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AmericasDarlings

Page 9

by Gail Bridges


  I couldn’t wait.

  “Hello, little matryoshka doll,” Alexi said, looking up at me. I smelled beer on his breath. “You know Russian matryoshka doll? They nest in each other. Like Dmitri and me! We nest in you!” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Yes,” I gasped, “I like matryoshka dolls!”

  “Me too,” said Dmitri. His hands left my hips and found Alexi’s. Moving as one, Dmitri and I slowly lowered ourselves onto Alexi’s waiting cock. It didn’t quite line up with my waiting, more than willing vagina—but being the prize-winning sexual gymnasts we were, we shifted and arranged ourselves until I felt that nice warm cock slide into me to join Dmitri’s as a most welcome guest in my body.

  I screamed.

  Maybe I didn’t. But I sure felt like it.

  I thought I would faint with the fullness of it. I’d done this before—we’d all had coupling experiences in groups of three and even four sometimes—but wow.

  Just…wow.

  We moved together, a multi-limbed creature lost in a sea of delight. Alexi found my nipple—the same one, again—and clamped on to it with his teeth, his tongue flicking the very end. What was with these Russians and my left nipple? I wasn’t complaining though.

  Far from it.

  “Oh!” I shrieked, as a teeth-rattling shudder came over me. “Oh my God!”

  A finger—whose?—found my clit, caressing me, even as Dmitri’s cock held sway in my ass and Alexi’s filled my pussy.

  Oh my God.

  I came in waves that didn’t stop for something like half an hour.

  Well, it felt like half an hour.

  All movement stopped. We lay like that, three matryoshka dolls, just as Alexi had said, nestled tightly together. I rested on Alexi’s hard chest, feeling the pounding of his heart, enjoying Dmitri’s weight where he lay slumped over my back, and feeling his heart too. Could either of them feel my heart?

  “Um…” I said after a while, “I hate to ruin this, but I’m kind of getting squished…”

  Dmitri laughed. He pulled away from me, patted me on the butt. Then I pulled away from Alexi. The spell was broken.

  We were matryoshka dolls no longer.

  Alexi sprawled on the floor on his side. He looked to me like a Roman nobleman, replete with sex and alcohol, his head resting on his hand with his elbow propped on the floor. He looked at us. “You two are friends?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Moscow,” said Dmitri. “Last spring.”

  I stood up, swaying. “Guys. I’ve got to go. Tomorrow. You know.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Dmitri.

  “Big day tomorrow,” said Alexi. “I will win medal!”

  “No!” Dmitri gave Alexi a playful shove. “I win gold medal!”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said.

  Quickly Dmitri and I pulled on our clothes as Alexi watched. His cock lay across his thigh, still erect, his eyes begging for more. Dmitri looked at him, said something in Russian.

  Alexi grinned.

  Ah. The party would go on without me.

  Dmitri held the door open for me. “I walk with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want.”

  He took my hand. I grabbed my bag then we headed down the dim, hushed hallway, not speaking. We went down an echoing flight of stairs then another hallway.

  And with one last kiss in front of my room, he turned and walked away, back to Alexi. I watched him go.

  I sighed.

  Three forty-eight in the morning.

  What the hell did I just do to myself?

  I let myself into the room.

  The lump under the covers that was Soraya didn’t move. I shut the door as quietly as I could—the tiny click it made wouldn’t wake a mouse—and slipped off my shoes before padding across the floor. A thin light shone under the bathroom door, casting shadows over everything. I sat down on the bed, drew my knees up to my chin, draped my arms around my legs and closed my eyes. I ought to feel pretty damned good after so much sex, but I didn’t.

  Coach Bob would be furious.

  Coach Debbie would be disappointed.

  Benson would be alarmed. And he’d be angry with me, with good reason.

  Soraya would feel left out.

  I’d think about my mom later. Perhaps—just maybe—I had overreacted.

