if sometimes she made me wince. “My daughter, the Olympian,” she’d said at dinner, loudly enough for everyone at our table to hear, patting my knee, looking deeply into my eyes. “Are you sure you and Benson don’t need to fuck again? Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Mom!”
“Honey, a little extra fucking never hurt anything.”
“It’s coupling. Say coupling. Please!”
She knew. She just liked to tease.
“But maybe you need more practice?”
“We’re fine, Mom. Honest.”
She never mentioned that travesty of an interview.
After dinner, Mom hugged and kissed me, invited me for dinner tomorrow then left for her hotel arm in arm with Coach Bob. Soraya and I headed to our own room, the fourth door down a long hallway filled with our teammates. And now here I was, splayed out on my bed, feeling too full.