  And me…how did I feel? I studied the machine-made lace blanket on my bed. I traced its airy lines with my index finger. How did Ifeel? I wasn’t sure. I knew I’d screwed up. The fact I’d had fun didn’t even come into it.

  I wanted this gold medal more than anything else in the world—yet look what I’d done. I wouldn’t get a lick of sleep tonight. Not one minute. What had I been thinking? I was at the Olympics! Tomorrow I’d be competing against the best athletes in the world and I would do it tired and cranky and sleep-deprived and very, very annoyed with myself.

  How was that for self-sabotage?

  Never mind the question of whether sexual gymnasts belonged in the Olympics. Did I belong there if I couldn’t demonstrate one ounce of self-control? Maybe I did need to be managed after all, like my teammates thought. A tear tipped out of my eye and rolled down my cheek.

  Soraya sat up. “You’re back.”

  I didn’t answer. I just plucked at the bedcover.

  “Where were you?”

  I sighed. “With the Russians.”

  “Dmitri?”

  I nodded. “And Alexi.”

  “Did you couple?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. You just made my chances of getting a medal go up. Way up.”

  I smiled. Soraya could do that.

  “Come here,” she said, “you need some girl love.”

  She patted the bed next to her and threw back the covers. I unfolded myself and took the four steps across the room. She scooched over. I slid in next to her and she put her arm around my waist, spooning with me. I snuggled into her warmth.

  “I really fucked up,” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” She was quiet for a minute. “But you came back. You might have sat up this late anyway, knitting. You know you do sometimes.”

  “Maybe. But that’s different.”

  “And you enjoyed yourself tonight, didn’t you? It wasn’t a total loss.”

  “I have to tell you about this crazy game the Russians play. You’d like it.”

  “Later.” She nuzzled my neck. “We should try to sleep.”

  “I know. I can’t just yet.” I took a breath. “Soraya. My mom and Coach Bob are screwing.”

  “I know. She told me. When she was looking for you.”

  “That’s why I ran off with the Russians.”

  “I figured.”

  “She’s allowed. I want her to have a sex life! So why does it piss me off so much?”

  Soraya sighed. “It’s like everything else that sets you off, Leah.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re overreacting. We’ve already discussed all this.”

  “Tell me again. Please. I need to hear it.”

  “Fine.” She took a breath, thinking. “You take things the wrong way. You can’t see the whole picture. You jump to conclusions. You think everything is about you. You think the world is out to get you. And then you run off and prove it to yourself.”

  I was silent for a long minute. “I’m really screwed up, aren’t I?”

  “Not all the time.”

  We lay together on her bed. She kissed my neck then threw her long, slender leg over mine. I felt her bush press against my butt.

  “Why do you all put up with me?”

  “You don’t know?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She hugged me tight. “Leah, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re kind. You’re generous. You’re funny. You’re beautiful and talented—and you’re tortured. Like that artist, what’s his name? Vincent van Gogh? You’re like him. You could be him!”

  “Vincent van Gogh? R
eally?”

  “Yes! You’re exactly like him! You’re screwed up—but you can’t take any drugs for it because it ruins your passion, your art. You know that.”

  I did know that. I knew it only too well. The more I hurt inside, the better I performed. Lucky me.

  “Your anguish drives you, sweetie. One day you’ll be the greatest of all of us.”

  I spider-walked my fingers up her leg. “If I don’t self-destruct, you mean.”

  “See? I told you you were funny.”

  My fingers crawled back down her thigh. “That’s nothing. You want to hear something really funny? I just coupled with Dmitri and Alexi half an hour ago. And now I want to do it again. With you.”

  Soraya laughed. “You really are a darling, you know that? But I’m too tired right now. You’ll have to content yourself with a good snuggle. Now let me sleep. Please.”

  I lay there in her arms, awake, for a long time. I felt her muscles relax into sleep, her breathing become long and slow, relishing each breath as it ruffled the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Moving ever so slowly, I rested my hand on my mound. I found my clit.

  Then I helped a tortured artist to comfort herself.

  Chapter Five

  There was a fist-sized bruise in the middle of my back. And it wasn’t the only one.

  Disaster.

  Clucking, worried, more than a little irritated—and I didn’t blame her—Coach Debbie applied a skin-toned blemish concealer, dabbing it on with her index finger. “I’m trying to blend it in at the edges, but it’s not quite your color. You can see it if you know it’s there. The judges will see it for sure.” She stepped back, frowning. “And you and Benson might rub some of it off during the performance.”

  It was the next morning, before breakfast, and I was wrong about last night. I had slept, cuddled in bed with Soraya, for a full hour and twenty-two minutes—a miracle—after which I’d eased my way out of her sleepy embrace and knitted furiously until she woke up. Now I stood naked in Coach Debbie’s room, twisting my back into a pretzel, trying to see myself in the mirror. I couldn’t see a thing. Soraya, horrified, had told me about the bruises half an hour before when we’d showered together. Otherwise I’d have shown up at the day’s event with a grotesque purple-and-yellow bruise smack-dab in the middle of my back.

  Inconceivable.

  I bit my lip. “I didn’t think it would leave a mark. I didn’t think he’d hit me hard enough.”

  She sighed. “Why were you doing anything that involved hitting?”

  “We weren’t. He was being an angry gorilla…” I realized how silly it sounded and stopped. “Anyway it didn’t hurt. Much.”

  She turned me around. “Hickeys. Good Lord, Leah. Were you coupling with teenagers?”

  “No!”

  “Your toe. It’s bruised too. Look.”

  Ah. Yes. I’d almost forgotten my altercation with the chair. “I did that one to myself.”

  Coach Debbie clucked. “There’s a smaller one on your hip. Leah, Leah, Leah.”

  “That was right after I hurt my toe. I ran into a table…”

  She frowned. “And what happened to your nipple? It’s red. Are those bite marks?”

  Dismayed, I examined it. “Russians. They like it kind of rough.”

  “Apparently so.” She dabbed concealer on three hickeys on my neck and a smaller one on my breast, and dabbed concealer from a second bottle—a darker color—on the red bite marks on my nipple. “There. I hope it’ll stay on. Have me—or someone—put more on right before you compete.”

  She sat down on her bed. “Turn around.”

  I spun in a circle.

  “Scratches. On your leg. Oh, honey.”

  I bent, took a look. “They’re not too bad.”

  She applied concealer to the scratches. “Turn around again.”

  I turned around again.

  “Stand in front of me and touch your toes.”

  I did.

  “Raise your arms in the air.”

  I followed her direction.

  “Turn your back to me and lean to one side then the other.”

  I did.

  “Okay. Now face me. Spread your legs and lift your tits.”

  Then I grinned. “You’re just looking at me, aren’t you? Pervert.”

  She tilted her head. “Aside from your bruises, you look ravishing, my dear. Radiant. You don’t look sleep-deprived. I want to couple with you right now.” She leaned back, regarding me. “You’re in perfect shape. You’re beautiful. You’re brilliant. You and Benson have magic together. You had this thing on lockdown. What were you thinking?”

  I flopped onto the bed next to her. “I don’t know.”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We have to move on.” She kissed the American flag emblem on my arm, kissed me full on the lips then flicked my nipple—the good one—and stood up. “Get dressed. We need to eat. Then you need to talk to your mother.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. She’s waiting.”

  Waiting. My mother was always waiting for me. Since I was old enough to remember, almost. Waiting for me after practice. Waiting for me to earn spots with the best coaches. Waiting for me to give her my ribbons and trophies so she could add them to her display. Waiting for me to get onto the Olympic team. Waiting for me to get a gold medal.

  “Fine,” I said, “she can wait a little longer.”

  I met up with the team at breakfast, a little late but not terribly so. Everyone already had their plates piled high and they were seated at two large, round tables near the back. I joined the buffet line and Benson waved at me across the crowded dining hall. What’s up? Are you in trouble? he questioned silently, gesturing, every bit as concerned as I’d known he would be. Are you okay?

  I’m fine,I answered in the same way. It’s no big deal. I’ll tell you about it in a minute!

  He nodded slowly, not convinced, then went back to his breakfast.

  Our designated dining hall was one of several littered around the village. The place was much more crowded than it had been the day before, and loud. It smelled of eggs and orange juice. Long lines of athletes formed in front of the buffet tables—athletes who had already competed, athletes who were in the middle of competition, athletes who already had medals. Traditional gymnasts. Divers. Volleyball players.

  “Leah! Leah!”

  I turned. My friends from the rowing team were ahead of me in line, about ten people up. They waved me forward and I joined them.

  The tallest guy drew me into a hug. “I’m Gary,” he said. The others crowded near, patting me on the back and shoulders, telling me their names, all talking at once.

  I laughed, delighted, forgetting the bruise on my back, the marks on my nipple.

  “We loved your performance yesterday!”

  “You were amazing! Simply amazing!”

  “I cheered so hard my throat hurt. I’m not kidding!”

  I gave the sandy-haired, freckle-faced man—Lenny—a chaste kiss on the cheek. “There. Is that better?”

  He put a hand over his cheek as if to protect the kiss. He nodded.

  I regarded them. “So. Did any of you have a VO?”

  Gary blushed, which made him even more handsome than he already was. “Idid.”

  “Me too,” said freckle-face.

  “And me,” said another guy, holding his hand up as if he were in grade school. “A very nice one!”

  We neared the buffet.

  “Well, then, I’m doing my job. When do you guys compete?” I asked.

  Gary picked up a tray and put a plate and two glasses of orange juice on it. “This afternoon. At four. And you?”

  “This morning. At eleven forty-five. And if we make it through to the finals…tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll make it through! You and Benson are the best. My money’s on you.”

  He slung a huge serving of scrambled eggs onto his plate, looked at it then gave himself another spoonful. Then h
e piled on six pieces of bacon and three fried eggs. I wondered how many mountains of eggs the village would go through in these two weeks.

  “We don’t have tickets for today,” Gary said. “You’ll have to do it without us cheering you on.”

  I smiled. “Then I’ll dedicate today’s performance to you. I’ll dedicate it to all of you.”

  He grinned.

  He was cute. Perhaps later, after this was all over, I would find him and ask if he was interested in coupling with me.

  I certainly was.

  With him, I mean.

  After I went through the line—my plate, although not perilously heaped like Gary’s, was definitely overloaded—I sat down across the table from Benson, in the seat Soraya had saved for me.

  “Where’s Jim?” I asked, picking up a piece of bacon and snapping it in half.

  “He’s here. He went to find the bathroom.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s all right, Leah. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We practiced last night when you were gone. He was fine.”

  “But he keeps going to the bathroom…”

  “So what? Stop it, Leah. Just stop it.”

  I stopped it. I bent over my plate and shoveled in scrambled eggs. “Sorry,” I said, chewing. “I’m just worried about him. And you.”

  “I think you ought to worry about yourself. Here comes Coach Bob.”

  “What did you do, Leah Collins?”

  The noise level in the dining hall dropped to a shocked silence.

  I shrank in my seat. I wanted to be anywhere else but here—Coach Bob had a appallingly loud voice, which might come in handy in competition but not in a dining hall when everyone was watching.

  “Come with me,” Coach Bob demanded, coming up behind me, his fingers closing viselike around my arm. “Now.”

  I shot a frightened look at Benson. Crap. He’s really mad!

  Benson, alarmed, half rose from his seat.

  “You,” said Coach Bob, glaring at him, “stay there.”

  “No,” Benson said levelly, his eyes never leaving mine. “She’ll need me. You know that. I’m coming too.”

  “Fine. You’re probably right,” said Coach Bob after a too long pause. He’d just remembered that I’d need “managing” when he got through with me. “What are you staring at?” he bellowed to the dining hall at large. “My Leah isn’t a sideshow! Get back to your meals! Now!”

 

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